Ray, a seasoned and successful carpenter, was about to retire. When he informed his employer of his plans, the owner was genuinely saddened. For many years, Ray had been his most loyal and diligent worker, consistently producing outstanding work—from the house’s framing to the finest bathroom trim.
“I’m going to miss you, Ray,” the owner said. “But do me one last favor. Build me one more house.”
Ray agreed; what else could he say? But his heart wasn’t in it. This became clear as construction began. He took shortcuts and used inferior materials. His focus shifted from craftsmanship to mere completion. Ray knew how to hide sub-par wiring and plumbing under particle board. He used cheap paint and poor-quality lumber.
When the house was completed, the employer came to inspect the work. He said nothing while looking around. When he finished, he handed Ray the keys and said, “This is your house; it’s my gift to you.”
Ray was shocked by the generosity of his soon-to-be former employer and deeply embarrassed because he knew he had done poor work, far below his usual standard. He kept thinking, “If only I had known, I would have made sure everything was done right.”
This, of course, misses the deeper point. Certainly, from a self-interested perspective, had Ray known the house would be his, he might have spent more on better materials. But that’s not the real lesson. The moment we begin to approach our work with pure self-interest, without compassion or commitment to excellence, we diminish both ourselves and the divine spark within us.
We have little control over much of what happens in our lives. Natural disasters, incorrectly called “acts of God,” can alter our lives forever. A mutating cell can cause cancer. A drunk driver can wreak havoc. A school shooter can cause profound pain and loss. The list is endless. What remains within our power is to be our best selves and make meaningful, ethical choices.
Robert Sapolsky, the provocative neuroscientist and philosopher, challenges this perspective. He argues there’s no “best self”—just a self essentially predetermined to act as we will in the world. Sapolsky contends that humans have no free will and, therefore, no real choices. He rejects the notion of a homunculus—a little person inside our brain making free decisions independent of biological causation.
Of course, there is no literal homunculus pushing buttons. Instead, we have conscience: that inner faculty guiding our moral judgments and behavior. It functions as an internal evaluative mechanism that helps us distinguish between right and wrong beyond mere rational calculation.
Sapolsky suggests that conscience isn’t about making choices but rather reflects a complex interplay between our genes, hormones, neural activity, developmental history, and cultural context. Yet this reductive view fails to capture the lived experience of moral deliberation.
Conscience is what reminds us how to be a mensch—a person of integrity and honor. It forces us to consider difficult things that complicate our lives. Once we begin to care about others, we feel compelled to respond to their needs.
Ray simply wanted to finish his project. He forgot that the work of his hands represented his soul. When we do careless work, when we roll our eyes and show indifference toward others, we diminish our own humanity. Every good deed counts. Every daily act of service matters.
I recently learned that during WWII, the postal service in England neither canceled nor postponed mail delivery. Despite tremendous hazards and genuine danger, mail carriers continued their routes—not to be heroes, but simply to fulfill their duties with integrity. Each day presents us with this choice: to do the right thing, to give our best regardless of recognition or reward.
Our conscience calls us to this higher standard—not because it will benefit us, but because it’s who we are meant to be.
Before Shabbat 