The Weaponization of Values
Behar, Bechukosai, and the Pitfalls of Righteous Aggression
A few years ago, I ran an Instagram account that had grown steadily, filled with content I cared deeply about and a following that developed over time. One day, without warning or clear explanation, the account was taken down. I tried to appeal the decision, but nothing worked. It was simply gone.
At the time, the loss felt significant. I had poured a great deal of thought and effort into that space. Over time, however, I began to view it differently. The experience was humbling. Some things aren’t meant to last, and many things are beyond our control. It felt like a quiet nudge to let go. If the work held real value, it would eventually find another place to land. If it did not, that, too, was a kind of answer.
More recently, I had a different kind of experience that left me equally unsettled. I had shared a brief comment online—nothing pointed, simply a moment of appreciation for someone I had worked with and found to be honest. Soon after, I received messages from someone else who assumed the comment was directed at them. The situation escalated quickly. What struck me most was the tone of the response. Although the language was moral and even religious, the behavior that followed resembled digital bullying. There was shaming, veiled accusation, and pressure to conform—all framed in the vocabulary of virtue.
I’ve experienced this before.
There is a dynamic I have come to recognize, in which moral or religious language is misused to pressure and control. It is difficult to pinpoint, because it often speaks in the tone of virtue. Yet once you have experienced it, you sadly begin to notice it in more places than you might expect.
Let’s call it “righteous aggression”—the use of values as leverage, often subconsciously, to push back against discomfort or to protect one’s position. It shows up in many settings: communal critique, professional interactions, even casual conversations. It often sounds principled and elevated, yet when tone and context are stripped away, it is frequently just ego wrapped in concern.
This dynamic isn’t always malicious. Most of the time, it is deeply human. People care about ideas, believe in ideals, and occasionally overcorrect. That very sincerity is what makes it so difficult to name. When critique is cloaked in righteousness, any response can seem like defensiveness—or worse, like a rejection of the very values being invoked.
The experience stayed with me because it felt so familiar. The pattern repeats: spiritual language, moral assertions, and very little humility, openness, or curiosity. The pattern led me to reflect more seriously on the nature of this phenomenon.
So why bring this up now?
Parshat Behar opens with the mitzvah of Shemittah:
“When you come to the land that I give you, the land shall observe a Shabbos for Hashem”1. Later, the Parashah states, “For the land is Mine”2.
Shemittah is more than an agricultural pause. It is a spiritual practice that challenges the illusion of control. For six years, we plant, prune, and harvest. In the seventh, we release the land and the sense of ownership that often grows with it.
Rav Yerucham Levovitz3 explains that Shemittah cultivates emunah by removing the false sense of autonomy. After years of work, a person may begin to believe the land is his, that effort and property naturally lead to success. Shemittah interrupts that belief. It reminds us that the land belongs to G-d and we are only its stewards.
The Tolna Rebbe4 adds that land represents humility. The earth lies low, holds everything, and demands nothing. It is present, necessary, and silent. The halachic principle ein ona’ah la-karka’os—that land isn’t subject to price fraud—suggests that the more grounded we are, the more honest we become. A person who lives honestly like the land, lives with a sense of clarity that is both uninflated and unentitled.
Righteous aggression takes root when we lose sight of this principle. When we begin to see truth as something we control, as if we are its gatekeepers, anyone who challenges that view starts to feel like a threat. The perceived confrontation disrupts the illusion of certainty.
As a person’s spiritual stature grows, the more clearly they perceive the vastness of Hashem and Creation and the more they understand the smallness of their own place within it. Those who truly understand greatness don’t need to control others. They know how small they are in the grand reality of G-d’s world.
The mitzvah of Yovel expands this message even further. Every fifty years, land reverts to its original owner. Even the most hard-earned achievements are temporary. Yovel teaches that no matter how justified or well-earned something appears, it is never fully ours.
The Torah weaves humility into the very fabric of Jewish society. Yovel does more than redistribute land; it restores perspective. It flattens the economic status, as well as the spiritual status. Each individual's ownership is temporary, even if they are the Kohen Gadol, the king, the teacher, or the influencer. Every sacred role includes a reminder: at some point, you step aside. Genuine Torah leadership knows the necessity and importance of knowing when to step back.
