Strength and Courage: Vayelech.22

 Strength and Courage

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayelech

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 28, 2022

Vayelech (“And he went,” Deuteronomy 31:1-30) brings us close to the conclusion of the Torah—it is the third portion from the end. At this point, at the full age of 120 years, Moses is given two last chores: First, he must complete writing the Torah and entrust it to the Levites, with the instruction that they read it publicly and teach it to the people—men, women and children, Jews and non-Jews alike. The Torah is not meant to be a book of secrets and mystery. Its message is for all people and for all eternity. God tells Moses that in future days, the Israelites will stray from God’s path. At such times, the Torah will serve as a beacon for them. Its light and message will call them back, and when they return, God will take them all back and provide shelter and protection once again.

Following this, Moses’s last task is to appoint Joshua his successor. It will be Joshua who will lead the Israelites as they enter the Promised Land. With all Israel there as witnesses, Moses blesses Joshua, saying chazak v’ematz, be strong and of good courage! It will take strength, yes, but also courage. Israel’s path through history will be not always be easy. There will be times when we will need all the strength and courage we can muster to survive. That’s when, Moses our Rabbi teaches, the light of the Torah will appear to us, and, responding to its call, we will rediscover God, the source of our might. The Torah is at the core of our strength. It’s the poem of Israel’s existence and history of survival. Today it is still found in every Sacred Ark in every synagogue and temple. Verses and chapters from it are still read at every Sabbath and at every holy day service.  As Moses instructed us, it is still taught and explained in such a way that both children and adults can understand its message, each according to their ability 

This is Moses’s legacy to us for all eternity, and when we study it and apply its laws to our lives, both we and the world are made better.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Journey Toward Holiness: Rosh HaShanah Sermon.22

 A Journey Toward Holiness

Rosh Ha-Shana 5783 Sermon

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 26, 2022

Using their own—and totally unscientific—methods, the ancient Rabbis calculated that on this day, 5783 years ago, God began creating the world.

Whether you agree with this number or not, the assumption behind the Rabbis’ account is that there is a God. Their conclusion faced little argument at the time. Belief wasn’t a matter of opinion, but rather, fact. Arguments and wars weren’t about whether you believed in God or not, but rather which gods you believed in. 

Since that time, however, our own observations, supported by science and reason, have come to cast doubt on God’s presence in the universe.

Yet, despite all arguments to the contrary, for more than 3600 years now, the Jewish People have insisted that in fact God does exist. They saw God’s hand everywhere: in larger and smaller everyday events, in nature and history, in ethics and morality, and in the governance of our own personal lives.

I admit, sometimes it’s difficult. We’ve looked far and deep into space and have found no evidence of heaven or angels. Down below, on our own home planet, we see undue pain and suffering. Tyrants seem to thrive, while for many, freedom and justice are, at best, a far-off dream. More and more we find ourselves asking where God’s compassionate hand is.

It is hard to believe in a God who seems distant or even absent from our lives. Judaism forbids creating any visual image of God, leaving us free not only to imagine what form or shape God might have, but also, ultimately, to ask whether God exists at all.

For some who do believe, God can be found in miracles they’ve experienced. As they see it, nothing happens by chance; everything happens for a reason or purpose. Life itself—birth, death and everything in between—is proof of God’s Presence. 

Curiosity and skepticism, however, appear early. We start asking questions when we are very young: Is God as big as a tall building? Does God have human features—as often portrayed in ancient and medieval art? 

Questions demand answers, and for me there are several.

I see God first of all in Nature. 

Once, years ago, when our children were yet very young, we took a trip to the Grand Canyon. Our son, Yoni, then 3 years old, looked at the steep and rough-hewn walls of the canyon, its almost-immeasurable depths, the amazing colors and the tall trees that seemed dwarfed from our perspective high above their canopies. Overcome, he exclaimed, “God must have worked very hard to create this!”

