What Does It Mean to Be Children of Abraham?

A meditation for Lech Lecha, in the season of the olive harvest.

There are trees that seem to hold time differently. Olive trees twist and thicken as they age. They can live for centuries, almost always outliving the people who plant them.

An olive tree is not simply a symbol of peace or endurance. In the West Bank, and throughout the land that many know as Palestine, an olive tree connects generations of a family who tend to it.

Since 1967, Palestinian farmers have faced restrictions on access to their land, vandalism and destruction of their trees, and intimidation, with a sharp increase since October 7, 2023. This past week, at the peak of the harvest, farmers have faced violence by Israeli settlers and restrictions on reaching their own land.

This is not a new problem. Palestinian groves have been vandalized, trees uprooted, crops stolen, and farmers attacked or prevented from reaching their land for decades. Rabbis for Human Rights has accompanied Palestinian farmers during the olive harvest for more than twenty years. I know some will question the wisdom of this work in an election season, worrying about its political consequences for Israel. Those concerns may be sincerely held. But the need for accompaniment did not begin with this election, and it will not end when the election is over. The question is whether concern about political consequences should determine whether we stand beside those who need protection.

Among the volunteers who accompanied farmers this past week were American rabbis and other Jewish public figures, including my friend Rabbi Marisa Elana James. After volunteering with Rabbis for Human Rights, she described a day that began with Torah and the work of gathering olives and ended with police and soldiers detaining the volunteers for hours in a “closed military zone.” A lawyer confirmed that they had done nothing illegal or wrong. Eventually, they were released.

Marisa shared:

“I want to be clear that the work our group did today was exactly the same as the work we did yesterday, which ended entirely peacefully. Every time these groups go out to help Palestinians harvest their olives, our primary goal is to help these families access their own land, during a time when there are violent settlers attacking them, and the police do not protect them.

“One elderly Palestinian woman was with us, thanking us profusely, calling us beautiful, and picking as fast as she could. I hope she and her family benefit from these olives, from trees the families had not been able to access since October 7, 2023.”

This is the harvest.

Trees set alight in the dark. Masked men with clubs. Cars burned in the road. A woman pushed to the ground. Stones thrown at people carrying baskets. Bulldozers moving through groves that took generations to grow.

This is the harvest.

And through all of it, trees older than the people fighting over them, heavy with fruit someone needs to gather.

Whose hands are allowed to reach it?

I keep returning to the image of that elderly Palestinian woman, gathering olives as fast as she could. And I find myself thinking about this week’s Torah portion, Lech Lecha.

God tells Abram to leave what is familiar and go toward a land God will show him. God promises descendants, a future, a people. And then, as if to explain what these promises are for, God says:

Veheyeh berakhah.

“You shall be a blessing.”

Not only that Abram will receive a blessing, but that he will become one.

That distinction matters when we talk about our connection to the land of Israel. Jewish attachment to this land is real and deep. It lives in our prayers, our texts, our history, and our longing. We do not need to apologize for it or pretend it away.

But what are we being asked to do with that attachment? What does it mean to be a blessing, and to be children of Abraham?

The promise to Abraham is particular, made to one person and carried forward through a people. But its purpose extends beyond him. God’s blessing is meant to reach the families of the earth through Abraham. Our inheritance, then, is not only a promise. It is a responsibility.

Rabbi Tali Adler, reflecting on the story of Abraham and Lot in this portion, offers three truths that are difficult to hold together: theft is not faith; sometimes we need to separate; and distance does not have to mean rupture.

The first truth takes us to Genesis 13. Abram and Lot have become so wealthy in livestock that “the land could not support them staying together,” and “there was strife between the herders of Abram’s livestock and the herders of Lot’s livestock.”

Rashi explains that Lot’s shepherds allowed their flocks to graze in fields belonging to others. They reasoned that God had promised the land to Abram, and Lot, as his heir, would eventually inherit it. In their eyes, the promise settled the question of who had a right to the land. But Abram’s shepherds understood that a promise about the future did not erase the rights of those already living there.

Lot’s shepherds had a religious justification for taking what belonged to someone else. They believed the promise gave them permission.

But a promise is not permission to steal.

The land was inhabited. Other people lived there, worked there, and had claims of their own. Abraham’s future inheritance did not make those people disappear.

The question is not whether Abraham’s descendants have a meaningful relationship with the land. It is what kind of relationship that inheritance calls them to practice. Religious stories can sustain a people through generations of displacement and danger. They can also be used to justify almost anything if we stop asking what our tradition demands of us.

