This week’s parsha is dedicated to the heroic soldiers, security forces and first responders of the IDF, defenders of the Jewish people and the land of Israel, and the United States Armed Forces, defenders of liberty and justice for all. May Hashem protect them and bring them all home speedily and safely.

Few mitzvot are as mysterious as the one described in this week’s Torah reading of the para aduma, the Red Heifer, the ritual meant to purify those who came into contact with death, the most severe of impurities. Yet beneath its inscrutable surface lies one of the Torah’s most urgent ideas: that even after contact with death, there can be purification; even after defilement, we can become whole. At a moment when the Jewish people are once again sovereign in their land – yet grappling with war and the profound questions of existence that accompany it – the haftara for this Shabbat asks those very questions on a national scale.

In Yechezkel’s vision (chapter 36), that national reckoning begins with a stark accusation: “The House of Israel dwelled upon their soil and defiled it with their ways and their deeds,” God charges Israel (v. 17). Israel sinned through their depraved actions, the concrete way they lived and treated one another in the land they had been given. The consequence was exile.

But exile brought its own terrible complications. As the scattered Jewish people were humiliated among the nations, their degradation seemed to call into question God’s own reputation. Could this broken, dispersed people truly be the nation of the one God? The verse Yechezkel identifies as the pivot is remarkable: “I am concerned for My holy name, which the House of Israel has desecrated among the nations” (v. 21). The next verse doubles down on the point: “Not for your sake do I act, O House of Israel, but for My holy name” (v. 22). In other words, God’s decision to restore Israel is driven not by the people’s own merit – the text is explicit that they have not yet earned their return – but by a quest to end the chillul Hashem, the desecration of His name, that their continued exile perpetuates.

For Yechezkel, the process of purification is placed within the national life of Israel to restore the people as a whole. Unlike Parshat Para, which focuses on the restoration of an individual so they can rejoin the community, the haftara focuses on a process of national restoration so that it can fulfill its communal mission.

The communal redemption is set into motion lema’an shemo — for the sake of His name. And the fruits of that act are tangible: peri ha’etz and tenuvat ha’sadeh, the fruits of the trees and the produce of the field, are abundant, so that Israel will “no longer suffer the reproach of famine among the nations” (v. 30). But God reminds us that it can’t end there; we need to be worthy of this communal redemption.

Reading this haftara today, I find myself asking whether it is speaking directly to our generation. After nearly two thousand years of exile and humiliation, the Jewish people have begun to return to Israel. The land has responded: cities are rising, the economy flourishing: “On the day when I cleanse you of all your iniquities, I will reinhabit the cities; the ruins will be rebuilt. The desolate land will be tilled there” (vv. 33–34). The land indeed blooms and rebuilds before our eyes. Even with the difficulties and human loss in the ongoing war, the country is resilient, with the selfless commitment of our people, as well as the shekel at strongest against the dollar in our history.

And yet, have we truly learned the lesson of exile? Beneath this renaissance, are we still defiling the land?

Yechezkel’s indictment of ancient Israel was not primarily about paganism. It was about how the people treated one another – the moral rot at the heart of a society entrusted with a sacred mission. A Torah society cannot be sustained by meticulous ritual piety. It requires moral courage, communal responsibility and mutual respect. And so I find myself asking: if exile was brought about not only by external enemies but by internal moral failure, have we truly changed the habits that once defiled this land? Do we guard against contempt, corruption, and callousness as fiercely as we guard our borders? Do we speak to one another with dignity, even when we disagree? And do we ensure that our civic, moral, and spiritual responsibilities are shared fairly, in a way that strengthens our society rather than dividing it?

This past Shabbat, we witnessed tens of thousands of reservists across Israel change from their Shabbat clothing into the sacred uniform of the IDF. Fathers of young children heard the reading imploring us to remember the cruelty of Amalek, then left their families to answer the call once again. Children watched with pride as their parents stepped up with courage, embodying what it means to partner with God in shaping Jewish history. In those moments, we saw Yechezkel’s vision coming alive.

Yes, we still have a way to go. And before pointing fingers elsewhere, we must reflect: have we, the religious Zionist community, done enough? Have we genuinely sought to build bridges with our brothers and sisters across the divide, engaging one another with the dignity the Torah demands? Or do we too bear responsibility for still defiling the land through division and contempt?

The haftara ends with words of profound comfort. God promises that He will not exile Israel again (36:30). That guarantee is not conditioned on our merit – it is anchored, as it always has been, in His name. But that same anchor is a summons. If we are here lema’an shemo, for the sake of His name, then how we treat one another in this land is not merely a political or social question; it is a matter of kiddush Hashem. Redemption may be guaranteed, but it is not yet complete. We have risen to the challenge in so many ways, yet we must all muster the courage and moral clarity to finish the task.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)