In this week’s Parsha, we encounter a Pasuk that reverberates throughout all of Jewish life and history. Of course, every Pasuk in the Torah does. But this one carries a particular resonance: “Eicha ya’avdu ha’goyim ha’eileh...—How do these nations worship their gods? V’e’eseh kein gam ani—and I too will do the same” (Devarim 12:30).
Moshe Rabbeinu forewarns the people that they will come to such a state of being, to such a question, at some point in their national and spiritual journey.
The commentaries disagree as to the exact meaning of this verse. Rashi, citing the Gemara (Sanhedrin 60b-61a), explains that this refers to the specific ways in which idols were worshipped. Take, for example, the idol Markulis (which some identify with Mercury, the Greek god). The service of Markulis consisted of throwing stones at the statue. That act—throwing stones—was the way its worshippers honored it. Interestingly, we see vestiges of this practice still today in Mecca, where Muslims throw stones at the Kaaba. It is a direct inheritance from ancient paganism.
Therefore, according to Rashi, if a Jew throws stones at Markulis, he violates Avodah Zarah, because that is its established form of worship. But what if a Jew does not throw stones? What if instead he washes it—an abnormal form of worship—the way Buddhists do to Buddha? From Rashi’s reading of the Gemara, that alone would not constitute the particular violation of Avodah Zarah specific to Markulis. The violation only occurs if the Jew performs the actual service uniquely associated with that idol (or performs a common form of worship customarily carried out in service of Hashem in the Beis Hamikdash, such as slaughtering an animal; see ibid. 60b). Washing an idol, however, falls under a different and more general category of prohibited idol worship, stemming from a different Scriptural source, namely, “Lo ta’avdeim—You shall not bow down to them” (Shemos 23:24; see Rashi, Sanhedrin, ad loc.).
Other commentaries reject Rashi’s explanation and interpret the Gemara differently. They hold that any form of service, any act of honor given in the name of an idol—even washing an idol— is Avodah Zarah in its pure and direct form. This is the meaning of the Pasuk “V’shem elohim acheirim lo tazkiru—Do not mention the names of other gods” (ibid. 23:13). The Torah demands complete separation from Avodah Zarah, in every shape and form.
The Rambam explains that the central purpose of many mitzvos overall is to distance us from idolatry (see Moreh Nevuchim 3:29). Avodah Zarah was, and remains, an overwhelming human attraction. Without strict prohibitions, mankind would be unable to resist it. And idolatry is not limited to statues and shrines, but appears in many forms.
What takes primacy in your life? What defines your choices, your values, your purpose? That can become your idol. Money, power, ideology all can be Avodah Zarah.
Jack Benny, the old American comedian, had a famous sketch in which a mugger puts a gun to his head and says, “Your money or your life.” Benny pauses for a very long time. Finally the mugger shouts, “I said, your money or your life!” Benny replies, “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” That pause—valuing wealth nearly as much as life itself—is idolatry.
This is precisely Moshe Rabbeinu’s warning. Israel’s struggle throughout history will not only be against external threats, but against the inner temptation to follow the world, to conform to the majority. Can it be, we ask, that fifty million Frenchmen are wrong? Can it be that the whole world is mistaken, and only a handful of Jews hold the truth? And because it is so hard to be the minority, the despised minority, the Torah warns, “Eicha ya’avdu... v’e’eseh kein gam ani”—beware of the pull to say, “I will do the same.”
The Gemara (Shabbos 67a) as well introduces the category of Darkei Emori, the ways of the nations. This does not always mean actual idol worship. Sometimes it refers to customs and habits of pagan society, which the Torah instructs us to avoid. If you imitate pagan behavior, eventually you absorb the mindset of the pagans themselves.
But how far does this go? Jewish history is filled with debates.