I see the ongoing work of Creation all around me. The mountains that seem to call and challenge us; the oceans with their non-stop heart beat; the colors of the sunrise and sunset; the chatter and song of all life around us—I feel God’s force within all that, Creation expanding from a single moment of light-burst to an infinite and diverse universe filled with possibility and actualization, a world that each of us is a part of, each with our own voice and role.

It's when I am surrounded by Nature that I feel most at peace. With artificial barriers gone, I am in harmony with all that exists, free—at least for a while—to hear God’s voice and personal message to me.

I find God in the universal laws that exist throughout nature: Life and death, growth and decay. These cycles appear everywhere, constant and eternal. 

Fractals, never-ending geometric designs, prove similar across nature and time. Pinecones, the marks on a tortoise’s shell, the swirling patterns at the heart of a sunflower disc, a rose bud opening, snowflakes and even tree bark, all appear to carry resemblance to each other. There seems to be infinite variety in nature, and yet through it all there is a uniformity that must be proof of one source, one beginning, and one designing mind behind it all. 

I find God’s Presence in Nature.

But I also see God’s hand in history. Though sometimes it’s hard to notice in the minutiae of everyday events, the larger arc of world events offers proof of a system of ethics and morality—of the existence of good and bad; of the ultimate victory of holiness in its battle against evil. At times the universe may seem uncaring, even amoral. But when viewed through the lens of justice and righteousness, a universal law emerges. The fall of tyrants and dictators is inevitably predictable. Similarly, freedom’s progress, albeit slow and often stalled by selfishness and greed, is also constant and unstoppable. It seems that the laws that govern the course of history also derive from one source. Justice and compassion are attributes of God that sometimes are eclipsed by human works and misdeeds, yet that reveal God’s intentions in no uncertain terms.

I see God’s power in the survival of the Jewish People.    Our history is riddled with exile, oppression and destruction. And yet, despite it all, we are still here. We may be one of the smallest ethnic groups—less than one quarter of one percent—of the world’s population—but we are among the longest-surviving people and culture, and certainly among the most successful. This may be due to our stubbornness—we ARE a stiff-necked people, even Moses recognized that. But I see more in this statistic. We’ve always understood our survival as tied by a Covenant to God’s protective nature. Empires have come and gone, individuals and institutions have tried to destroy us and take away our souls, and yet—'Am Yisrael Chai—the Jewish People still lives.

I see God’s Presence in our history.

I see traces of God the Creator in our creative impulse. Art, music, literature—from basic drumbeats and a shepherd’s song to symphonies and sublime art-songs; from primitive portraits of the hunt on cave walls to stunning works of art hanging in homes, museums and chapels—all come from a deep need we all have within us: to create, to bring order to chaos; like God, in whose image we are all created, to give form and shape to the formless void. 

Our thirst for knowledge is part of our humanity, yet for many, it is also synonymous with our need to understand God’s ways. Doubt and skepticism are NOT a sign of lack of faith—they are in fact the mark of a free and open mind. Curiosity is the gateway to a longing that exists deep within us—not only to grasp the mechanics—the facts and numbers—behind the world’s existence, but also to understand the meaning and reason for it all. 

All that we do and become is a journey toward holiness. When we let the voiceless call emerge from the depths of our soul. When we let our yearning turn into music and great art. When we open our hearts to the needy and oppressed. When we show love, caring and compassion to one another. When we pray and offer gratitude both for what is and for what yet might be. God exists in the moral choices we make.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter whether Creation began 5783 years ago or at some incalculable moment in the infinite past. Science and reason do not stand in opposition to faith. Rather, they march hand in hand, helping us overcome despair and hopelessness, enabling us to sense awe and holiness in our life. 

May our prayers and meditations today and always shine a bright light upon our path. May ignorance and fear be dispelled by learning and exploration, and bigotry driven out from this world through acts of loving-kindness. And may we, through our prayers and the work of our hands, continue to be the best proof of God’s existence in our lives and in the life of the universe around us.

L'shana tova tikatevu—may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life for life, blessing, and a good New Year. 

