by R. Eliezer Simcha Weisz
In these difficult months, we have been reminded once again how precious every Jewish life is. We’ve seen soldiers going into danger to rescue hostages, families davening with tears for their loved ones, and a whole nation standing together — because in Am Yisrael, every single neshamah matters. We don’t count Jews as numbers. Each person is a world.
This idea comes straight from this week’s parsha, Lech Lecha. Hashem promises Avraham that his descendants will be many, but He uses two very different examples.
First, Hashem says they will be “like the dust of the earth” — וְשַׂמְתִּי אֶת־זַרְעֲךָ כַּעֲפַר הָאָרֶץ (Bereishis 13:16) — and later, “like the stars of the heavens” — הַבֶּט־נָא הַשָּׁמַיְמָה וּסְפֹר הַכּוֹכָבִים כֹּה יִהְיֶה זַרְעֶךָ (15:5).
Why both?
The Midrash (brought in Torah Sheleima, Bereishis 15:55) teaches that when we live according to Hashem’s will, we rise above the world, shining like the stars in the heavens. But when we turn away, we become like the dust of the earth, stepped on and scattered.
There’s another way to understand this that comes from Avraham’s own life. Until now, Avraham’s mission was about spreading emunah — belief in Hashem — to the world. He spoke to crowds, taught many followers, and built a movement of faith. But then came a test of a different kind.
His nephew Lot had chosen to separate from him. The Torah tells us: וַיִּפְרְדוּ אִישׁ מֵעַל אָחִיו — “They parted, one man from the other” (Bereishis 13:11).
Lot chose to live in Sedom, a place known for its cruelty and immorality. He looked toward the Jordan Valley, drawn by its beauty, for the Torah says: כִּי כֻלָּהּ מַשְׁקֶה כְּגַן ה’ — “it was well watered, like the garden of Hashem” (13:10).
Lot was drawn by wealth and comfort. In a sense, he chose his own path — a life focused on material success instead of spiritual purpose.
When Avraham later hears that Lot has been taken captive — וַיִּשְׁמַע אַבְרָם כִּי נִשְׁבָּה אָחִיו (14:14) — he could have said, “Lot made his choice; this is the consequence.” He might have thought, “It’s his own fault.” But Avraham doesn’t think that way. He doesn’t turn away. He immediately gathers his men, enters the battlefield, and risks his life to save him.
The Abarbanel points out something beautiful here. When the Torah first describes Lot’s capture, it calls him: בֶּן־אֲחִי אַבְרָם — “the son of Avram’s brother” (14:12). But when Avraham decides to rescue him, the Torah calls Lot: אָחִיו — “his brother” (14:14).
The Abarbanel explains that the moment Avraham resolved to save him, the relationship changed. Lot was no longer just a nephew — he became like a brother.
This teaches us something very real. We often speak of Acheinu Bnei Yisrael — our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisrael. But when we truly dedicate ourselves to helping them, when we care for them and stand up for them, that description becomes more than words. It becomes truth. We are brothers and sisters.
Only after this story does Hashem tell Avraham that his children will be “like the stars of the heavens.” Dust may be many, but all grains look the same. Stars too are countless, but each one shines with its own light. Hashem was teaching Avraham a timeless truth:
“Because you recognized the value in a single soul and treated each life as precious, your descendants will be like the stars of the heavens — each unique, each shining, and each watched over by Hashem.”
That’s the way of Avraham Avinu — and it’s alive in our people today. When soldiers go into danger to save one hostage, when Jews all over the world daven and do mitzvos for someone they’ve never met, when a nation refuses to give up on even one neshamah — that’s Avraham’s spirit within us.
There’s a story about a man walking along the beach after a storm, throwing starfish back into the sea. Someone says, “There are thousands of them! You can’t save them all.” The man picks up another, tosses it into the waves, and says, “I made a difference to that one.”
That’s what it means to be children of Avraham. We don’t give up on anyone. We don’t forget even one Jew — whether they’re missing physically, or whether they’ve drifted away spiritually.
So what do we do now?
We keep caring. We keep davening. We keep reaching out — to those in danger, to those in pain, and to those who have simply lost their way. Each act of ahavas Yisrael brings another star back into the light.
Every star in the heavens matters — and so does every Jew on earth.