We are not the masters of our land.
We are not the masters of another person’s journey.
We are not the masters of righteousness.
The platform doesn’t belong to us. The audience doesn’t belong to us. Even the values we live by aren’t ours to wield as weapons.
To be a Jew is to live generously—with our time, our resources, and our inner life. True generosity, however, only thrives in humility. When we release the need to control, we make space to truly see others.
This is the message of Behar: to give freely, because nothing is ever fully ours.
This week we also read Parashas Bechukosai, which continues the same theme. Behar teaches that property is a gift from G-d and that we need regular reminders of this truth. It also reminds us to treat others with respect, grounded in the memory that we, too, were once vulnerable. As much as humility is a character trait, it is also a way of living in relation with something larger than ourselves.
Bechukosai lays out what happens when we live this way and what happens when we do not. It promises blessing, peace, and growth for those who walk with integrity. When we forget who we are, the world reminds us. When we do choose to act without humility, Hashem teaches us why it matters.
My friend, Hillel Fuld, often reflects on this idea through his work with entrepreneurs. People regularly ask him which quality he sees most often in those who achieve real success. His answer is always the same: humility. “Ironically,” he says, “the most successful people I know are also the most humble. You’d expect success to inflate them, but that’s rarely the case. The greatest leaders in history were deeply humble.”
The Torah describes Moshe Rabbeinu with one defining quality: anavah, humilty. It does not highlight his wisdom, his charisma, or even his spirituality. Leadership rooted in humility is what lasts. Leadership grounded in anything else may rise quickly, yet it rarely endures. Leadership rooted in humility is what lasts.
Rav Simcha Zissel of Kelm taught that “the midda of anavah includes all other middos.” This is a foundational truth. Without humility, even Torah can become ego. Even our most sacred ideals can be used to cause harm.
This is what makes righteous aggression so dangerous. When ego hides inside the language of values, it becomes harder to name—and harder to challenge. It sounds like virtue but often serves insecurity, control, and fear.
The Izhbitzer explains that Bechukosai is about penimiyus, inner work. The mitzvos are meant to be engraved within. When they are not, even religious practice becomes performance, and the tools of spiritual life can be used to serve the self.
Modern thinkers have noticed similar patterns. Robert Trivers, in his research on reciprocal altruism, identified “moralistic aggression” as a social strategy used to enforce fairness. He observed that much of human anger carries a moral tone. At the same time, we are naturally sensitive to moments when moral language is used to disguise self-interest—and when we sense that, we instinctively withdraw.5
Righteous aggression often functions in the same way. It speaks the right language. It sounds principled and even holy. Yet it allows no space for dialogue, no room for other voices. It demands submission instead of inviting truth.
Sigmund Freud described projection as a defense mechanism in which we attribute to others what we cannot tolerate in ourselves. The angry person sees hostility in everyone. The liar assumes others are dishonest. The controlling person accuses others of manipulation. The self-righteous person insists they are defending values. In truth, they are defending their own image.6
Rav Avraham Grodzinski, the mashgiach of Slabodka, taught that when a person becomes truly connected to their inner self, arrogance begins to dissolve. A person who knows themselves deeply recognizes the dignity in others. Superiority doesn’t have a place. What remains is genuine respect for the unique presence of each soul.7
Rav Chaim Walkin offered a similar insight8. He cautioned against defining ourselves, or others, by isolated moments. One good deed doesn’t make a person good. One act of humility doesn’t make someone humble. Real teshuvah doesn’t begin with dramatic gestures. It begins with a quiet shift in direction—a change in the trajectory of the soul.
I’ve shared before the wise distinction made by Rav Moshe Gersht: the difference between a complaint and an observation lies not in what is said, but in how it is said.
A complaint declares, “This shouldn’t be happening,” and often carries blame and ego.
An observation states, “This didn’t work. How can we improve it?” and opens a path for growth.
One seeks control. The other seeks clarity.
Righteous aggression, at its core, is a complaint disguised as concern.
Over time, I’ve noticed a recurring pattern. Those who speak most forcefully about values are often the least willing to be accountable to them. Some of the most vocal defenders of tradition have fallen—not only for their failures, but for building influence on values they never truly lived.
