By Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D.
EL CAJON, California — There’s a common trap we all fall into – becoming so absorbed in our own lives that we lose sensitivity to the experiences of those around us. We stop hearing, stop seeing — not because we’re cruel, but because we’re too self-focused to notice. The Torah, with its eternal wisdom, confronts this human tendency head-on.
In this week’s parsha, we encounter a verse so central that Rabbi Akiva calls it the foundation of the entire Torah:
“Love your fellow as yourself; I am Hashem” (Vayikra 19:18).
We see in the famed “Kol Yisroel Chaverim,” composed and written by Zale Newman – sung by Yehuda & Friends:
And help all those in need,
Fear Hashem above
The One that sees.
So look beyond the outside
To that which lies within,
See what someone could become
Instead of what he’s been.
Share the light of Torah
Ignite the spark inside,
Reach out and share
That special gift of life.
Rabbi Akiva’s bold statement is a challenge to us. If we want to live lives anchored in Torah, it begins by expanding our inner world beyond ourselves. Yet Rabbi Shimon Ben Azzai raised an important question: what if people don’t love themselves? How can someone who carries self-hatred or shame possibly extend love to others?
Here we see a remarkable depth: our Sages, thousands of years ago, understood that self-perception shapes every human interaction. Long before psychology gave language to self-esteem, the Torah demanded we care for the inner life of the human being.
Unfortunately, modern psychology didn’t always catch this nuance. Sigmund Freud, brilliant but broken, saw human beings primarily through a lens of self-interest and instinct. His worldview, devoid of soul, left little room for true self-transcendence. Yet the very word “psyche” means soul—something Freud, as an atheist, struggled to integrate.
Judaism teaches otherwise. We believe a person’s inner life is deeply rooted in their neshama—the Divine breath within. Our actions towards others aren’t just social niceties; they are expressions of our soul’s health. We are to never judge another and help all those in need…to look beyond the outside to that which lies within…try it one day. WOW, right? What a different connection you have with others.
Hillel’s famous teaching brings this into focus. When a man asked him to summarize the Torah in one sentence, Hillel said:
“What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow.”
Notice Hillel frames it as restraint, not action. Doing good often feels good—but holding back from hurting someone, restraining anger, gossip, or vengeance—that’s where real spiritual growth happens. That’s where we become less reactive, more Hashem-like. Self-love in Torah isn’t about inflating our ego; it’s about recognizing the Divine within ourselves—and seeing that same spark in others. Even if I feel broken, I can still know what pain feels like, and I can commit not to pass that pain along. In doing so, I begin to heal my own soul as well.
Ultimately, the mitzvah to love others is Hashem’s invitation to rise above our narrow self-concerns. By treating others with dignity—especially when it costs us—we affirm our own dignity. We cultivate real strength. We become, little by little, the people we were created to be. This is what it means to “Share the light of Torah”
Ignite the spark inside, Reach out and share that special gift of life.
There’s a quiet tragedy that can unfold in a religious life — a kind of spiritual sleight of hand that fools everyone, even the practitioner. It’s the illusion of faithfulness without true faith, of observance without transformation.
Ramban — the brilliant healer of souls and bodies — saw it clearly. He warned us that a person could check every halachic box, and yet utterly betray the spirit that those laws are meant to cultivate. You can live inside the structure of Torah while hollowing out its heart. You can wear the clothing of holiness while your inner world quietly rots.
This isn’t just theory. Rabbi Yochanan, speaking with the sorrow of a witness to catastrophe, said it plainly: the walls of Jerusalem fell not because the people abandoned Torah law — they upheld it. They fell because they obeyed the rules without embodying their purpose. The law became a costume, the spirit, an afterthought. And the world cracked open. So, what did they miss? What must we not miss?
The Torah tells us in two simple yet staggering phrases. First: “Be holy, because I, Hashem your G-d, am holy.” And second: “You shall do what is right and good in the eyes of Hashem.” Holiness. Uprightness. These are not footnotes to the law — they are the music behind its notes. They are the soul behind the script. Without them, you might still be dancing, but the dance is dead.
The Ramban reminds us: Torah could never list every situation we would face, every loophole we might discover, every excuse the human heart might craft. No system, no matter how Divine, can out-legislate a heart determined to justify its own smallness. So instead, the Torah carves a deeper demand into our lives: Become holy. Become good. Without this, the terrifying figure of the naval bireshut HaTorah — the “degenerate with the permission of Torah” — emerges.
Imagine it: a man eats beyond satiety, drinks beyond reason, speaks beyond dignity — and when confronted, he shrugs and says, “Show me where it says I’m wrong.”
He has weaponized the law to serve his cravings. He uses Torah not as a ladder to climb higher, but as a shield to stay low. The Talmud even describes grotesque scenes of indulgence — people eating until they vomit, just to be able to eat again — and while you might comb through all 613 mitzvot and never find a direct prohibition, the violation is not technical. It is existential.
Because Torah is not a game of technicalities. It’s a call to sanctify life — to infuse every word, every bite, every dollar earned, every argument won or lost, with a dignity that reflects the Divine image inside us.
This matters not just in private, but just as fiercely in public. A businessman can follow every legal statute and still crush competitors with ruthlessness. A neighbor can keep every law of damages and still create an atmosphere of cruelty. A spouse can cite chapter and verse and still erode trust and peace at home. The spirit of Torah demands more. It demands hearts that seek compromise, hands that extend generosity, voices that build peace, even when — especially when — the law might technically let us act otherwise.
True observance is not mere obedience. It is transformation. It’s not just about what we do; it’s about who we become.
So yes, keep the halacha down to its finest point. But never forget, you were not placed in this world to become an expert legalist; you were placed here to become a soul of holiness, a beacon of goodness.
True observance is not just about living within the law. It’s about allowing the law to live within you.
And that takes courage. It takes soul-searching. It takes asking, every day:
Am I using the Torah to elevate, or to excuse? Am I a vessel for holiness—or just an actor in holy clothing?
If we get it right, we become more than compliant. We become luminous.
The law is the road. The spirit is the destination. And we are all still travelers.
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Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D., prepares a weekly D’var Torah for Young Israel of San Diego, where he and his family are members. They are also active members of Congregation Adat Yeshurun.