Civic Shabbat Sermon – Parashat Lech Lecha – Genesis 12:1-9 / Micah 4:1–5
Rabbi Adrian M. Schell
A moment in our Torah, the five books of Moses, changes everything. God calls to Abraham: “Lech lecha – go forth.”
It is not only a summons to travel, but an invitation to begin something extraordinary. While Abraham is asked to leave behind what is familiar and to walk into the unknown, he is also carrying within him a promise that is larger than any one nation or faith. From that moment, a covenant is born – not a contract of privilege, but a moral bond, a partnership between humanity and the divine. It is a call to become guardians of goodness, to keep alive the spark that God has placed within every human being.
That spark is where my sermon begins, because it is where everything begins. It is the sign that, despite all we do to wound one another, there remains something in us that leans towards light. It is fragile, but it is there. It is what makes each human life sacred, what allows us to imagine justice, mercy, and peace. The covenant with Abraham is a universal covenant, for it rests on the conviction that the divine presence dwells within all people. It is this truth that must guide our civic life.
In recent years, and perhaps even more painfully in recent weeks, we have seen how easily that divine spark can be dimmed. The attack on the synagogue in Manchester on Yom Kippur was not the act of one person alone. It was the final link in a chain of words – words that inflamed, words that excused, words that turned suspicion into hatred. And when words are left unchallenged, when prejudice becomes normalised, violence is never far behind.
We stand at a dangerous crossroads in our public life. Across this country, the moral vocabulary that once held us together is being eroded. Populist voices have learned to weaponise grievance, wrapping exclusion in the language of patriotism. Debates about the English flag, the identity of the nation, and the purity of its culture have become a stage upon which decency itself is tested.
In public spaces, such as universities, places of work, city centres, and social media, words have been placed that strip away the humanity of others, that single out Jews for scrutiny while excusing hatred if it comes from one’s own side. These are not isolated lapses of judgement, they are warning lights flashing on the dashboard of democracy.
Antisemitism today often hides behind political conviction. It dresses itself in the language of justice, but its message is ancient and familiar. When only Israel is singled out as uniquely evil, when there are calls to arrest Israeli football fans at the airport, when Jewish citizens are asked to apologise for the actions of a foreign government, when centuries-old myths are recycled under new slogans, it is not activism. It is prejudice reborn.
And as Jews, we know that when any society begins to tolerate such double standards, it corrodes not only its politics but its soul.
This is not merely a Jewish concern. It is a British concern. The civic covenant that has bound this nation together – respect for truth, fairness, compassion, and freedom – is being tested. The danger is not only in those who preach division, but in the fatigue of those who grow silent before it. When we stop believing that moral clarity matters, when we shrug and say that all sides are equally wrong, we abandon the very idea of a shared conscience.
Against this tide, we must reclaim a different vision.
It is the vision of Micah, the prophet of our second reading this morning. Micah saw beyond war and hatred. He imagined a world in which the nations of the earth would come together to learn the ways of peace. He spoke of people who would beat their swords into ploughshares, turning the tools of harm into the tools of life. His dream was not naïve. It was revolutionary, because it rested on faith in the spark of goodness. Micah believed, as we must, that within every person there is something capable of turning towards peace.
Liberal democracy, at its heart, is a civic expression of that same faith. It trusts that human beings, when given freedom and dignity, can govern themselves with conscience. It believes that persuasion is stronger than coercion, that diversity enriches rather than weakens, that truth, though fragile, is worth defending. These are not secular ideals; they are sacred ones. They are the political form of our covenant with God, translated into the language of human society. To defend democracy, then, is a form of faithfulness.
But democracy does not survive by habit. It must be renewed by courage. When we allow the loudest voices of anger to dominate, when leaders seek applause instead of truth, when communities retreat into suspicion, we risk extinguishing the very light that sustains us. The true test of our time is not whether we can win arguments, but whether we can protect the moral space in which disagreement itself remains possible.
Our task, therefore, is not to echo the rhetoric of those who divide, even in opposition. We must not fall into the trap of shouting their words more loudly, painted in a different colour. To do so would only feed their vision of a world split between tribes. Instead, we must offer another language – one that reassures rather than threatens, that calls people back to “the better angels of their nature” (Abraham Lincoln *). We must speak of a society that does not fear difference but draws strength from it, that does not mistake loudness for conviction or cruelty for courage.
The covenant that began with Abraham reminds us that every generation must choose again whether to be a blessing or a curse. The promise of Micah reminds us that the path to peace is not built by force but by faith – faith in the spark that still burns within us.
And these two truths meet here, on this Shabbat, here in South London, among all who have chosen to stand together. Thank you to all of you for being here.
The attack in Manchester was meant to frighten us, to drive us apart. Yet here we are, gathered not in fear but in defiance of fear. Civic leaders, faith leaders, neighbours – together we are writing a different story. Each act of solidarity, each word spoken with honesty and compassion, adds oxygen to that divine spark. And as long as that spark endures, darkness will never have the final word.
Perhaps this is what God meant when calling to Abraham:
Lech lecha – go forth, not only to find a land, but to find the courage to build a society worthy of divine trust. Go forth, not to conquer, but to kindle hope. For every generation must hear the same call anew – to go forth into the world, carrying the light of that first promise, to protect it, to nurture it, and to pass it on.
And if we do, then perhaps the words of the prophet Micah will come a little closer to truth: that one day, all people will again walk together in peace, and no one shall make them afraid.
Shabbat Shalom
* Abraham Lincoln: First Inaugural Address, delivered on March 4, 1861
