There is something profound in how we speak of Shabbat—not merely as rest, but as a deliberate setting aside of our labours, a gentle lowering of the world from our shoulders. In Parashat B’har, we encounter Shmita, the Sabbatical year, which extends this sacred pause to the land itself. Every seventh year, fields lie fallow, debts dissolve, and our grip on ownership slackens. One might be forgiven for viewing this solely as clever economic policy or ecological wisdom—an ancient system of redistribution. Yet beneath these practical considerations pulses something far more intimate.
The concluding passages of Bechukotai offer a curious shift. After the sombre litany of warnings and consequences, God’s voice softens: “I will remember My covenant with Jacob… and I will remember the land.” (Leviticus 26:42) This inclusion of the land—not merely the people—invites deeper contemplation.
Resh Lakish offers us a striking parable. He envisions a king with three sons who are raised not by the king himself, but by a devoted handmaiden. Each time the king enquires after his children, he also asks about the handmaiden—recognising that she helped nurture them. In the same way, suggests the midrash, God remembers the land because the land has helped raise us.
This single turn transforms everything. The earth is not passive scenery against which human drama unfolds. It is not a resource awaiting conquest or exploitation. It is, rather, a caregiver. A witness. A second mother. The phrase “Mother Nature” emerges not as mere poetic sentiment but as what Resh Lakish recognises as a profoundly Jewish theological truth.
The land, therefore, is not merely the setting of our narrative but a covenant partner. It shapes our seasons, nourishes our bodies, cradles our footsteps—bearing witness to every choice we make. This is why Shmita transcends agricultural policy to become spiritual practice.
To allow the land its seventh-year rest reflects a remarkable trust—trust that sufficiency will persist, that survival doesn’t demand unceasing accumulation, and that our worth isn’t measured by our output. We matter—even when not producing, building, purchasing, earning. So too does the land.
Living this truth proves challenging. In a culture that gauges success through harvests and headlines, genuine rest becomes an act of resistance. Of faith. Of remembrance.
Shabbat offers this rhythm weekly. A chance to loosen our grip. To value presence over possession. Like Shmita, it restores balance not only to the world but within ourselves.
The parashah concludes with God recalling the land not as property but as partner. This is the heartbeat beneath the legalities, the poetry woven through the pauses: an invitation to approach the earth with dignity, to craft a life characterised not by acquisition but by care.
Perhaps when we permit the land to breathe, we rediscover our own breath. Not as owners but as kin. Not as rulers but as companions in a world yearning to be honoured and made whole.
Shabbat Shalom