© 2022 By Boaz D. Heilman

Memories and Prayers: Rosh Ha-Shanah Eve.22

 Memories and Prayers

Erev Rosh Ha-Shanah Sermon 5783

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 25, 2022

One of the questions that Albert Einstein often had to answer wasn’t actually about science, but rather whether he believed in God.   Einstein’s usual reply was that he believed in the God of Spinoza.

This is one of the cleverest ways I know of avoiding a direct answer. For Spinoza’s view on God is not clear and has been debated for more than 300 years now. In his monumental work, Ethics, Spinoza famously uses the phrase “God or Nature,” meaning—perhaps—that the two—God and Nature—are one and the same. 

Where Spinoza, the ultimate rationalist, stopped, was in expressing belief in any force beyond nature, something or someone that in fact created Nature, put in place all   that we see and know, ordained bounds and regulations, and gave us human beings the Bible and the Commandments.

Faith and science are not always the same. Science relies on reason as it tries to explain what we see and know about the universe. Faith tries to go beyond that, reaching into a realm that cannot be proven by reason alone but that has to accepted, agreed upon, and commonly held.

For as long as it has existed, Judaism has found itself at the crossroads between these two concepts, between God and Nature, between faith and science. Hardcore believers see God’s hand in everything that happens. Rationalists, on the other hand, stop with Nature, though not without ceasing to wonder every once in a while if there actually might not be a God behind it all. 

Judaism does not impose a dogma, any one way of thinking or believing. From its very beginning, while holding on to its belief in a Creator, Judaism has also encouraged people to think for themselves, to explore, to learn, to expand our understanding of the universe. 

Regardless of our individual modes of believing and worshipping, most Jews accept that there are universal laws out there, laws that extend far beyond ourselves, even if we don’t know why they are there, or who or what set them there in the first place. 

In Jewish belief, eternity turned into time at the instant of the Big Bang, when God began to create Nature and set it on its infinite course. 

When Rosh Ha-Shanah was first set in our Jewish calendar over 3000 years ago, it wasn’t meant to carry the weight or meaning it does today. The Torah refers to it only as a “Day of Remembrance.” We are commanded never to forget or turn our backs on the God who not only created the world around us, but who also gave us moral and ethical laws, the Commandments, which to this day guide us through life’s many challenges.

But memories tend to accumulate. The universe isn’t inanimate. It is filled with life, light and love. Woven into the universal truths that Rosh Ha-Shanah has us remember are also the life stories of every single human being who ever lived. Unseen but not forgotten, told and retold, are the memories of our ancestors, to which, with every breath we take, we add our narratives too. 

I remember in particular one Rosh Ha-Shanah, when I was still a small child growing up in Israel. My family wasn’t religious; we observed many of the holiday traditions, but we didn’t make it a point to go to services. And so, perhaps out of curiosity, or perhaps something more, one year I went by myself, hoping to see for myself what the whole thing was all about. To this day, I still recall the strangeness of it all, the amassed crowd of men, what they wore and the unfamiliar smells that came from these clothes, so different from what they wore the rest of the year. I remember how they swayed, like the ocean, and the unfamiliar singsong of their prayers that rose and fell like waves. 

I remember being filled with a sense of unease. For one thing, I couldn’t understand the prayers. They were in Hebrew, yes, but it wasn’t the Hebrew that I knew from home or school. Years later I learned that many of these prayers go back to the 1st and 2nd centuries. Called piyyutim, or fervent religious poetry, they were meant to be enigmatic, intended to form mystical bridges between our own, physical, experience and the spiritual being we call God. It was the transcendent and timeless power of these prayers which moved the people around me to sway and surge as they did. 

And yet, even though I felt overwhelmed by the sights, smells and sounds that surrounded me, I knew even then that this was my people’s experience, a powerful encounter between a people and their God, between what is and what might be. And without knowing why or how, I also understood that one day, this experience would draw me in too, and become mine as well. 

This is one of my earliest memories of Rosh Ha-Shanah, and it is deeply embedded in my consciousness.