A sacred inheritance cannot mean that someone else’s life, home, or livelihood no longer counts.

The Jewish volunteers accompanying Palestinian farmers were acting on one answer to that question. They understood their Jewishness as a reason to stand beside their neighbors. They did not need to resolve every argument about history or belonging before helping a woman gather olives. Their presence could not guarantee her safety, but they could stand with her.

Sometimes faithfulness to our tradition means saying plainly that something done in the name of our people is wrong. Love of Israel does not require looking away from the harm Palestinians experience. If we take Abraham’s calling seriously, we must ask what kind of blessing our presence in the land is becoming.

That is the first truth: theft is not faith.

The second truth is that sometimes we need to separate.

Abraham recognizes that living together, at least for now, is not working. He offers Lot a choice of land, and they go their separate ways. There are times when drawing a line is necessary, when we cannot excuse what is wrong even if it is done by people with whom we share a history.

But the story does not end there. Later, when Lot is captured, Abraham gathers his people and goes to rescue him. Abraham does not have to approve of Lot’s choices to care what happens to him.

Here is the third truth: distance does not have to mean rupture.

We sometimes act as though we have only two options: defend our own people no matter what they do, or turn away from them altogether. Abraham’s story offers another possibility. We can be clear about what is wrong while recognizing the humanity of those involved. We can draw boundaries without deciding that every relationship is over.

This matters within the Jewish community, where conversations about Israel can become painful very quickly. It matters between Israelis and Palestinians, whose histories and experiences are not interchangeable, and whose claims to home cannot be resolved by pretending that everyone has suffered in the same way.

The Palestinian woman gathering olives does not need to become a symbol in order to matter. Those are her family’s trees. She should be able to reach them, gather their fruit, and go home safely. Her right to do so is not a concession we make to her. It is part of the justice our own tradition asks us to recognize.

I think, too, of the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish and his poem “The Second Olive Tree.” Darwish writes from a particular landscape and history. His olive tree is an elder, a “modest lady,” a “venerable grandmother” whose life stretches across generations. It has witnessed the passage of empires, including the Romans, and remains rooted in the land.

The poem opens: “The olive tree does not weep and does not laugh.”

The tree does not need to prove its history or defend its roots. It stands, carrying the years within itself. Yet even an ancient tree can become the site of a struggle over who belongs, whose history counts, and whose hands are permitted to gather its fruit.

Reading Darwish alongside our Jewish texts does not make our histories the same. It asks us to take another people’s relationship with the land as seriously as we take our own. Acknowledging another people’s roots does not require us to deny our own.

The Psalmist writes:

Va’ani kezayit ra’anan beveit Elohim;batakhti bechesed Elohim olam va’ed.

“But I am like a thriving olive tree in God’s house; I trust in the faithfulness of God forever and ever.” (Psalm 52:8)

A thriving olive tree in Beit Elohim, the House of God.

What is the fruit of a life shaped by our tradition? What should grow from the roots of our inheritance?

After the flood, Noah sends out a dove. It returns with a freshly plucked olive branch, and Noah understands that the waters have begun to recede. The branch does not mean the world has been restored. It is a sign that life can begin again.

Perhaps that is what we are being asked to protect now: not an easy idea of peace, or the promise that every conflict will resolve itself, but the conditions that allow people to live. A farmer reaching her trees. A family gathering its harvest. Neighbors going about their lives without fear of being driven from their homes. A world worthy of being called Beit Elohim, the House of God.

I do not know how we get from where we are to a future in which this is possible for everyone. I do know that the promise to Abraham cannot be separated from the responsibility that comes with it.

Veheyeh berakhah.

You shall be a blessing.

That is not a guarantee that we are right. It is a charge to become worthy of what we have received: to love our people enough to tell the truth, to love our tradition enough to let it challenge us, and to care about our neighbors enough to insist that their lives, homes, and futures matter, too.

So what does it mean to be the children of Abraham?

It means we are heirs to a promise that places a demand upon us. Our inheritance is not fulfilled simply by possessing the land, preserving our identity, or remembering the promises made to our ancestors. It is fulfilled when we become a source of blessing—when our faith makes room for justice, when our love of our people does not require indifference to another people, and when our relationship with the land helps sustain the lives of those who call it home.

The olive trees are still there. Their branches still need tending. The harvest still needs gathering.

May we be children of Abraham not only in the promises we inherit, but in the blessings we become.

Veheyeh berakhah.

And you shall be a blessing.