As I recently wrote in a journal entry:
The loudest voices rarely know how to listen.
When values make someone squirm, it’s usually about the person, not the values.
Integrity stings most for those who’ve compromised it.
The biggest “community” advocates are often the first to bully behind closed doors.
I’d rather grow slowly with the right people than rise quickly with the wrong ones.
Insecure people don’t just take offense—they keep score. And when you touch a nerve, even unintentionally, they often find a way to turn it back on you.
The Berachos in Bechukosai conclude with a quiet promise:
“I will lead you upright (komemiyut)”9.
Rashi explains this as walking with dignity, in place of shame or arrogance. It is the stance of someone who knows their place—not at the center, not at the margins, but upright in the fullest sense: honest, grounded, and whole.
This image brings us back to the heart of Behar and Bechukosai. True righteousness isn’t about power, posture, demands, nor control. Real leadership invites questions. Real Torah welcomes scrutiny. The Torah was never given as a weapon. It was given to elevate and to help us live with clarity, perspective, and humility.
The land belongs to G-d. The truth belongs to G-d. Even people belong to G-d. Nothing is fully ours. Our role isn’t to claim ownership, but to serve—with sincerity, with boundaries, and with care. We aren’t here to dominate. We are here to illuminate.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote, “Law alone is no defence against self-righteousness. Without narrative, self-righteousness can destroy the very perceptions and nuances, the tolerance and generosity of spirit on which society depends”10. When Torah becomes detached from the human stories it is meant to guide, it risks becoming a tool of self-righteousness rather than a source of wisdom.
My father, Rabbi Yaacov Haber, offered a similar truth in more personal terms: “Too often we allow ourselves to focus on the negative aspects of our friends and neighbors, completely losing sight of their positive qualities. Even if we do find legitimate faults, that flaw shouldn’t sound the death knell of a relationship.”11 Real leadership and real community require deeper vision, one that sees the full picture, not only that which is convenient to highlight.
We live in an age of moral overexposure. Every post is judged. Every comment can be twisted. Too often, those who speak in the name of values do so with loud defensiveness.
This morning I saw a conversion in a WhatsApp group which captured this tension. One participant referenced the Baal HaTanya’s teaching about separating a person from their actions or beliefs. Another responded, “Does that really take the level of a tzaddik? Regular people do this all the time. It just takes a little humility to realize that not every idea we disagree with is so terrible that it disqualifies the person who holds it.” That idea cuts to the core of everything we’ve been exploring. This kind of perspective is within our reach. It only asks us to step back from ego and lean into humility.
The Torah calls us back to something quieter and more lasting. We don’t own our platforms, our reputations, or even the ideas we cherish most. We are caretakers at best. Shemittah teaches us how to release. Yovel reminds us to return. Bechukosai warns us about what happens when we cling too tightly to power, to status, or to pride.
The parashah is an invitation to walk differently and carry ourselves with an inner confidence that doesn’t need to be proven. Our faith is spacious enough to make room for others, so we should speak with care, criticize with caution, and ensure that righteousness never becomes a form of aggression. If we take this invitation seriously, it can shape what we say and do, and also how we walk through the world.
Bechukosai closes Sefer Vayikra, which begins with a quiet call. Moshe waited to enter the Ohel Moed until he heard the Vayikra whisper with a small Alef. That call required humility, not dominance. It was about Presence, in place of performance. Then we learn about Korbanos, which reminds us of the same concept: that people can offer something meaningful. Teshuvah is also related in that it begins with a shift in perspective and starts in the mind. Ultimately, Vayikra opens with stillness and ends with uprightness.12
Chazak Chazak Venischazeik!
Vayikra 25:2
25:23
Daas Torah, Behar
Si’ach Yechonenu
A. Freud, The Ego and the Mechanisms of Defence, London: Hogarth Press, 1936
Toras Avraham – Mishpatim, 1936
The World Within
Vayikra 26:13
Covenant and Conversation: Deuteronomy, pp. 336–337
The Conversation of Torah
Spoiler alert for Sefer Bamidbar - Korach is an example of a righteous aggressor. He brings various examples to Moshe of how his way is right and well, we know where that got him
Thank you for this!