But there’s more to remember, so much more that Rosh Ha-Shanah is and encompasses today. Every family and every home has its own memories and traditions, its own special foods, recipes and smells, culled from our culture, from family and neighbors, and the part of the world we came from and live in today: The round challah, representing our hope for a full, round year of life and health; honey—for sweetness; and carrots—for fruitfulness and prosperity; apples of course, representing not only the abundance of nature, but also our constant thirst for knowledge and understanding. 

And, yes, we also remember the long hours spent in prayer at services; and the deeply moving music, some of which we hear only this one time during the year, on Rosh ha-Shanah.

And of course, with special awe we remember the sound of the shofar. 

A few years ago I visited an elderly patient in a memory unit. He had long forgotten many of the details of his life; yet when I blew the shofar, tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks. Who knows what memories the sound of the shofar evoked in his mind and heart. Ancient yet always also new, the shofar’s song is life—steady, at times broken-hearted, yet ultimately triumphant. Its echo takes us back both to our most ancient days but also far into the future. It reminds us of the Covenant between God and our People; of the ram caught in the thicket and offering its life for that of Isaac; and the tears of our ancestors whose children’s lives were not so spared. 

But the shofar’s deep and powerful sound also reassures us, reinforcing our fervent belief that it will be this sound—the shofar’s call—that will announce the coming of the Messiah—the end of days, when all questions will be answered, when war and privation, hunger and thirst, sickness and all suffering will at long-last disappear from the earth.

When the early Rabbis transformed Judaism into the religion and way of life that we know today, they added a new component to Rosh Ha-Shanah: From Yom Zikaron—Day of Remembrance—they turned it into a holiday celebrating the beginning of Creation. With that, they opened a new doorway for us, enabling us to look not only at the past, but also at our future selves. Whether we believe in God or science, on this day we measure our lives against a timeless course that we are part of. We scrutinize the choices and decisions we made in the past year and look to see how we can improve on them in the days and months ahead. We compare who and what we are today to the person we were hoping to be; how true we have been to ourselves? How far we have wandered from—or returned to—our People and traditions?

Whether we believe in the God of Abraham or the God of Einstein and Spinoza, in the laws of Nature or the Commandments of God: On Rosh Ha-Shanah we are given a chance not only to look back and remember, but also to contemplate the future and our role in it. However it came to be, for whatever reason or purpose, the gift this Sacred Day gives us is the awareness that we have the ability not only to obey our instincts and basic impulses, but also to make our own choices. We can continue to accept things as they always have been, or we can choose to make ourselves and the world around us better. 

On Rosh Ha-Shanah a window opens for us, and through it we can see a million stars: some that are now long gone, others that have yet to be. Each is both a memory but also a goal to aspire to. The constellations woven into the sky above us are like the many communities of our people all over the world. As individuals, we are here both for ourselves and for one another. Together, we are strengthened by our common vision and ideals.

May all our prayers on this Sacred Day of Remembrance be fulfilled. May this Rosh Ha-Shanah bring us the blessing of a bright new day, a new beginning filled with love, hope and good health.

L'shana tova tikatevu—May we be inscribed for a good New Year.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Eternity Within the Moment: Nitzavim.22

 Eternity Within the Moment

D’var Torah for Parashat Nitzavim

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Nitzavim (“You Are Standing,” Deuteronomy 29:9—30:20), this week’s Torah reading, occupies a special place in Jewish ritual and philosophy. It is considered such an important reading that in the Reform tradition, on Yom Kippur, the most sacred day in the Jewish calendar, verses from this portion are read instead of the more traditional recitation of the sacrifices that were offered at the Temple in Jerusalem.

The idea that we are all “standing here today” regardless of time or age is steeped in the thought of an afterlife—a topic that was current in all religions at the time. But there is no talk here of heaven or hell, or even of an afterlife itself. Eternal life is not a physical idea in this portion. Rather, it is the eternity of the Jewish People—past, present and future. Moreover, the emphasis is not on some metaphysical idea like reincarnation. It’s all about Eternity contained in the Moment. 

