The 3rd Marquess of Salisbury, Robert Gascoyne-Cecil — who served as British Prime Minister three times at the turn of the 20th century — was not exactly a cheerleader for progress. But he was honest. Brutally honest. His most remembered quote says it all: “Whatever happens will be for the worse, and therefore it is in our interest that as little should happen as possible.” 

Salisbury was the ultimate conservative. He sincerely and genuinely believed that change always makes things worse — and that the status-quo, with all its flaws, is preferable to whatever chaos change might unleash, which it most certainly will. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it — and if it is broken, best not to touch it. Because you’ll only make things worse.

There’s a certain bleak wisdom to Salisbury’s worldview, and it sounds exactly like the sort of thing you’d expect from a 19th-century European aristocrat with a hereditary seat in the House of Lords. But Salisbury’s fear of change isn’t just a relic of the past. It’s a recurring force throughout history. 

Change terrifies people. And when that fear metastasizes, it becomes a pathology — and bad things tend to happen to those who spearhead change, and to challenge accepted norms. Because when someone comes along and quietly unravels the lies, dismantles the illusions, and gently questions the reigning orthodoxy — not with rage, not with violence, but with cold, logical reason — the system panics.

We’ve seen this before, time and again. Martin Luther King Jr. didn’t call for violent revolution — he preached nonviolence and the reconfiguration of a broken system. But he threatened the status quo with something far more destabilizing: clarity. And for that, he was killed. 

Robert F. Kennedy wasn’t storming barricades — he was addressing poverty, race relations, and the Vietnam War, trying to find a way forward that was different. But his calm conviction rattled too many cages. And for that, he was killed. 

Yitzhak Rabin attempted to create peace and hope for Israel — and for that, he was killed. 

Donald Trump also had a brush with death in Butler, Pennsylvania, during the 2024 election campaign, when a would-be assassin fired a bullet that grazed his ear — a few millimeters from changing history.

Truthfully, it doesn’t matter if the agent of change is right or wrong, loud or quiet, from the left or the right — when people perceive that someone is shifting the tectonic plates of the political or cultural landscape, fear sets in. And fear, when left unchecked, becomes violence.

And now we have the killing of Charlie Kirk — the latest casualty of the fear of change. Kirk, a right-wing influencer with an extraordinary reach into Gen Z, was just 31 years old. He was gunned down in broad daylight while speaking to students at Utah Valley University. 

Moments before his murder, he had been doing what he did best — engaging young people calmly, intelligently, and without fear or condescension. He stood before an audience of thousands, not to inflame them, certainly not to encourage hate, but to persuade them. And for that, he was killed.

Immediately after the announcement of Kirk’s death, Donald Trump called him “The Great, and even Legendary, Charlie Kirk… No one understood or had the Heart of the Youth in the United States of America better.” Coming from someone who delights in exaggeration, that was no exaggeration. 

Kirk was uniquely gifted at reaching the very people our society claims to care about but so often fails to understand: disaffected youth struggling to find their political footing in an age of cynicism, manipulation, and institutional distrust.

There’s a chilling line buried in the long litany of curses in Parshat Ki Tavo — a statement by Moses you can easily gloss over or dismiss, until real life stops you in your tracks and the ancient words hit you between the eyes.

Moses begins the section by warning the Israelites not to abandon their moral compass or lose sight of the truth, or else they will descend into darkness. And among the consequences he spells out is this one (Deut. 28:34): “You will go mad from what your eyes see.”

To be clear, this is not a metaphor and it’s not a curse — it’s a prediction, and a diagnosis. A society that is frightened of truth, and of agents of change who prioritize truth over slogans, will eventually lose its collective mind. And then it will turn on the very people trying to save it.

The medieval commentator Ramban explains that this kind of madness is not clinical — it’s existential. It is, in fact, a divinely-sourced affliction on the intellect. When a society detaches itself from plain truth and spiritual grounding, it begins to lose its ability to think straight. Eventually, it sees good as evil, and honest debate as a subversive act. 

Ramban calls it a “strike on the mind” — a kind of blindness where people no longer recognize what is real and what is destructive. Moses is warning us that the results are always terrifying.

Sforno goes even deeper. He writes that this madness causes people to act against their own interests. They’re no longer just mistaken — they become destructive. They pursue what harms them, attack those trying to help them, and misjudge the very people who might lead them to a better place. 

In Sforno’s reading, “you will go mad from what your eyes see” means the world will become so upside-down, so saturated with chaos and distortion, that even when someone shows up with reason and hope, the collective instinct will be to destroy him.

There’s also a strange irony at play here — one that even the Marquess of Salisbury might have found too absurd to imagine. In today’s world, it’s the conservatives who are trying to change things, while the so-called progressives have become the reactionaries, frantically defending a broken, toxic status quo. 

The political compass has spun so wildly out of control that someone like Charlie Kirk — a conservative in ideology, but a radical in his willingness to confront cultural decay — was seen as a dangerous revolutionary, and killed. 

What would Salisbury have made of a world where not changing is what’s dragging us into the abyss? Where the only people trying to pull us back from the edge are the ones labeled as “extremists”? 

Charlie Kirk was a conservative, yes — but he was also a visionary who believed we didn’t have to accept the darkness and craziness that has engulfed the western world. He wanted to change things by bringing us back to our best selves. And for that, he was silenced.

