There are so many powerful pesukim in the Torah. Some speak of divine presence in this world, whether through creation or through supernatural intervention. Others describe the historical covenant forged between Hashem and His people, centered upon His land. And there are those that articulate fundamental beliefs, such as Shema Yisrael, which distills emunah into a few words. Finally, there are dramatic pesukim that trace the lives of our great Avos and leaders, Avraham and Moshe, capturing their struggles and heroics.
Yet the great tanna, Rebbi Akiva, chose a different pasuk as the most essential in the Torah: “Ve’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha.” Love your fellow as yourself.
He places the center of Torah not in belief, but in the way a person turns toward others. Compassion, a readiness to step beyond the self, forms the bedrock of both human character and avodas Hashem. Without rachamim and compassion, piety slowly erodes, losing its moral core.
The Language of Action
The centrality of loving another as oneself had already been articulated generations earlier by Hillel HaZaken, an intellectual forerunner of Rebbi Akiva. Decades earlier, Hillel had already placed this trait at the heart of avodas Hashem.
A potential but impatient ger approached Shammai, requesting “conversion on one foot,” what we would call “religion in fifteen minutes.” Shammai, quite understandably, turned him away. Torah and avodas Hashem cannot be absorbed in haste. The greatest minds across generations have devoted entire lives to probing the depth and divine mystery of Torah.
Hillel responded differently. He recognized that not everyone arrives with the same patience or intellectual endurance. Rather than dismiss the request, he offered a point of entry. He directed the convert to focus on loving one’s fellow as the core of religious experience, a principle simple enough to begin with, yet one that can guide a person through the entirety of avodas Hashem.
Interestingly, Hillel did not merely identify love for another Jew as the central tenet of religious life. He gave it definition and measure. The command to love can remain abstract and difficult to grasp. People often hurt those they love. Love and hurt often walk hand in hand.
Hillel redirected the convert toward action rather than emotion. “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow.” In reframing the command, Hillel made it concrete. It is not simple to feel love for every person. Jews, by nature, are confident and often stubborn. Differences in outlook inevitably lead to friction. Hillel was not asking for perfect emotion; he was guiding behavior. Treat others with dignity and respect, even when you disagree, even when they irritate you. Use your own expectations as the standard. Do not impose upon others what you yourself would find hurtful. Instead of speaking in abstract terms, Hillel anchored the mitzvah in daily conduct.
This idea, to “treat others as you would wish to be treated,” has spread far beyond its source to many religions. Many assume it appears explicitly in the Torah, but the Torah speaks in the language of love. Hillel translated that language into behavior, into something lived and practiced.
Separated by only a few generations, Hillel and Rebbi Akiva arrived at a shared center. Treating others with dignity stands at the heart of Jewish identity. Among all the powerful pesukim in the Torah, this one emerges as central and can serve as a portal to growth in avodas Hashem.
The Image of Man
Yet this was not the only way to define the center of Torah. Interestingly, there was a dissenting voice within Chazal. A different tanna pointed to a very different pasuk as the most central in the Torah. Ben Azzai turned not to the command to love, but to a pasuk in Bereishis that describes the creation of man. In the fifth perek, the Torah presents man as having been created b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of Hashem.
Of course, this cannot refer to any physical likeness, as Hashem has no form or semblance. Rather, it points to a cluster of capacities that set human beings apart from the rest of the natural world. We possess emotion, bechirah chofshit, moral awareness, self-reflection, creativity, language, and the ability to form deep relationships. These qualities are either absent in other creatures or appear only in limited form.
It is precisely this distinction that defines us. We stand apart from nature, and in that difference we reflect our Creator, who stands beyond nature entirely. Our distance from the natural order is not accidental; it is the imprint of the tzelem Elokim within us.
By highlighting this pasuk instead of “Ve’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha,” Ben Azzai introduced two important shifts. First, this pasuk is not a mitzvah but an assertion about human nature. Hillel and Rebbi Akiva identified a formal mitzvah as central. Ben Azzai suggested that the axis of Torah values can emerge from a statement about who we are.
Avodas Hashem is shaped not only by obligation, but also by how we understand the human being, by the moral awareness embedded within us and by the way we see the world and our place within it. It is striking that, in Ben Azzai’s view, the central pasuk describes who we are rather than telling us what to do.
Second, Ben Azzai widened the scope of compassion and respect from fellow Jews to humanity as a whole. The command to love your neighbor is directed toward those who are your ideological neighbors, those who share your identity and way of life.
The pasuk in Bereishis speaks more broadly. Every human being is created b’tzelem Elokim. That shared divine imprint demands a wider circle of respect. Honoring another person is, in effect, honoring the One who created him. When that respect is absent, it reflects not only a failure toward others, but a failure in our regard for Hashem.
Losing Hope
It is not always easy to respect every human being and the tzelem Elokim within him. We stand at the edge of a major shift that may reshape how we understand ourselves. No one knows exactly where this is headed. Will AI elevate our sense of human dignity, as we begin to generate creativity itself? Or will this process continue to erode what makes us distinct and chip away at our image of man?
This process has been unfolding for centuries. Copernicus taught us that our planet is not the center of the universe. Darwin taught that we were not created as wholly distinct, but share an evolutionary branch with other primates. Freud taught that we do not fully possess bechirah, but are often driven, almost irresistibly, by darker psychological forces within us. With each step, something of human uniqueness felt diminished. Creativity remained one of the final markers of distinction.
If even that begins to fade, how will we understand ourselves? This question will take time to unfold, but it will shape how we see the human being and what it means to be created b’tzelem Elokim.
Of course, even before any of this unfolds, the world already feels unmoored, gripped by hatred and drawn toward false narratives. The hostility we face, and the poor judgment we see around us, can tempt a person to lose faith in humanity. So many seem unable, or unwilling, to recognize the moral clarity of our cause.
It is easy, in a world filled with hatred and antisemitism, to give up on man, or to lose faith in human potential. Ben Azzai reminds us that every human being carries that potential. People do not always rise to it, and at times they distort it. Still, to live as a believing Jew is to hold onto faith in humanity, even when that faith is not easily earned.