Germany vs. Eastern Europe: In 18th- and 19th-century Germany, Reform synagogues introduced organs into services, imitating churches. Organs were prohibited outright in Orthodox practice, but choirs became contentious. Orthodox German synagogues allowed male choirs, while Eastern European Jews recoiled, calling those shuls “chor shuls” and crossing the street rather than pass by them. Even if it enhanced the service, they felt it was Darkei Emori.
Flowers on Shavuot: A long-standing Jewish custom is to decorate synagogues with greenery for Shavuot, recalling the natural beauty of Mount Sinai at the giving of the Torah. The Vilna Gaon forbade this practice in the 1700s, arguing that churches adopted similar decorations, especially around Easter. Even though the Jewish practice was older, he held that once the non-Jews made it theirs, it must be abandoned. Many disagreed, and the custom continues widely today, though often with artificial flowers, a subtle compromise.
Clerical Robes: In Germany and England, rabbis often wore formal clerical robes, influenced by Christian clergy. In Eastern Europe, this was never accepted. The clothing of a talmid chacham noted in the Talmud was a special turban or hat (see Berachos 60b; Kiddushin 31a). Hats became deeply important in Jewish identity, but not robes. Nevertheless, in Germanic communities, robes persisted as a symbol of dignity. When I became a rabbi in Miami Beach, the founders of my small shul, of German origin, insisted I wear such robes. It was against my nature, so after a few months I stopped. They objected, saying, “It’s our custom.” We compromised, and for a while I wore formal attire on Shabbos, as though attending a wedding. Eventually I stopped that too. But the question lingered: was this Darkei Emori or not?
The Rambam, the great rationalist, pushed this principle even further. He taught that Jews must avoid not only idolatry, but all superstition (see Rambam, Hilchos Teshuva 5:4). There are no lucky numbers, no unlucky days, no omens, no charms. In the Tosefta (see Tosefta Shabbos Ch. 7), many superstitions are listed, and all are considered Darkei Emori.
Exile blurred these boundaries. Living for centuries among Polish Catholics or German Protestants, Jews inevitably absorbed local customs. Bread and salt to welcome guests, for example, was a Polish tradition that became ingrained in Jewish life. Some practices endured without objection. Others—like red strings—remain controversial, yet persist because they gained emotional or cultural weight.
The Rambam gives a striking example in his commentary to the Mishnah (Pesachim 4:9). The Gemara (Pesachim 56a) records that King Chizkiyahu hid away the Sefer Refuot—the “Book of Medicines”—so that people would not rely on it. Rashi (ibid. 56a) explains that people had stopped praying to Hashem, turning instead to the remedies of this book, and so Chizkiyahu removed it.
The Rambam forcefully rejects this. He argues that if the book contained genuine cures, Chizkiyahu would have had no right to hide it. Hashem provided healing in nature, and it must be used. Rather, the book contained quack remedies and superstitions tied to Avodah Zarah. That is why it was destroyed. The Rambam obliquely criticizes Rashi’s view, refusing to name him but saying, “I heard a wise man explain differently, but it cannot be correct.” His principle is clear: what works, works. What does not is Avodah Zarah.
This tension between influence and integrity is constant. Even Napoleon once visited a shtiebel in Poland and, seeing the noise and tumult, remarked, “How clever are the Jews! They even have separate services for the insane.” What looked to him like chaos was to us authenticity, refusal to imitate the church’s “decorum.”
Throughout history, Jews have had to ask: where is the line? How do we distinguish between what is permitted custom and what is forbidden imitation? Sometimes we erred on the side of stringency, other times of accommodation. But the Pasuk remains our guide: “Eicha ya’avdu ha’goyim... v’e’eseh kein gam ani.” How do these nations worship their gods?
Our world today, like theirs, is filled with mixtures: traditions, superstitions, imitations, and innovations. Moshe Rabbeinu’s warning is as relevant as ever. We must be true to halacha, faithful to Torah, wary of imitation, and vigilant against superstition.
To be a Jew is to resist the easy conformity of the world around us. It is to remain steadfast, even as a small minority, saying “no” when the world says “yes.” That is our calling, our challenge, and our strength.