The portion reminds us not to look for God above the heavens or beyond the seas. God’s reality is made real and evident by the work of our hands. There are no secret handshakes or rituals that make us eligible for the life of eternity, only how we treat one another in this world. 

But there is another reason why this section of the Torah was chosen for Yom Kippur. It contains the idea of Return and Repentance. The idea that we can stray from the path of God is nothing new. However, that God will always accept our return is. On Yom Kippur we are reminded that our repentance is accepted to the very last moment. This idea is behind the almost-universal rejection of capital punishment among the Jewish People. It’s not a simple concept; how long can a person sin before their penance is no longer acceptable? Pharaoh’s “hardening of the heart” is one example of the limits even God places on repentance. For the rest of us, however, as long as we cease walking on the wrong path and return to God’s ways, God is always there to receive us with love.

There are no pyramids or ziggurats associated with eternal life. There is no river to cross, no ladders to climb, no institution we need to belong to. Instead of these structures, the Jewish People have placed the Torah—our Covenant between God and us—in a simpler house: Beit Sefer. Beit sefer literally means “house of the book.” Whether “book” refers to the Torah or to another book of more general learning is up to us to decide. Wide-ranging knowledge may help us understand how the world works. The Torah, on the other hand, sheds light on how to live a meaningful life. Either way, study and learning become a way of connecting with God and God’s laws.

Nitzavim reminds us of our commitment to our God, our People, and our beliefs. To a large extent, this portion is as powerful as the call of the Shofar—the ram’s horn. It is one of the reasons why at this season we gather at synagogues. It represents the moment when our own time joins the flow of eternity, when our physical presence becomes one with all those who stood—and continue to stand—at Sinai, ready to receive God’s word and take it into our own lives.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Remembrance and Narration: Ki Tavo.22

Remembrance and Narration: Ki Tavo.22

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 14, 2022

Our history isn’t only found in books. We make history. We write the pages that future generations will read and study.

This conclusion has become more apparent to me than ever these recent days, as I sit Shiva for my mother. (Shiva is the 7-day mourning period prescribed by Judaism as part of mourning for a close relative). 

It wasn’t my mother’s death that defined her—it was her life. As people gathered from near and far to comfort us mourners, the stories of her escape from the Nazis were repeated over and over. But even those events, huge as they were in her life, were almost dwarfed by what followed that horrific period of history. It wasn’t only that she survived and lived—it was the meaningful life she created afterwards. 

Everyone who gathered during the past few days and evenings expressed how they were touched by meeting or knowing her. My mother refused to be defined by hate or vengeance. Rather, she spread love and compassion. People somehow sensed the sadness that was there inside her, but they also felt uplifted by her refusal to give in to it. 

With love, determination and sheer will power, my mother created not only a new life for herself, but also helped raise a large family of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It wasn’t only the kibbutz that she helped build—it was the State of Israel. What she did wasn’t only for her family, but also for the entire Jewish People.

My mother was barely 5 feet tall, yet she was a fountain of strength. Up until the last two months of her life, she refused to give up. She walked miles every day, greeting people with an indomitable smile. Strangers became friends; friends became family.

This is how you create a Nation.

In this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo (“When you enter the land,” Deuteronomy 26:1—29:8) we find one of the oldest historical formulas ever to define a people. As part of the ritual of bringing the first fruit of the season to the Priests at the Jerusalem Temple, the ancient Israelites were instructed to retell the story of their origin: “An Aramean [sought to] destroy my forefather, and he went down to Egypt and sojourned there with a small number of people, and there, he became a great, mighty and numerous nation” (Deut. 26:5). This narrative—repeated at every Passover Seder—reminds us to this day not only of our humble and tragic beginning, but also of our eventual triumph. 

It's a short and streamlined version of our history. Yet we know that it wasn’t that simple. The events that resulted in the Exodus and eventual settlement of the Land of Israel took decades to complete. The miracle of Israel’s survival wasn’t only the work of God; it was also the result of the love, dedication and hard work of Moses, Aaron and Miriam as they strove to unite the Israelites and define their identity and purpose. 

