Dear Friends,
This week we meet one of the more complicated mythic figures in the Torah: Noah. We are told:
“Noah was a righteous man. He was blameless in his generation.” (Genesis 6:9)
On the surface, that sounds like clear praise for the man who, according to our sacred text, saved humanity and every living species when society had become so corrupt that God saw no choice but to wipe out the world and start again.
But the rabbis of old were not so sure.
The Talmud teaches:
“Noah was righteous in his generation.” (Sanhedrin 108a)
Rabbi Yohanan argues that Noah was righteous only by comparison to those around him—hardly a high bar. But Reish Lakish says the opposite: that maintaining righteousness in a generation steeped in violence and immorality is no small feat, and that Noah would have been even more extraordinary in a generation of the righteous.
The Talmud even offers a parable: a barrel of wine in a cellar of vinegar. Surrounded by sourness, the aroma of the wine stands out. But move it elsewhere and its fragrance might not be noticed at all.
Based on that, the great teacher Rashi offers this observation: some see Noah as praiseworthy—imagine how good he might have been with better peers. Others see the text as a subtle critique—compared to Abraham, for example, Noah hardly measures up. After all, when Abraham hears of God’s plan to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah, he argues, challenges, and pleads for the innocent. Noah, by contrast, hears that the world is to be destroyed and simply builds the ark. He does not protest or advocate on humanity’s behalf. He simply gets to work building the ark so he can save his family.
For years, I read Noah through that harsher lens: not admirable, merely less terrible than the society around him.
This year, I see things differently. And the reason is simple—increasingly it feels as if we are living in a society similar to Noah’s.
Growing up, the news reported the news. Panel discussions were civil exchanges of differing ideas. Today, too often, the “news” is opinion in disguise, and panel discussions dissolve into shouting matches.
Growing up, political leaders debated issues. Today, many seem more interested in soundbites and social media moments than in serious problem-solving. Vulgarity and dehumanizing language—once shocking—have become part of the script.
Growing up, even when disagreements were sharp, there was an expectation of respect. Today, in too many circles, winning matters more than listening, and humiliating the other side is considered strength.
And whether we want to admit it or not, this cultural coarsening affects us. Incivility is contagious. Callousness spreads. The more we hear it, the more normal it begins to feel.
And so I find myself returning to Noah with new appreciation. Was he Abraham? No. Was he a towering moral hero? Probably not. But he did resist the temptation to become like the violent, corrupt culture that surrounded him. When the world went mad, he remained, at the very least, decent.
And sometimes, decency in an indecent age is a radical act.
Noah teaches us that resisting the pull of the dominant culture is itself a form of righteousness. Even a quiet righteousness matters—because while social decay is contagious, so is goodness. So now I see Noah as a reminder that if vulgarity spreads through imitation, so can compassion. And if cruelty can be normalized, so can kindness.
The problems facing our nation and our world will not be solved by shouting, demeaning, or dehumanizing one another. They will be solved only if enough of us refuse to become part of the ugliness—if we choose to model a different way of speaking, listening, and living.
Like Noah, none of us is perfect. But like Noah, we can refuse to surrender to a culture that rewards outrage over understanding.
Shabbat Shalom.
Rabbi Daniel Cohen