“You shall proclaim liberty throughout the land for all its inhabitants” (Leviticus 25:10).
If you’ve ever visited Philadelphia, you may have seen this verse engraved on the Liberty Bell. It’s one of the few pieces of Torah that sits at the heart of American iconography. But most people have no idea that it comes from Parshat Behar, or what the surrounding context actually is.
The verse comes from the laws of the Jubilee year—a once-in-a-generation reset, when land is returned to its original families, debts are forgiven, and enslaved Israelites are released. It is not merely a poetic call for freedom—it’s a blueprint for systemic transformation. And yet, like many of the Torah’s boldest visions, the Jubilee year was rarely, if ever, fully implemented. Even in ancient Israel, the ideal of proclaiming liberty to all its inhabitants may have been more aspirational than literal.
Still, the Torah does not offer us idealism for idealism’s sake. It offers direction. A moral compass pointed toward justice, even if the journey is long. In that spirit, Behar-Bechukotai reminds us that liberty is not a one-time act. It is a principle, a practice, a posture of faith. In Jewish tradition, liberty is never the absence of responsibility—it is the redirection of it. The Torah envisions not a world where we are free to do whatever we want, but a world where we are free from servitude to power, wealth, or exploitation. We are, always, avdei Hashem—servants of God. But that divine relationship demands justice. The Jubilee year, like Shabbat, exists to interrupt the illusion that everything belongs to us. It reminds us that land is not owned permanently, that people cannot be owned at all, and that hierarchy is not the purpose of creation.
In this vision, liberty is not license—it is return. Return of land to its rightful stewards. Return of people to their families. Return of society to its moral commitments. And this vision is profoundly political. It challenges entrenched systems. It demands that we ask, even today: Who is still waiting for liberty to be proclaimed? Who is burdened by debts they cannot escape? Who owns the land—and who was displaced? Who is present in our communities but not fully free?
The Torah dares to frame liberty not as a philosophical abstraction, but as a divine imperative. It is not optional. It is not reserved for the few. And it is not declared privately. Liberty is proclaimed aloud—throughout the land, for all its inhabitants. That’s what makes it revolutionary. In Jewish life, spiritual transformation is never only personal. The shofar of Jubilee doesn’t blow for one household. It sounds across society. You cannot proclaim liberty just for yourself. It has to be for everyone.
It’s tempting to think of liberty as a modern, American value to which Judaism adds some flavor. But the opposite is closer to the truth. Liberty is a Jewish value that helped shape the modern world. The Torah introduced a radical idea to ancient civilization: that no human being is permanently beneath another. That land belongs to God. That economic cycles must be disrupted by moral ones. That time itself—Shabbat, Shemitah, Yovel—can be sanctified in the name of justice. And if the Jubilee year feels out of reach, that’s precisely the point. Torah sets the horizon. We move toward it by degrees.
You don’t need a Jubilee year to proclaim liberty. You can proclaim liberty when you cancel a grudge or forgive a debt. You can proclaim liberty when you speak up for the hostage, the prisoner, the refugee, the person whose dignity is buried beneath bureaucracy. You can proclaim liberty when you support a society that values people more than profit. You can proclaim liberty when you make your synagogue a place where everyone feels they belong—not just the donor or the insider, but the seeker, the stranger, the one who’s still unsure. And perhaps most of all, you proclaim liberty when you refuse to harden your heart. When you remember that every person is a creation of God, and every system can be renewed.
This week, as we read the words carved into the Liberty Bell, let’s not reduce them to patriotic nostalgia. Let’s hear them for what they are: a prophetic challenge and a sacred charge. “You shall proclaim liberty throughout the land for all its inhabitants.” That’s not just a verse. It’s a vision. It’s a command. It’s our work.
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