Charlie Kirk said, “When you deliberately distort and selectively present the truth, you lie.” That wasn’t merely a clever observation — it was a moral compass. Charlie’s determined mission was to present the truth: undistorted, unfiltered, and without fear. 

And now that mission has been cut short — not by an opposing argument, but by a bullet. We are left with the unsettling fulfillment of Moses’ warning: “You will go mad from what your eyes see.” A society so overwhelmed by lies, and so afraid of actual truth, that it can no longer tolerate a calm voice of reason. That’s a society in the grip of madness. 

But madness is not destiny. It is a warning. If we can still hear voices like Charlie’s — and in the aftermath of his untimely death, if we can remember what he stood for — then perhaps we can begin, slowly and painfully, to pull ourselves back from the edge. The alternative is too dreadful to contemplate.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California. 

I have just returned from a very moving and memorable reunion of pupils of the Jewish Boarding school Carmel College, which my father founded in 1948. The school closed in 1997.

It was often called the Jewish Eton. Those who attended the reunion ranged from its very first year, to its last. I experienced Carmel as a rebellious pupil, and years later as its headmaster and principal. We all agreed that Carmel had a profound impact on our lives in one way or another.

The reunion included a debate in which I participated — “That Carmel College was a failed Jewish educational experiment.”

The motion was overwhelmingly defeated because nearly everyone there looked back on their Carmel experience with affection and gratitude, even if some did not at the time.

But the question was whether Carmel could be considered a model for Jewish education or whether it was just a unique child of its time.

When my father started Carmel College in 1948, it was at a time when the British Empire still existed, and Britain was a haven for refugees escaping the horrors of European Jew hatred. But even in Britain, antisemitism was manifest and this encouraged many Jews to assimilate or hide their identities.

The idea of Jewish education horrified many as an impediment to integration. Opposition to the project was fierce. My father argued that Jewish students in non-Jewish schools would always feel like outsiders. In Carmel, they would have the confidence of being insiders and better adjusted when eventually they did go out into the world.

My father persevered and Carmel grew under his charismatic leadership. Its success looked like being an example of how to educate young Jews to be confident in their identity, academically successful, and familiar with Judaism and its rituals. The beauty of its campus and its riverside location were amongst its greatest attractions.

But my father’s intentions for the school were very different to the school that emerged. Originally, he hoped there would be a balance between the Jewish and the secular. But the Jewish side was always the orphan. Jewish teachers were less academic though they compensated by offering hospitality and warmth. Most of the pupils came from homes that were not religious, and didn’t care for a Jewish education. Many parents effectively undermined the Jewish ethos.

There were a few who came from religious backgrounds who did care, and those who wanted to, could find teachers on the campus to help them thrive both religiously and in Jewish studies. But for the majority, it was difficult having to keep Shabbat and Kashrut.

My father was a tolerant, open-minded man, and he came to accept the reality, but he gloried in those few who went on to become rabbis and scholars.

Carmel was always a very expensive option. Its financial burden was all the greater because it had to fund the extra Jewish curriculum and because it offered so many scholarships and reductions. And because it was independent and was not seen as part of the community, it was always a problem to raise funds.

In the last days of his life, my father — who was a passionate, religious Zionist and convinced of Israel’s future — had already made plans for the future by establishing a Carmel school in Israel. With the help of Nachum Goldman, the head of the World Jewish Congress, he acquired land in Zichron Yaakov and produced a prospectus. Unfortunately, his premature death at the age of 48 in 1962, put paid to the scheme. Carmel carried on after his death until it closed in 1997.

But its history does raise the issue of whether it was the ideal form of Jewish education. Jewish education in the Diaspora has exploded since those days, primarily in the form of day schools from across the whole spectrum of Jewish life. Many are not that successful in producing religiously committed young men and women — and often, they can have a negative effect. Yet there are examples, mainly in the US, where excellence in both areas prove that at least it is possible to get the best of both worlds.

There is much debate as to whether Jewish schools should be spending more time teaching non-religious subjects like Jewish history, to give young men and women the tools to fight back against antisemitism and have a sense of where they come from. In Israel, of course, there are different issues. From the start of the State of Israel, religious and secular provided opposing cultures. But today, there are many more schools that try to offer both.

The Carmel example was successful in bringing young Jewish boys (and then at a later stage girls), from all different backgrounds, countries, and cultures together in one educational space, where they could also taste a Jewish life, something that most of them did not see at home.

There is no perfect solution to the challenge of Jewish education. We continue to struggle with the issues of how to pass on our Jewish identity to the next generation. But it’s becoming clearer that the pressures of society and peer groups challenge religious observance. It is the home that is the most determining factor of whether someone will live a Jewish life or not — although even then, there are no guarantees.

The only area in Jewish life where there is exponential growth is in the Charedi world, and even then, there are dropouts. There are no guarantees. And, sadly, as a reaction to Jew hatred, many are finding their way back to the Jewish world. Perhaps most importantly, there are other tools for Jewish survival that did not exist 50 years ago, from Jewish evangelicals to organized visits to Israel.

There are no golden bullets. Whatever works. So, to end with an example of Athens and Jerusalem, Shakespeare said “Good wombs have borne bad sons” (The Tempest Act 1, Scene 2). But the Mishnah says, “You do not have to finish the work, but neither can you give up” (Ethics Chapter 2.21).

The author is a writer and rabbi, currently based in New York.