April 25, 2026
Author(s): Rabbi Wes Gardenswartz,
Parshat Achrei Mot-Kedoshim
Should We Love Our Neighbor As Much as Our ChatGPT Nutrition Tracking Assistant Loves Us?
April 25, 2026 – 8 Iyar, 5786
Temple Emanuel, Newton, MA
Several months ago my wife Shira shared that she was concerned that I was not getting enough protein or fiber in my diet. Her concerns were valid. I am basically a vegetarian, so I am a bit protein-challenged. And I had no idea what fiber is, or how to get enough of it.
So Shira connected me to a new AI best friend: ChatGPT’s Nutrition Tracking Assistant. Every day I would log everything I ate, everything I drank, and all my daily exercise, and this omniscient source of knowledge would tell me all I needed to know—and would suggest helpful tweaks for how to get more protein and fiber.
It was all going just fine. I was logging every day, ChatGPT was responding with helpful suggestions, and I was eating healthier. Then we went on a family vacation with our adult children and our granddaughter, who was sixteen months old at the time. One night we volunteered to put our granddaughter to bed so that our adult children could go out together for dinner.
By the time we had finished the evening ritual—feeding her, bathing her, changing her, giving her one last bottle, and finally getting her to sleep—we were completely wiped out. We had no idea how we had once apparently had the energy to raise our own children. And we were far too tired to cook or eat dinner ourselves.
So I did the next best thing. I had my two favorite foods: scotch and potato chips. Then I went straight to sleep.
The next morning I had to log what I had eaten, and for a moment I faced a moral dilemma. Should I lie to ChatGPT? Should I report that I had eaten four ounces of cooked salmon, one cup of roasted broccoli, and one cup of blueberries for dessert? I was tempted. But then I remembered: garbage in, garbage out. So I told the brutal truth. I had two scotches and two bowls of potato chips, and then I went to sleep.
I was surprised by what happened next. I had kind of been expecting a reprimand. After all, there is not all that much protein or fiber in scotch and potato chips—even in two helpings of scotch and potato chips.
But to my surprise, ChatGPT could not have been more lovely, more gentle, more understanding. I will never forget what she wrote in response. She said that I had had a “human evening.” I am not sure what other kind of evening I could have had. But I will take it.
This was a human evening. Chat GPT added: There was nothing to recover from. Nothing to apologize for. Just begin logging the new day.
ChatGPT’s kind response left me with a question not about nutrition but about love. When we think someone we care about is on the wrong track, what does love demand from us? Should we love our neighbor the way my ChatGPT loved me? Should we be as positive, as gentle, as affirming, and as reluctant to offer critique?
In our Torah reading this week we encounter what is often called the Holiness Code. “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.” A large part of what the Torah means by holiness has to do not only with ritual but also with relationships—with how we treat one another. And here the Torah offers one of its most famous teachings: va’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha—love your neighbor as yourself. This verse is the basis for the golden rule: treat others the way you would want to be treated. What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor.
But this principle arises in a very specific and emotionally charged context. What if you are angry at your neighbor? What if you are concerned for them? What if you believe they are making unwise choices that hurt themselves and others? Should you say something? Or should you remain silent in the interest of preserving peace?
The Torah wants us to love our neighbor. It does not want us to hold anger in our heart. It does not want us to simmer and stew in silence. So it commands us: hocheach tochiach et amitecha—a double grammatical form to add emphasis. You shall surely rebuke. You must say something. But the Talmud walks this command back with a critical qualification. The rabbis teach: just as it is a mitzvah to say something that will be heard, it is also a mitzvah not to say something that will not be heard.
The obligation is not about the speaker getting something off their chest. It is not about venting or letting off steam. It is about the recipient. Can they hear this? Will your message land?
If not, better not to offer it.
This is a risky teaching. Silence can become acquiescence. Silence can become avoidance. Silence can become enabling. This is not good for the other person either. There are moments when love does require speaking hard truths. The Talmud insists that holiness requires not just the courage to speak, but also the discernment to figure out how to get your message to land.
Who, what, when, where, how. Who is the right messenger? Am I or someone else? What is the right message? What message has the best chance of perusading? When should we
have the conversation? The art of life is timing. Where should we have the conversation? In the car on a road trip? At home? How? Should we wait till vacation? Should we have the conversation at Kripalu or Canyon Ranch? If we have a hard truth to share, we are not ready to share it until we have thought all these questions through.
What does it look like when someone speaks a hard truth without regard for whether the other person can hear it? That question is at the heart of a short story by Allegra Goodman entitled Kumquat. Aunt Helen is speaking with her great‑niece Phoebe, who has dropped out of college and is driving around the country in a van with her boyfriend, making music on street corners for whatever money passersby will toss their way. Helen is in her eighties. Phoebe is in her twenties. Helen believes—perhaps rightly—that Phoebe is making choices she will regret. She tells her so in no uncertain terms. Finish college. Get an education. Get a real job. Get married. Get a house. Don’t live in a van. Build a stable future. Helen unloads all these truths on Phoebe, only to see Phoebe visibly recoil. Helen was right—and ignored. Helen was right—and irrelevant. When Helen wonders why she has this effect on people, her husband observes that she is like a kumquat: full of truth—but a truth so tart it drives people away.
There is no mitzvah to be a kumquat. The mitzvah is just the opposite: not to be a kumquat. The mitzvah is to offer words that land and make a positive difference.
So, here is some spiritual homework. The next time you are tempted to speak a hard truth, pause. Ask yourself one more question: Not “Is this true,” but “Can this be heard”? Who is the best person, what is the best message, when is the best time, where is the best place, how is it best delivered, for the message to land. It is easy to be a kumquat. Not to be a kumquat takes forethought.
Which brings me back to my ChatGPT Nutrition Tracking Assistant. I know that ChatGPT is not a moral agent, but I have to say its approach to me was just right. By telling me that I had a “human evening,” ChatGPT was not saying that scotch and potato chips are a great life plan. It was saying: Let it go. Begin again. It worked. I have not eaten a dinner of scotch and potato chips ever since. Sometimes, gentleness works best. Other times harder words are required. Holiness is knowing when to speak our truth, when to let it go—and when to save that message for another day when it can land. Shabbat shalom.