Let me tell you about something that happened a few weeks ago. It was late, I was tired, and I was scrolling online. I stumbled upon a video, a short, compelling documentary about South Africa and its political history with Israel and the PLO. It was about a subject I thought I knew, but this documentary turned everything on its head. Slick production, apparent experts, and a string of “facts” that seemed both revealing and strangely logical.
For twenty minutes, I was captivated. I felt that click in my brain, that little hit of dopamine when a confusing world suddenly snaps into a simple, clear picture. I thought, “How did I not see this before? It all makes sense now.”
And then I paused. With a few minutes of checking, I discovered the film was a masterclass in manipulation. The “experts” were discredited. The “facts” were cherry-picked and stripped of context. The beautiful, simple picture was a lie. A brilliant, seductive lie.
I felt a chill. Not just because I had been fooled, but because for a few minutes I had enjoyed being fooled. The certainty it offered was a relief.
I had pushed it out of my mind until I returned to this week’s Torah portion. In Deuteronomy, we meet the prophet who performs a sign or wonder, and the sign comes true. This is not a blatant fraud. It is someone who seems to have a direct line to truth. Only after winning the people’s trust does the prophet whisper, “Come, let us follow other gods.”
The Torah recognises that the most dangerous untruths do not arrive as crude lies. They come dressed in beauty, with evidence, with that same dopamine hit of certainty. They make us feel clever, as though we alone see what others miss.
Today’s prophet does not wear robes or carry a staff. The modern prophet carries a smartphone, hosts a podcast, posts reels, and writes a newsletter with a loyal following. Their wonders are viral graphs, dramatic clips, a casual “I’m just asking questions” that looks like curiosity but is really a guided tour to a predetermined conclusion.
Their message intoxicates because it diagnoses our genuine frustrations and fears. And it always tells a simple story with a hero and a villain.
In that story we, the listeners, are always the heroes. Those who disagree are the villains. The form is ancient, but it has never been easier to sell.
So how do we navigate this?
Judaism doesn’t tell us to retreat from the world, tempting as that sometimes is. Instead, our tradition hands us a toolkit, polished over centuries. Imagine Judaism as a grand, noisy conversation around a giant table.
Hillel and Shammai argue fiercely. The Talmud preserves even minority opinions as part of the sacred search for truth. The radical premise is this: truth is too vast for one person to hold. It is a diamond with a thousand facets; we glimpse only a few at a time.
This tradition teaches that the wisest words are not “I know,” but “Tell me more.”
True strength is not in unshakeable certainty, but in the courage to say, “I might be wrong.” Our inheritance requires us to be active, to be genuinely curious.
Judaism prizes scepticism, but a particular kind. The scepticism of the Beit Midrash, where ideas are tested against each other, where no single voice is final. We argue, we probe, we cross-examine. Yet scepticism alone is not enough. Scepticism without discernment hardens into cynicism. If we doubt everything equally, then nothing can be trusted. Cynicism paralyses us, leaving us unable to act, unwilling to believe even when truth stands before us.
The task is not to sneer at every claim, but to cultivate discernment. To ask: does this voice lift me towards compassion and justice, or does it shrink me into fear and arrogance?
That requires work.
It means admitting when we’ve been wrong.
It means sitting with uncertainty rather than rushing toward easy answers.
It means engaging in conversations that make us uncomfortable, and building relationships strong enough to survive disagreement.
As we head into the weeks of Elul, the month of self-reflection, the real question our sidra poses isn’t about some external enemy.
It’s an internal one.
It’s a question for you, and it’s a question for me.
What voice in your life makes you feel a little too comfortable, a little too certain? What idea feels so good, so righteous to believe, that you’ve become afraid to question it?
Where is your own personal echo chamber?
The Torah’s warning is ultimately a call to self-awareness.
It’s a reminder that the most profound idolatry isn’t bowing to a statue; it’s bowing to an idea so completely that we sacrifice our own complexity, our own curiosity, and our own compassion for it.
The true spiritual journey isn’t about finding a prophet who confirms everything we already believe. It’s about cultivating the wisdom within ourselves to seek out the challenging, messy, inconvenient, and beautiful truth.
Shabbat Shalom.
