There’s a line buried in the Mishneh Torah that I cannot stop thinking about.
Rambam writes in Deot 6:7 that when we rebuke someone—when we confront a fellow Jew about a sin, a mistake, a pattern of behavior—we must do it not out of anger, superiority, or frustration. We do it, he says, “to allow him to merit the life of the World to Come.”
Not to win an argument.
Not to get it off our chest.
Not because we’re right.
We do it because we care about their soul.
That’s wild.
Imagine how different our conversations would be—online, in our families, even within our synagogues—if we held that in mind. That when I speak to someone about a painful truth, it’s not to make them feel small. It’s to remind them that they matter infinitely. That they deserve a place in the World to Come.
It’s not rebuke—it’s rescue.
Let’s be honest: rebuke is out of fashion. We’ve become deeply uncomfortable telling someone else that they’ve crossed a moral line. We associate it with judgment, with self-righteousness. We don’t want to be “that guy.” And truthfully, in today’s cultural climate, it’s hard to imagine calling someone out for their actions without it escalating into conflict or cancellation.
But Judaism never says don’t rebuke. It says: do it the right way.
Rambam gives us a blueprint, and it’s brilliant in its humanity. He says you must rebuke privately. Gently. Patiently. With love. Not in public. Not to humiliate. Not with a finger in their face. You say, essentially: “I see something in your behavior that might be leading you away from your best self. I want you to have a place in the World to Come. That’s why I’m saying something.”
This is a radical form of compassion.
What’s more incredible is Rambam’s consistency: if the person doesn’t listen the first time, you try again. And again. Up to the point, he says, that the person tells you: “Stop. I won’t listen.” Only then are you released from the obligation. Until that moment, it’s your mitzvah—your sacred responsibility—to care enough to say something.
And if you don’t? Rambam says you share in the responsibility for their sin. Because you had a chance to redirect their path and chose silence.
That’s not judgment. That’s love, expressed through moral courage.
But here’s the catch: you can only offer rebuke if you’re truly doing it for the sake of the other person’s soul. The moment it becomes about your ego, your anger, your righteousness—it’s not tochacha, it’s an attack.
That line—“to allow him to merit the World to Come”—demands that we do soul-work before we ever speak a word. Do I really want this person to grow? Or do I just want them to feel ashamed? Am I helping them ascend? Or am I trying to knock them down?
Rebuke becomes holy only when it’s an act of chesed, of love.
Sometimes I think about this in the context of parenting. I have to rebuke my children all the time. Not because they’re bad, but because they’re becoming. Because I want them to grow into their highest selves. I want them to be safe. To be kind. To be awake to the world. And yes, I want them—God willing—to merit the World to Come.
But when I rebuke them out of impatience or exhaustion, it doesn’t land. When I speak out of genuine care, it reaches deeper.
The same is true for all our relationships.
In a world that defaults to public shaming, where criticism often feels like sport, tochacha offers something deeper. It’s a moral discipline, rooted in ahavah—in love. It’s the kind of confrontation that says, “You are not your worst mistake. And I believe in who you can still become.”
I once received a rebuke from someone I trust. It was a private conversation. They told me something about my behavior that had hurt others. My first instinct, of course, was to be defensive. But they were calm. Grounded. They said, “I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. But this mattered. And I think you’d want to know.” That rebuke changed me. It was hard to hear. But I never doubted it came from care.
That’s the kind of culture I want to help build in Jewish life. Not one where we weaponize religion or call each other out for every misstep. But one where we step in—quietly, patiently, lovingly—because we want each other to make it. Not just in this life, but in the next.
Rambam is asking us to care more, not less. To hold each other accountable not out of anger, but out of faith. Faith in teshuvah. Faith in human capacity to grow. Faith that even our most difficult conversations can be doorways to redemption.
And here’s the deeper truth, maybe the hardest one to admit:
We only push the people we believe in.
We only rebuke the people we love.
If I didn’t care about you, I’d let it go. I’d assume this is just who you are—average, limited, incapable of more. But when I see something in you—a spark, a soul, a higher potential—I can’t help but push. I prod, I question, I challenge, not because I think you’re terrible, but because I know you’re not. Because I believe you’re capable of something greater.
To rebuke someone in the Jewish tradition is to say: I believe in your future more than you believe in your comfort right now.
It’s easy to flatter. It’s easy to say nothing. But tochacha—holy rebuke—is a form of faith. It says: You are worth the risk of this hard conversation. I won’t settle for mediocrity in you, because I believe in your divine spark.
We do this with the people we love the most. Our partners. Our children. Our students. Our community. Because to not say anything—to let someone continue down a path that will bring them harm or shame or spiritual numbness—is its own kind of betrayal.
So yes, rebuke is hard. But indifference is worse. Silence doesn’t mean kindness—it means surrender.
And here lies the real theological power of tochacha: it is one of the only mitzvot that explicitly links our interpersonal action to someone else’s olam haba—their eternal soul. In that moment, we are not correcting behavior merely to protect community norms or social boundaries. We are interceding on behalf of a soul. Rebuke becomes an eschatological act—one that transcends the moment and dares to care about someone’s forever.
The great irony is that to do this right, we must be both bold and broken-hearted. We must have the courage to speak truth—and the humility to make sure that truth is spoken only in love. Tochacha is not about policing others. It is about fighting for them.
Imagine: the only reason we speak hard truths is because we don’t want to lose each other. Because every soul is worth saving. Because heaven is not just about God—it’s about us, and how fiercely we’re willing to love one another back to life.
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