The 3600-year-long story of the Jewish People is filled with miracles. Our survival in itself is one huge miracle. But it also is the result of the tireless efforts of individuals like my mother and her fellow fighters and survivors—men and women who took it upon themselves to help defend, sustain and uplift their neighbors and friends. 

After the end of the Shoah, every year on November 29—a defining moment in their history-- surviving members of the partisan group that my mother was part of—the Nasha Groupa (“Our Group”) have been gathering to repeat and retell the stories of heroism and survival. This group—originally a few dozen men, women and children—now counts hundreds among its members. They now include second, third and fourth generation members. They are more than friends. There are binding ties there that today extend around the world. Yet their strength is far greater than merely in numbers. It comes from the lessons they learned and taught one another. Our purpose as a nation may be part of God’s message; our survival, however, is also a reflection of our own determination and dedication. It isn’t only about ourselves; it’s about our devotion to our traditions. It’s about the love we have for our family, friends and people. 

That is why this portion, Ki Tavo—“When you enter the land”—commands us to narrate the story of our survival. It reminds us of what it takes for a people to overcome all challenges, to outlive all its enemies. 

My mother’s legacy is apparent not only in the number of people who have been coming to comfort us, her survivors. It’s also in the lesson she has taught us. Through her life, my mother embodied—and continues to embody, beyond her own life and death—the history of the Jewish People. It’s a story that deserves and needs to be retold in every generation.

“When you enter the land…”

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

God Is in The Field (Not Only in The Temple): Ki Teitzei.22

 God Is in The Field (Not Only in The Temple)

D’var Torah for Ki Teitzei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 7, 2022

Like a teacher who realizes that the term is about to end and there is yet so much more material to cover, so this week’s Torah portion (Ki Teitzei, “When you go out,” Deuteronomy 21:10—25:19) is crammed with commandments. 74 to be precise, more than any other portion in the Torah!

They cover a wide variety of topics: War, business, family matters, and even how to treat your animals. Justice, ethics, and dignity are the common thread that bind them all together. Some commandments reflect archaic attitudes; others pave the road toward to a new understanding of humanity and manifest the highest ideals. 

The portion begins with a discussion of how to treat an attractive woman taken captive in war. We are forbidden from treating her with the violence that was (and tragically, still is) common practice in war, but rather to be respectful of her feelings and emotions. If her captor ultimately decides not to marry her—then he must let her go as a free woman. War of course is a portal to hell—not only in the suffering and destruction it causes, but also because it allows us to unleash our worst impulses. These verses in our Torah portion, appearing in the 8th century BCE, are therefore nothing less than astonishing. 

A law that I would find difficult to obey would be not to hate an Edomite or an Egyptian—the Edomite because he is our brother (the Edomites are said to be descendants of Esau, Jacob’s twin brother); the Egyptian because we lived as strangers in Egypt—and presumably not all Egyptians acted as horribly toward us as did Pharaoh and his henchmen. It would be hard for me, personally, to forget that the Edomites helped the Babylonians in the destruction of Judea and Jerusalem in the year 586 BCE, ensnaring fugitives and indiscriminately putting them to the sword. Equally difficult for me would be the memory of the drowning of Hebrew male infants in Egypt. Yet the Torah instructs us not to hold a grudge, not to participate in collective punishment, but rather to punish only the guilty.

Yet Ki Teitzei also instructs us never to forget or forgive another tribe: the Amalekites. In the Torah, Amalek becomes the very symbol of evil—not only for attacking the Israelites at night, by stealth (actually pretty clever tactics in war), but rather because they attacked the rear of the Israelite camp, where the stragglers, the weary, the sick, the children, and all those who had lost hope and strength lagged behind. If helping the needy is holy, what the Amalekites did constitutes the very essence of evil—and that is what we must always remember.

