Do We Have the Courage to Follow the New Route Home?

One of ancient Greece’s earliest philosophers, Heraclitus, is recorded as having said: “There is nothing permanent except change.” Along the same lines, he stated: “No man ever steps in the same river twice.” 

The sentiment of this ancient wisdom is simple – those who stay in the same place and never embrace new realities are doomed to disaster.

There are numerous examples from history of those who refused to change when catastrophe loomed. But far more refreshing are those who understood, when faced with disaster, that a correction was needed, sometimes urgently. 

One famous example is the sixteenth-century Dutch leader, William of Orange. In 1566, William faced an impossible choice. The king of Spain, Philip II, was tightening his iron grip on the Low Countries – crushing religious freedom and centralizing power in ways that had never been attempted before. The old system – accepting foreign rule while hoping for gradual reform – had failed spectacularly. 

William could have clung to the familiar, doubling down on diplomatic appeals and hoping for the best. But instinctively, he knew that this wouldn’t work out well. Instead, he did something revolutionary: he acknowledged that the old route wasn’t working and opted to change course.

The Dutch Revolt that followed could be viewed as a military campaign, but actually it was much more than that: it was a complete reimagining of what could be and how that could be achieved. William became the first Stadtholder of what would become the Dutch Republic, creating a new model that bore little resemblance to the monarchical systems that had preceded it. 

The change was radical, and initially it was both uncomfortable and uncertain. But it worked – because William and his supporters dared to honestly assess what wasn’t working and make the necessary adjustments until they got it right. What followed was a century of prosperity, known as the Dutch Golden Age.

This willingness to recalculate in the face of potential failure isn’t merely a political strategy – it’s a fundamental principle of how progress can proceed. And nowhere is this principle more beautifully illustrated than in Parshas Devarim.

Modern technology has given us an unexpected teacher in resilience. When you set your GPS to a destination, it sets your course – but inevitably, you will make a mistake and take a wrong turn. Without a fuss, your GPS will recalculate, offering you a new route to your destination. There’s no judgment, and no disappointment. 

Occasionally, the GPS will try to send you back to the original route, but more often it will simply offer you another pathway. Now, imagine if life worked like that. Imagine if every time we found ourselves going off course, we were offered the new route back to the best version of ourselves.

This is precisely the approach Moshe Rabbeinu takes in Devarim. As the Jewish people stand on the threshold of the Promised Land, about to change course completely from the secure existence they had enjoyed for four decades, Moshe offers them a platform to succeed in their new situation. Not criticism or recrimination. Instead, he offers something far more valuable: a retrospective that focuses not on blame but on learning from mistakes and charting a new route ahead.

Yes, there were the spies who brought back a discouraging report, and the repercussions were devastating. So, beware of those whose advice will set you back. 

Yes, there was the golden calf, and you almost went off a cliff before your journey even started. So, don’t fall into the trap of attractive ideas that will end up taking you down. 

Yes, there was the rebellion of Korach. So, don’t allow yourself to be drawn into self-destructive insurrections. 

Moshe acknowledges these missteps, not to draw attention to the mistakes, but to explain that every misstep is just a stumble along the way to your predetermined destination.

For forty years, the Israelites had lived as perpetual wanderers, always looked after by God – manna falling from heaven, water flowing from rocks, clouds providing direction and protection. They had become accustomed to a kind of spiritual dependency, where their basic needs were miraculously provided, and their major decisions were made through divine signs. 

Now, as they prepared to enter the Land of Israel, everything was about to change. They would need to plant crops and harvest them, dig wells and maintain them, establish courts and ensure justice, defend borders and govern cities. The wilderness mindset – reactive, dependent, whiny – had to give way to a completely different approach: proactive, responsible, and focused on building a society.

Perhaps no figure in Jewish history understood this principle better than Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai. As Jerusalem collapsed under the weight of the Roman siege in 70 CE, he understood that the Temple would imminently be destroyed. 

Unless there was a drastic adaptation to new realities, Judaism would disappear. The old system – Temple-based Judaism centered in Jerusalem – was collapsing. The rebels who presided over Jerusalem, including his own nephew, refused to consider any alternative. They clung to the familiar, convinced that doubling down was the only honorable path.

But Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai chose to recalculate. His famous request to the Roman general Vespasian – “Give me Yavneh and its sages” – was an acknowledgement that a new route was required to get to the same destination. 

The route through Temple worship was no longer available. So, instead of doggedly pursuing the same path and pretending that the destruction wasn’t happening, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai calmly assessed the new landscape and found an alternative route: a Judaism that could survive and thrive without the Temple, a Judaism centered on study and scholarship rather than animal sacrifices and pilgrimage.

The transformation was radical. The Judaism that emerged from Yavneh may have been significantly different from what had come before, but it worked — spectacularly. And the proof is that it has survived for nearly two millennia. Meanwhile, those who refused to change course disappeared without a trace once the Temple was destroyed.

This theme resonates powerfully with Shabbat Chazon, the Shabbat of Isaiah’s Vision that precedes Tisha B’Av. The haftarah from Isaiah that gives this Shabbat its name is predominantly a prophecy of doom, and a divine indictment of Jewish failures. 

But if you look more carefully, you’ll see something else entirely: embedded within the rebuke is the ultimate recalculation. Isaiah acknowledges that the Jewish people are off course and the consequences for that will be severe – exile, destruction, and the loss of the Temple. 

But the prophet’s message isn’t “Game Over.” Instead, his underlying message is “Come now, let us reason together” (Is. 1:18) — even after destruction, we can recalculate. The vision Isaiah presents isn’t only about destruction, it’s also about reconstruction.

The entire concept of Tisha B’Av embodies this principle. When we fast and mourn, it’s not just about wallowing in historical tragedy. It’s about engaging honestly with our missteps so we can find our way back to the correct route. 

Our day of mourning is about the destruction of the past, but simultaneously it is also a day of recalculation, a hopeful acknowledgement that while we may have taken wrong turns, we remain on course for our destination.

Moshe’s retrospective in Parshat Devarim and Isaiah’s vision in the haftarah of Shabbat Chazon both carry the same essential message: it’s never “Game Over.” No matter how far off course we’ve traveled, no matter how many wrong turns we’ve taken, the GPS of divine providence is always ready to find the route that will get us back on track. 

The question is only whether we have the wisdom to listen and the courage to follow that new route home.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California.