The responsibility to disagree

At the end of last week’s parashah, Noach, we are introduced to Avraham, his wife, Sarah, father Terach, and the rest of their family. There is nothing particularly remarkable about this introduction. Noach had been described as righteous in his generation, but Avraham arrives with no merit on record. Yet, at the beginning of this week’s parashah, Lech Lecha, G-d suddenly addresses him, “Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” This encounter marks the beginning of the relationship between G-d and the Jewish people. 

Why Avraham? What made him worthy of being chosen? The Torah offers no explanation, leaving generations of rabbis to imagine what might have distinguished him from everyone else. 

One of the best-known midrashim portrays Avraham as a young man who challenges his father’s religious beliefs. Terach manufactured and sold idols. One day, while his father was away, Avraham smashed all the idols in the shop, leaving a stick in the hands of the largest one. When Terach demanded an explanation, Avraham claimed that the idols had quarrelled over an offering of food and that the largest had destroyed the others. His father protested that the idols were incapable of such actions. Avraham then challenged his father to consider why he worshipped objects that he himself acknowledged had no power. 

The story celebrates Avraham’s intellectual independence and his willingness to question inherited beliefs. Yet I have always found something uncomfortable about it. In a tradition that commands us to honour our fathers and mothers, there is something troubling about a son humiliating his father and destroying his livelihood to prove a theological point. Surely there must be ways of challenging our parents without treating them with contempt. 

I find greater inspiration in another midrash, which offers a different explanation of Avraham’s uniqueness. Rabbi Yehudah reflects on the description of Avraham as an ivri, a Hebrew. Playing on the relationship between ivri and ever, “side”, he explains, “The entire world was on one side, and he was on the other.” What distinguished Avraham, according to this interpretation, was his willingness to stand apart, even when the rest of the world thought differently. 

That image speaks to our time, in which much of what we read and watch is selected for us according to what others already think, and in which disagreement can feel like a threat to belonging, almost a betrayal. Political affiliations, religious communities, and social networks often come with expectations about what we should believe, whom we should support, and which opinions we should condemn. Disagreement can carry a considerable social cost, especially when it comes from within our own circles. 

But standing apart is no guarantee of being right. Contrarianism can become another form of conformity, particularly when we define ourselves primarily through opposition to others. What Avraham’s example calls for is the capacity to examine our convictions, to listen seriously to those who disagree with us, and to follow our conscience wherever that examination leads us, whether it means reconsidering a long-held belief or defending an unpopular position. 

This may be the enduring challenge of being an ivri. It is easier to adopt the opinions of those around us, particularly people we admire, trust, or identify with, than to subject those opinions to careful scrutiny. Yet our responsibility to think for ourselves does not disappear when we find ourselves among people who share our values. Indeed, it may be precisely in those circumstances that Avraham’s example becomes most relevant. We must be willing to ask difficult questions even when nobody around us seems to be asking them. 

• Rabbi Rogério Cukierman Bet David Progressive Synagogue