By Rabbi Josh Wander

There are moments when the timing of events is so extraordinary that one cannot help but wonder whether Hashem is sending us a message. This week, as we approach Parshat Lech Lecha, I received an email from the Orthodox Union of America promoting a Jewish community relocation fair. The irony could hardly have been more striking.

The proposed Savitsky Home Relocation Community Fair would bring together Jewish communities from across North America and Israel, allowing families to compare housing, employment, schools, synagogues, and community life. Certainly, helping Jews establish themselves in strong religious communities is worthwhile. But something about this invitation struck me as profoundly troubling. Eretz Yisrael, the land promised to our forefathers, toward which our people have yearned for thousands of years, is presented as simply another option alongside Omaha, Nebraska, and South Bend, Indiana. How generous of us to include the Promised Land!

Now imagine the opening scene of this week’s Torah portion. Hashem commands Avraham Avinu, “לך לך מארצך וממולדתך ומבית אביך אל הארץ אשר אראך” — “Go forth from your land, your birthplace, and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” Imagine Avraham thanking Hashem for the suggestion, but asking whether there might be other attractive communities closer to home. Perhaps somewhere else in Mesopotamia, with affordable housing, good schools, and promising employment opportunities?

The very thought is absurd! Avraham was not being invited to a relocation fair. He was being summoned to fulfill a Divine mission. His journey was not about improving his lifestyle but establishing a nation whose destiny would forever be bound to a particular land. Yet thousands of years later, we have somehow transformed that sacred calling into a lifestyle preference.

And the irony does not end with the Orthodox Union. This Shabbos, in synagogues across America and throughout the Diaspora, Orthodox rabbis will rise to their pulpits and deliver inspiring sermons about Parshat Lech Lecha. Many will explain how “Lech Lecha” teaches us to look inward, discover ourselves, overcome challenges, and embark upon spiritual journeys. Beautiful ideas, certainly, but how many will address the plain meaning of the words? How many will remind their congregants that Hashem commanded Avraham to physically leave his homeland and journey to Eretz Yisrael, and that our generation has been granted an extraordinary opportunity to follow in his footsteps?

Imagine a rabbi discussing the spiritual significance of Shabbos without mentioning the obligation to observe it, or explaining the deeper meaning of kashrus while ignoring the requirement to keep kosher. Yet when it comes to Eretz Yisrael, we somehow consider it acceptable to transform a concrete Divine command into a metaphor for personal development. This is the height of absurdity, and at times, hypocrisy! The Torah does not merely instruct Avraham to undertake an internal journey of self-discovery. It names a destination. Surely our rabbis should challenge their congregations to consider what that means for us today, rather than allowing the most obvious message of the Parsha to disappear beneath layers of interpretation.

The Orthodox Union deserves recognition for its tremendous work strengthening Jewish communities, including its efforts encouraging Aliyah. Nor is there anything wrong with helping Jews who remain in the Diaspora find suitable religious environments. But precisely because the OU is so influential, its messaging matters. When Israel is presented as one destination among many, we risk suggesting that choosing between Jerusalem and Omaha is fundamentally a matter of personal convenience rather than Jewish destiny.

For nearly two thousand years, Jews endured persecution, expulsions, and unimaginable suffering while praying daily for the restoration of Jerusalem. They concluded their Pesach Sedarim with “לשנה הבאה בירושלים” — Next year in Jerusalem — not because Jerusalem offered better real estate, but because it represented the fulfillment of our national covenant with Hashem. Today, Baruch Hashem, we have a sovereign Jewish state, thriving Torah institutions, flourishing communities, and opportunities our ancestors could scarcely have imagined. Yet we invite Jews to compare Israel with attractive American suburbs.

The timing is particularly unsettling given the unrest unfolding across Europe. As I write these words, violent confrontations and disturbances in France, Belgium, and Italy raise troubling questions about social stability. In cities such as Marseille and Milan, where Jews have lived for centuries, scenes of violence and flames remind us how quickly circumstances can change. The writing is on the wall, and at times it seems to be written in fire.

Rav Nachman Kahana shlit”a has long warned about Jewish complacency in the Diaspora, drawing lessons from the years preceding the Holocaust. We look back at 1933–1939 knowing the horrors that followed, but those living through those years could not have imagined the full magnitude of what was coming. Nazi antisemitism was already unmistakable, yet many believed circumstances would stabilize, while others desperately sought refuge only to encounter closed borders and immigration restrictions. By the time Europe descended into war, countless Jews were trapped with nowhere to run.

This is not to suggest that today’s Europe is Nazi Germany or that every riot leads to catastrophe. Rather, history teaches us that waiting until danger becomes undeniable can mean waiting until it is too late. How many times have Jewish communities believed their futures were secure, only to discover how quickly everything could change?

But perhaps the greatest tragedy is that we have so often waited for persecution to drive us home. Must we always require pogroms, expulsions, inquisitions, and ultimately the horrors of the Holocaust before recognizing where we belong? Must we wait until our neighbors turn against us or our streets become unsafe before considering that Hashem has something far greater in store for us?

The ideal of Aliyah was never supposed to be an act of desperation. It is not merely an escape from antisemitism or an emergency evacuation plan. It is the privilege of returning to the land promised to our forefathers, fulfilling the aspirations of countless generations, and participating in the unfolding Geula. We should come to Eretz Yisrael because we love it, because we yearn for it, and because we recognize its sanctity. We should run toward our destiny, not merely run away from danger.

That is precisely the distinction embodied by Avraham Avinu. Hashem did not command him to wait until Charan was engulfed in flames or its borders were closing. He was commanded to leave because a higher purpose awaited him in Eretz Yisrael. Not Aliyah born of fear, but Aliyah born of faith. Not a reluctant flight from Galut, but an enthusiastic embrace of Geula.

Of course, individual circumstances can complicate Aliyah. Families have responsibilities, livelihoods must be considered, and personal challenges require sensitivity. But practical difficulties should not obscure our national priorities. The question is not whether everyone can move tomorrow, but whether our communal institutions are encouraging us in the right direction.

Imagine if the Orthodox Union approached its relocation fair with an entirely different premise. Rather than presenting Israel as one possibility among dozens, what if the central question were how every Jewish community could help its members prepare for Aliyah? What if the extraordinary resources and organizational talent invested in sustaining Jewish life in exile were increasingly directed toward helping Jews return home? Diaspora communities need not be abandoned; they could become bridges from Galut to Geula, transforming themselves from permanent destinations into launching points for Jewish national renewal.

This Shabbos, as we hear Hashem’s words to Avraham Avinu, we should ask ourselves whether we are truly listening. “לך לך” was not merely an instruction given to one man thousands of years ago. It established a direction for the Jewish people that has remained unchanged throughout centuries of exile.

The question is not whether Omaha, South Bend, or Jerusalem offers the most attractive relocation package. The question is whether we recognize that one of those destinations occupies a fundamentally different place in our Torah, our history, and our future. We should not need another pogrom, another expulsion, another inquisition, or another catastrophe to remind us where we belong. Hashem has already told us, and He has given us the extraordinary opportunity to act upon it freely, proudly, and joyfully. Perhaps it is time we stopped treating His invitation as just another option.