When I was in grade school, we had to write our New Years Resolutions sometime at the end of December: three goals for the coming year, three things we felt sorry for, and three things we were looking forward to. I went to religious school growing up, and as Jews, we actually have two new years—the lunar year (Rosh Hashanah) and the solar year (January 1st). Somehow, the concept of New Year’s resolutions always felt tied to the solar calendar, to that moment when the clock strikes midnight on December 31st. But reflection? That’s woven into the rhythm of Jewish life year-round.
This year, the secular new year lands during the final week of Bereishit, the Book of Genesis. And I’ve been thinking about Jacob. Not Jacob the young man who wrestled with an angel, but Jacob the dying patriarch, surrounded by his sons, attempting to peer into their future.
What does Jacob’s inability to predict the future teach us about making resolutions for the year ahead?
The Torah tells us something startling about Jacob’s final moments. He gathers his children and says, “Gather around so I can tell you what will happen to you in days to come. Assemble and listen, sons of Jacob; listen to your father Israel” (Genesis 49:1-2).
Notice the repetition? The first line promises revelation about the future—acharit hayamim, literally “the end of days.” The second line? That promise vanishes. According to the Midrash, Jacob wanted to reveal the future to his sons, but at that moment, the Divine Presence withdrew from him. He opened his mouth to prophesy—and found himself unable to speak.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks explains why this matters: “We believe that we cannot predict the future when it comes to human beings. We make the future by our choices. The script has not yet been written. The future is radically open.”
This is the Jewish answer to fate. We don’t believe tomorrow is sealed and inevitable. The ancient Greeks gave the world tragedy—the concept that humans are trapped by destiny, by the gods, by forces beyond their control. Biblical Hebrew has no word for tragedy. We have ason—calamity, disaster, misfortune—but not tragedy in the Greek sense, because we reject the premise. We are not characters in a predetermined play.
Rabbi Sacks writes, “A tragedy is a drama with a sad outcome involving a hero destined to experience downfall or destruction through a character-flaw or a conflict with an overpowering force, such as fate. Judaism has no word for this, because we do not believe in fate as something blind, inevitable and inexorable. We are free.”
That’s why Jacob couldn’t tell his sons their future. Their future wasn’t written yet. They would write it themselves—through their choices, their teshuvah, their moments of moral courage or weakness. Joseph would become viceroy of Egypt. Judah would transform from the brother who sold Joseph into the man willing to sacrifice himself for Benjamin. The future remained open, waiting for them to create it.
We see this principle throughout Scripture. King Hezekiah received a death sentence from the prophet Isaiah: “Put your house in order, because you are going to die; you will not recover” (2 Kings 20:1).
A prophecy delivered by God’s own spokesman. Hezekiah turned his face to the wall and prayed. Before Isaiah had even left the courtyard, God reversed the decree. Hezekiah lived another fifteen years. The Talmud learns from this: “Even if a sharp sword rests upon your neck, you should not desist from prayer.” Nothing is sealed. Nothing is final.
As Rabbi Sacks explains, “There is a fundamental difference between a prophecy and a prediction. If a prediction comes true, it has succeeded. If a prophecy comes true, it has failed. A prophet delivers not a prediction but a warning… The prophet speaks to human freedom, not to the inevitability of fate.”
So what does this mean for your New Year’s resolution?
It means the future isn’t fixed. What you become this year depends on what you choose this year. You’re not trapped by your past failures, your current circumstances, or anyone’s predictions about you. You are free to change, to grow, to surprise everyone—including yourself.
But here’s the catch: freedom without wisdom is just flailing. You can’t write your future wisely if you don’t know the story you’re part of. You can’t make choices that matter if you don’t understand the blueprint for meaningful living. That’s where the Hebrew Bible comes in.
The Bible isn’t a book of predictions. It’s a book of possibilities. It shows you people who failed and rose again. Leaders who disappointed and then found courage. Brothers who sold each other into slavery and decades later reconciled. It teaches you that no mistake is final, no decree is sealed, no future is predetermined.
When God told Moses His name at the burning bush, He said Ehyeh asher Ehyeh—not “I am what I am,” but “I will be who and how I choose to be.” God is free, and He made us in His image. The Bible is the story of that freedom playing out across generations: Abraham choosing to leave everything familiar, Moses choosing to return to Egypt, Ruth choosing to cling to Naomi, Jonah choosing (eventually) to deliver God’s message to Nineveh.
This year, make your resolution count. Choose to learn the Hebrew Bible—not surface-level devotionals, but actual study. Deep, sustained, challenging engagement with the text.
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Jacob couldn’t predict his sons’ future. But he could bless them. He could give them the tools—identity, purpose, connection to God—that would help them write their own stories. That’s what Bible study does. It doesn’t hand you a script. It hands you wisdom, context, and the courage to use your freedom well.
Rabbi Sacks concludes his teaching with this reminder: “We do not predict the future, because we make the future: by our choices, our willpower, our persistence, and our determination to survive.”
The Jewish people have been written off repeatedly. The Merneptah Stele, carved around 1225 BCE, declared: “Israel is laid waste, her seed is no more.” An obituary. Except we’re still here, almost four thousand years later. Why? Because we never accepted fate. We chose. We learned. We changed.
This year, make that your resolution. Choose to learn. The future is waiting for you to write it.
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