One of my favorite commandments in this portion—one that I try to follow whenever possible—is to pay a day laborer at the end of the day. I don’t ask for an invoice in the mail. The Torah explains: this is what he will use to buy food for his family and himself. The laborer must not be forced to beg: His dignity is in his work, and we are commanded to show appreciation—and pay on time!

With 74 commandments, there are sure to be some that we would deem archaic, or perhaps even unjust by our present-day understanding. At the same time, however, there are others that speak to us directly and that we are called upon to follow even if it means that we must change something in the way we live, speak or act. 

The important teaching of Ki Teitzei is that justice, dignity and morality are not only the domain of God and the Temple. Holiness is present all about us—at home as in the field, at the temple as at our workplace. Holiness is not only found in the way we worship and believe, but also in the way we speak and behave.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Dual Purpose of Justice: Shoftim.22

 The Dual Purpose of Justice

D’var Torah for Parshat Shoftim

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

August 31, 2022

Justice is the foundation stone upon which society stands. When justice is perverted or politicized, the entire structure flounders. That is the warning Moses gives the Israelites in this week’s Torah portion, Shoftim (“Judges,” Deuteronomy 16:18-21:9).  

This portion shows the remarkable evolution and development that the judicial system in ancient Israel had undergone in the first two centuries of its existence. “Justice, justice shall you pursue” (Deut. 16:20) is the famous call that serves as a theme for everything that follows. Justice is elusive, and therefore must be pursued diligently. An appellate court system must be part of this configuration, leading all the way to the High Priest whose duty it is to make the final decision. Bribery, warns the Torah, “Blinds the eyes of the wise and twists the words of the righteous” (Deut. 16:19, NKJ).

Truths we normally would consider self-evident can easily become distorted and misrepresented. The power of evil to corrupt everything and everyone is the greatest danger facing individuals and society as a whole.

In this portion we learn why Moses is instructed by God to establish refuge cities. Primitive justice was—and among many societies still is—based on revenge. Blood vengeance invariably leads to the shedding of innocent blood, which the Torah deems an unforgivable sin. Refuge cities are meant to put an end to this primitive system. A person suspected of murder may find safety in a refuge city until such time as their guilt or innocence may be proven in court—by which time hot tempers may cool down sufficiently to allow reason and justice to be restored.

The Law must not only be fair; indeed, in a just society everyone must be held equally accountable. No one may consider themselves above the law—not even the king. In this, the Torah is nothing short of revolutionary. In other ancient cultures, the king was the law—he was the source and arbiter, jury and judge. In Judaism, only God has that privilege. The Torah’s vision of social justice applies to one and all, without exception. To ensure this, Moses instructs that there must always be two copies of the Torah—Israel’s earliest legal code; one is to be placed in the palace treasury; the other must always be at the king’s side. The Torah may be interpreted, but the ideas and ideals of justice that it contains are considered sacred.

Shoftim also begins discussion on yet another crucially important topic—conduct during warfare. The power of war is not only in the horrors and destruction that it causes. Wars give free rein to humanity’s worst impulses, degrading us from our potential as partners with God in holiness. In time, the basic rules of warfare found in Shoftim will be developed further; however, at this early point in history, a few basic rules are set: A besieged city must be given a chance to negotiate for peace; and trees of the field (especially fruit-bearing trees) must not be cut down. “Are the trees people, that you should besiege them?” (Deut. 20:19, NIV). 

These laws have two purposes: the first of course is to limit the evil and violence that people are capable of. Beyond that, however, there is also the recognition that giving in to our basest impulses—hatred and bloodlust—reduces human beings to the lowest level of all nature. 

Justice may be the underpinning of a prosperous and peaceful society; but in Moses’s grand vision it becomes even more than that: it is the footing upon which our much-vaunted humanity endures. 

Maybe that’s why the word “justice” is repeated in the famous verse quoted above (Deut. 16:20). There’s societal justice, an institution which keeps civilization from toppling; but there is also individual justice, an ideal that holds human beings up to the highest expectations. Both must be diligently pursued.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman