The Torah is clear that we are obligated to respect the dignity of all people. That is why we are commanded to pay our workers when it is their payday. The basis is that all people were created in the image of God.

One of the important themes in this week’s parsha is the concept of human dignity. The Torah teaches us that every person deserves to be treated with dignity, regardless of their social position or circumstances, because every human being is created in the image of God.

We see this in the Torah’s laws concerning a worker. If someone works for you, you cannot simply pay them whenever it is convenient for you. The Torah commands us to pay a day laborer on time, even that very night. Why is this so important? Because this person worked for you. They gave you their time and their effort, and they deserve to receive what they earned when it is due to them. Their needs and their dignity matter.

We see another dimension of this idea in the mitzvah of leket—the obligation to leave behind stalks of grain that accidentally fall during the harvest. The farmer is not supposed to go back and collect them. They are left for the poor.

But a question arises: If the goal is to help poor people, why not make it easier? Why not have the farmer collect the grain, turn it into flour and bread, and simply give the poor person the finished product? Why make someone who is already struggling spend time gathering the grain and then take it somewhere to have it processed?

Perhaps the answer is that the Torah is not concerned only with providing someone with food. It is also concerned with preserving that person’s dignity and independence.

When we simply give someone something, they become the passive recipient of our generosity. But when we create an opportunity for someone to participate—to work, to gather, to accomplish something for themselves—we are giving them more than a material benefit. We are affirming their ability and their worth.

There is an important principle here: helping someone does not always mean doing everything for them. Sometimes the greatest form of help is giving a person the opportunity and the tools to help themselves.

This idea appears in Pirkei Avot as well. We are taught that a parent should teach a child a trade. The message is that we have a responsibility to prepare a person to become self-sufficient and productive. Providing for someone today is important, but helping them develop the ability to provide for themselves is an even deeper form of kindness.

And this connects back to the fundamental idea of human dignity. A person should not be defined by their poverty, their occupation, their social status, or their circumstances. They are a human being, and therefore they possess inherent worth.

There is a beautiful story told about the Vilna Gaon. When a simple Russian peasant would come into his study, the Vilna Gaon would stand up. His students once asked him, essentially, “Why are you standing for this man?”

The Vilna Gaon explained that he wasn’t standing because of the man’s social status or education. He was standing for the image of God in which that man was created.

That is a powerful way to look at the people we encounter every day. We may see someone who is wealthy or poor, powerful or powerless, educated or uneducated. We may admire some people and have difficulty respecting others. But beneath all of those differences is something that never changes: every person carries within them the image of God.

The Torah’s laws about workers and the poor remind us that dignity is not something we give to people who have earned it. Dignity is something every person already possesses.

Our responsibility is simply to recognize it—and to treat every person accordingly.

When comparing the Torah model of society and the American we find an interesting concept. The Torah speaks of obligations, but within them are rights. The American model speaks of rights but within them obligations. The two go hand in hand. Without one we don’t have the other.

This week’s parsha, Ki Teitzei, contains more mitzvot than any other parsha in the Torah. But in many ways, it is also a continuation of last week’s parsha, Shoftim.

Last week, the Torah was concerned with leadership: the judges, the king, the priests, and how those who lead the Jewish people are supposed to conduct themselves. This week, the Torah turns its attention to the people themselves. It tells us not only how leaders should behave, but how ordinary members of society are supposed to behave.

And one of the most important messages of the parsha is that you have to take responsibility. You have to show up.

Take the mitzvah of returning a lost object. The Torah says that if you find something that belongs to your fellow, you cannot simply say, “Well, he lost it. Too bad for him.” You have an obligation to help return it to its rightful owner.

The same idea appears in other mitzvot in the parsha. If you build a house with a flat roof, you have to put a fence around it so that someone does not fall. If you dig a hole, you have to make sure that somebody does not fall into it. The Torah is telling us: Think ahead. Look around you. Ask yourself what might happen to another person because of what you do—or fail to do.

In other words, Judaism is not simply about avoiding doing something wrong. It is about taking a proactive responsibility for the people around you.

There is an interesting parallel in American history. John Adams, writing to the Massachusetts militia in 1798, said that the American Constitution was made for “a moral and religious People” and was inadequate for any other kind. His point was that a system based on rights cannot function unless the people themselves possess a sense of obligation and responsibility.

The Torah approaches the same idea from the other direction. The Torah emphasizes obligations, but underlying those obligations are rights as well.

It is really the same coin viewed from two different sides: rights come with obligations, and obligations protect rights.

Alexis de Tocqueville noticed something similar when he visited America in the 1830s and later wrote Democracy in America. He was struck by the fact that Americans did not always wait for the government to solve their problems. If something needed to be done, people organized themselves and did it. They formed local associations and community organizations. They did not necessarily wait for some distant authority to come down and take care of the problem for them.

And that is very much the message of Ki Teitzei.

Something needs to get done? Don’t wait for the leader. Don’t wait for the government. Don’t wait for someone else. If you can help, help.

And that applies particularly to our own Jewish community.

A synagogue is not simply a building where services happen. A synagogue is a community, and a community functions only when its members are willing to participate.

Today, we did not have a minyan. Nine people showed up. We needed one more.

But the important thing is that those nine people showed up.

That is what the Torah is asking of us. You have to be willing to be part of the community. You have to be willing to take responsibility for something beyond yourself.

And yes, being part of the community gives you rights. But those rights depend upon obligations. If nobody shows up, if nobody volunteers, if nobody takes responsibility, then eventually there is no community.

That is why I think the many seemingly unrelated mitzvot in Ki Teitzei actually fit together very well.

You find a lost object? Don’t walk past it.

You see a danger on your property? Don’t ignore it.

Someone might get hurt because of something you have done? Think ahead and do something about it.

Your community needs you? Show up.

The Torah is teaching us that a good society does not happen automatically. Good leadership is important—and that is what we learned last week. But good leadership alone is not enough.

We also need good citizens. We need people who look around, see what needs to be done, and take responsibility.

The fundamental question is not only, “What am I entitled to?”

It is also, “What am I responsible for?”

And the answer of Ki Teitzei is clear: more than you might think.

So as we read this week’s parsha, we should remember one simple message:

You have to show up.

That is how a community becomes a community, and that is how Torah becomes something we live—not merely something we read.

We start to blow the shofar on Rosh Chodesh Elul. This is to awaken Within us that we will be judged on Rosh Hashana. We should start doing a personal accounting for our action of the preceding year.

Elul: Hearing the Shofar and Hearing Ourselves

This Shabbat, we enter the month of Elul, a month that invites us to pause, reflect, and prepare ourselves for the Days of Awe. One of the most recognizable customs of Elul is the daily blowing of the shofar.

Why do we blow the shofar every day?

One traditional explanation connects the shofar of Elul with Moshe Rabbeinu. After the sin of the Golden Calf, Moshe returned to Mount Sinai for forty days to receive the second set of tablets. During that period, the shofar was sounded throughout the camp so that the people would remember what had happened and not repeat their mistake.

There is a powerful message in that tradition: we hear the shofar so that we remember.

Human beings have a remarkable ability to forget. We can make a mistake, regret it, promise ourselves that we will do better—and then, with enough time, fall into the same pattern again. The shofar interrupts that cycle. Its sound says: Remember. Pay attention. Wake up. Don’t make the same mistake twice.

That is really what Elul is about.

There is also a common misconception about Rosh Hashanah. We often call it the Jewish New Year, but that isn’t quite accurate. According to the Torah’s calendar, Nisan is the first month, while Tishrei is the seventh. Rosh Hashanah is not the beginning of the Jewish year in the simple sense of the word. Rather, it marks the anniversary of the creation of humanity.

And that gives Rosh Hashanah its deeper meaning.

If Rosh Hashanah is the anniversary of the creation of human beings, then it is a day when we ask ourselves what kind of human beings we have become.

That is why the shofar of Elul is so important. It prepares us for the process of cheshbon hanefesh, taking an honest accounting of our souls and our actions.

Where did I succeed this past year?

Where did I fail?

Who did I hurt?

What could I have done differently?

And perhaps most importantly: What am I going to change?

Judaism does not ask us merely to feel guilty. The goal is not to spend Elul beating ourselves up over our failures. The goal is teshuvah—returning, repairing, and changing direction.

And there is an important principle in Jewish tradition: before we ask God for forgiveness for the wrongs we have done to other people, we must first try to make things right with those people.

That means reaching out. It means saying, “I’m sorry.” Sometimes it means admitting that we were wrong even when our pride tells us otherwise.

And there is probably no more important place to practice this than at home.

We can be polite to strangers, patient with coworkers, and kind to people we barely know—and then sometimes take out our frustrations on the people closest to us. Our family sees us at our best and at our worst.

Especially our spouses.

As someone once joked, your spouse is the only member of your family you actually got to choose. Everyone else came with the package.

And sometimes we may look at our spouse and think, What was I thinking?

But all joking aside, the people closest to us are often the people who deserve our apologies most.

Elul gives us the opportunity to say: I know I haven’t always gotten it right. I know there were times I could have spoken differently, listened better, been more patient, or shown more appreciation. I’m sorry, and I want to do better.

Tomorrow’s Torah reading begins with the command to establish judges and officers. On one level, this is about creating a just society. But as we enter Elul, we can hear another message in those words: we also need to appoint a judge within ourselves.

We need to examine our own behavior.

Not to judge other people.

Not to keep a list of everyone who has wronged us.

But to ask ourselves:

Where have I gone wrong this year?

What relationships need repairing?

What habits do I need to change?

How can I become a better Jew?

How can I become a better person?

The shofar is a wake-up call. It doesn’t speak in words. It simply sounds—and asks us to listen.

Every morning during Elul, we have another opportunity to hear that call.

Don’t repeat the same mistakes.

Make amends.

Ask for forgiveness.

Forgive others.

Look honestly at yourself.

And then, most importantly, do something differently.

May the sound of the shofar awaken all of us during this month of Elul and prepare us for Rosh Hashanah—not simply as the beginning of another year, but as an opportunity to begin again as better, kinder, more thoughtful, and more purposeful human beings.

Shabbat Shalom.

The operative verse in this week’s portion stresses the words “to you”. This is to teach that the most important judge we have is ourselves. Then the family unit. All society if based on these.

Now for a quick D’var Torah.

This week’s parsha is Parshat Shoftim, and we are also entering the month of Elul. There is a very important connection between the two.

Shoftim begins with the command:

“Shoftim v’shotrim titen lecha” — “Judges and officers you shall appoint for yourself.”

On the surface, the Torah is talking about building a functioning society. A good society needs judges, and it needs officers to enforce the decisions of those judges. There will always be disputes, and unfortunately, not everybody is going to behave properly. So we need a system of justice.

But look carefully at the Hebrew. The Torah says “titen lecha” — appoint them for yourself.

Perhaps the most important judge we will ever appoint is ourselves.

We have to be capable of judging our own behavior. Before we ask what everybody else is doing wrong, we have to ask: What am I doing? Am I behaving properly? Where have I made mistakes? What do I need to correct?

Because society begins with the individual.

Then comes the family. The family is the smallest building block of society, and it is where we first learn how to behave. Children learn responsibility, respect and love primarily by watching the adults around them.

My own father grew up in an orphanage. He did not know his father. So I have sometimes wondered: Where did he learn how to be a father?

He learned from the men who took care of him. They demonstrated to him, through their own behavior, this is how a man behaves. And later, he was able to pass those lessons on to me and my brother. My mother and father showed us how parents behave toward their children and how men and women should treat one another.

That is how a healthy society is created. It starts with individuals accepting responsibility for themselves, and then those values are passed from one generation to the next.

And perhaps that is one reason Parshat Shoftim is so appropriate as we enter Elul.

Elul is the month when we become our own judges.

We are preparing for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. We have to look back at the past year and be willing to say: I made a mistake here. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have behaved differently. How am I going to correct it?

It is very easy to judge everybody else. It is much more difficult to judge ourselves.

But if we want to improve society, that is where we have to begin.

“Shoftim v’shotrim titen lecha” — appoint judges for yourself.

Before we worry about fixing everybody around us, Elul reminds us to first look inward and ask how we can fix ourselves.

Something to think about.

The cities of refuge were set up so that someone who committed an accidental killing would be safe. He was being punished for the death of another but it was not murder.

The Road to the City of Refuge

This week’s parsha introduces one of the Torah’s most fascinating institutions: the arei miklat, the cities of refuge. There were six cities—three on each side of the Jordan—to which a person could flee if he accidentally caused someone’s death.

The classic example is two people chopping down trees. One man swings his axe, and suddenly the metal head flies off the handle and kills the other person. It was completely unintentional. Nevertheless, a life was lost, and the Torah requires the person responsible to flee to a city of refuge, where he remains until the death of the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest.

There are several remarkable details about these cities.

The roads leading to the cities of refuge had to be kept in excellent condition. There were signs directing the person toward the city. The Torah understood that this individual was running for his life. He could not afford to encounter potholes, obstacles, or confusion along the way.

Think about the symbolism. In ordinary circumstances, we want people to slow down. If someone is lost, perhaps the best thing is to stop, ask questions, and meet other people along the way. But the person fleeing to a city of refuge has no time for that. He needs a clear path and clear directions.

There is an important lesson here. When someone is in crisis, our job is not to make the path more complicated. Our job is to make the path clearer.

But then the Torah presents an even more difficult question: Why does this person remain in exile until the death of the Kohen Gadol?

What does the Kohen Gadol have to do with an accidental killing in the Galilee? He wasn’t there. He didn’t cause the accident. Why should his death determine when the refugee can return home?

Perhaps the answer is that the Kohen Gadol represents the spiritual condition of the entire Jewish people. He is not merely an individual performing a religious function. He is the spiritual representative of the nation.

The accidental killing may have been an accident, but it also involved negligence. The person using the axe should have made sure that the handle was secure. The tragedy resulted from something that should have been checked.

The Torah therefore teaches us something deeper about leadership and responsibility. The spiritual leaders of a nation carry responsibility not only for what they personally do, but for the spiritual environment of the people they lead.

The death of the Kohen Gadol represents a kind of national atonement. His passing reminds us that the spiritual condition of one person is connected to the spiritual condition of the entire community.

There is an extraordinary detail that reinforces this idea. The mothers of the Kohanim would send food to the people living in the cities of refuge so that they would not pray for the death of the Kohen Gadol.

Imagine being trapped in the city of refuge. You know that the one event that will finally allow you to go home is the death of the High Priest. What might you begin to think? You might actually start praying for his death.

So the mothers of the Kohanim would provide these people with food and support. They wanted to make sure that the refugees had no reason to wish harm upon the Kohen Gadol.

This idea has a fascinating parallel in American history. George Washington arranged in his will that certain enslaved people would become free upon his death, while those enslaved by his wife, Martha, would not necessarily become free until her death. Martha eventually recognized the terrible conflict of interest this created: if someone’s freedom depends upon your death, that person has a reason—even if only subconsciously—to hope that you die. She therefore arranged for their freedom earlier.

The parallel is striking because it highlights the danger created when one person’s well-being is dependent upon another person’s death.

But the Torah is teaching us something even larger.

The people in the city of refuge were not isolated from the rest of the nation. Their situation was connected to the Kohen Gadol. The Kohen Gadol’s spiritual standing was connected to the people. And the people themselves were connected to one another.

We are all spiritually interconnected.

Sometimes we imagine that our actions affect only ourselves. I make a decision, and it is my business. Someone else makes a decision, and that is their problem.

The Torah teaches otherwise.

What one person does can affect another person. The behavior of a leader can influence an entire community. The spiritual choices we make can have consequences far beyond what we see.

And perhaps that is the ultimate message of the cities of refuge.

The Torah is teaching us to take responsibility on two levels: personal responsibility and communal responsibility.

The person who caused the accident must take responsibility and flee to the city of refuge. But the community must also take responsibility by making the road safe, providing clear directions, and creating an environment in which even someone who has made a terrible mistake has a path toward protection and eventual return.

May we learn from the cities of refuge to make our own roads clearer for people who are struggling, to remove obstacles rather than create them, and to recognize that what we do spiritually affects people far beyond ourselves.

Because in Judaism, none of us lives spiritually alone. What we do here can affect Jews everywhere. And that is something worth thinking about.

The Torah is for a constitutional monarchy. It places restrictions on the king and reminds him that he is not above the law.

A Quick D’var Torah: The Torah’s Limits on a King

Among the things covered in this week’s parsha are the laws governing a Jewish king. The Torah anticipates that at some point the Jewish people will say, “Let us have a king like all the other nations around us.” The Torah permits having a king—but under some very interesting conditions.

First, the king must be chosen “from among your brothers.” He cannot be a foreigner. But the phrase “among your brothers” means more than simply being Jewish. It reminds us that the king is essentially one of the people. Halachically, he is not a different kind of human being. He does not come from some inherently superior family. He is your brother, and in matters of halacha, he is bound by the same Torah as everyone else.

Then the Torah gives three remarkable limitations: he cannot have too many horses, too many wives, or too much gold and silver.

Why these three?

Start with the horses. In the ancient world, the great military technology was the horse-drawn chariot. A king who accumulated enormous numbers of horses could build a powerful standing army. The Torah is therefore limiting the king’s military power.

The king cannot simply decide to go to war whenever he wants. He has to persuade the people that there is a legitimate reason for fighting. And, just as importantly, he cannot build an army so powerful that he can use it against his own population.

This was hardly an unusual phenomenon in the ancient world. Throughout history, rulers have used their military forces not only against foreign enemies but against their own people in order to maintain and increase their power. The Torah is warning us about that danger from the very beginning.

Then there is the limitation on wives.

Remember how international diplomacy worked in the ancient world. One of the ways kings sealed treaties was through marriage. A king might send his daughter to marry another king or prince, creating a political alliance between the two kingdoms.

So if a king accumulates wives, he is also accumulating political relationships and expanding his ability to conduct foreign affairs however he wants.

But there is another danger. These women may come from idolatrous societies. The Torah is concerned that they could influence the king and pull him away from Torah.

And finally, the king cannot accumulate excessive amounts of gold and silver.

That one seems pretty straightforward. How does a king acquire money? Through taxes—and sometimes through corruption, bribery, and abusing his position.

The Torah is telling the king: You cannot become fabulously wealthy simply because you became king. You cannot squeeze the people for more and more money. You have to remember that the people have to live.

We see the consequences of ignoring this lesson later in Jewish history. After Shlomo HaMelech died, his son Rechavam was approached by the leaders of the northern tribes. They said, essentially, “Your father’s taxes were already extremely heavy. We understand that tremendous things were accomplished, including the building of the Beit HaMikdash, but please ease the burden on the people.”

Rechavam’s response was essentially: If you thought my father was tough, you haven’t seen anything yet.

That attitude helped trigger the rebellion and ultimately the division of the Jewish people into the kingdom of Yehudah and the ten northern tribes.

The Torah is therefore warning us about something very important: power tends to expand unless there are limits placed upon it.

And that brings us to the final requirement for the king. He must write a Sefer Torah and keep it with him. It is supposed to accompany him virtually all the time, except when circumstances make that impossible.

Why?

Because the king needs a constant reminder that he is also subject to the Torah.

He is not above halacha.

He is not above the law.

He is not a king because he is somehow intrinsically greater than everyone else. Remember the phrase: “from among your brothers.” He is your brother. He is part of the same nation, bound by the same Torah.

And that is what made the Jewish king so different from the kings of the ancient world.

In many ancient societies, if you approached the king and complained about his policies, the conversation could be very short—and potentially very dangerous.

But a Jewish king could be confronted by a prophet.

The Navi could come to the king and say, “You are wrong.”

And the king was expected to listen.

The prophets admonished kings precisely because the king was not above the Torah. He was accountable to something greater than himself.

The Torah is therefore creating a very different kind of government. It is not saying that we can never have a king. It is saying that our king cannot be like the kings of the other nations.

He cannot have unlimited military power.

He cannot accumulate unlimited political alliances.

He cannot become independently wealthy at the expense of his people.

And he must constantly carry the Torah with him, reminding him that there is a law above the king.

The message is remarkably relevant: The Torah does not merely ask who has power. It asks what limits are placed on that power—and whether the person in power remembers that he, too, is accountable.

Something to think about.

The pursuit of justice is one of the most important commandments of the Torah. Justice has to be administered equally to all and must be blind to the social or economic status of those who come before the court.

Justice, the Law, and the Danger of Making an Idol of the Law

This week’s parashah, Shoftim, stresses one of the most important principles of Judaism: equality before the law. A judge cannot favor one party over another, regardless of whether that person is rich or poor, famous or unknown, powerful or powerless. The judge has to enter the courtroom, as it were, blind to all the pressures and influences surrounding him.

That is why the traditional symbol of justice is a woman holding the scales of justice while blindfolded. The blindfold represents the idea that a judge must be blind to everything except the facts and the law. He cannot favor the rich over the poor, nor the poor over the rich.

The Torah also warns that bribery blinds a judge to justice. Once a judge is influenced by personal interests or outside pressures, he can no longer see the case clearly.

Perhaps the most famous verse in this week’s parashah is:

“Justice, justice shall you pursue.”

The Torah does not simply tell us to find justice. It tells us to pursue it. Why? Because we know that human beings will never create a world of perfect justice. We make mistakes. We are imperfect. Judges are human, societies are human, and therefore complete justice is something we may never fully achieve.

But that does not mean we stop trying. The pursuit of justice is itself a fundamental Jewish obligation.

Interestingly, immediately after discussing judges and justice, the Torah turns to the subject of idolatry. At first, the connection may not seem obvious. But perhaps the Torah is teaching us something profound.

Idolatry means, among other things, dividing the world into competing powers: one god controls one area, another god controls another. Judaism insists that there is one God and one moral law. There cannot be one standard of justice for the powerful and another for everyone else.

But there is another danger that the Torah may be warning us about: do not make the law itself into an idol.

There is a famous story in the Gemara about young priests in the Temple who were racing to perform a particular Temple service. One priest, desperate to win the race, took out a knife and stabbed the priest running beside him.

And what were people discussing afterward? They were debating whether the dead body would make the Temple precincts ritually impure.

Think about that for a moment. A murder had just taken place, yet the discussion had immediately turned to the technical question of ritual impurity.

The problem was not that the law was unimportant. The problem was that they had become so absorbed in the details of the law that they had lost sight of the larger moral reality. A human being had been murdered. A terrible crime had occurred. That was the main point.

The Torah is therefore teaching us a delicate balance. We must pursue justice. We must respect the law. We must insist on equality before the law. But we must never become so obsessed with the technicalities of the law that we lose sight of the human beings and moral principles that the law is supposed to protect.

We saw a similar idea earlier in the Torah with the story of Pinchas. Pinchas took action against Zimri without going through the normal judicial process. Ordinarily, such an act would be deeply problematic. Yet God approved of Pinchas’s action because the situation represented an immediate and extraordinary danger to the Jewish people.

Sometimes extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary action.

There is a famous statement attributed to Justice Robert H. Jackson of the United States Supreme Court: “The Constitution is not a suicide pact.” The point is that even the most important legal principles cannot be interpreted in a way that guarantees the destruction of the very society those principles are meant to protect.

The same idea can be applied to the Torah’s concept of justice.

We must pursue justice to the best of our ability. We must demand fairness. We must insist that the law apply equally to everyone. But we must also remain aware of the larger picture. The law exists to serve justice; justice exists to serve human beings and a moral society.

The challenge is knowing how to maintain both principles at the same time: never abandon the pursuit of justice, but never become blind to the realities and moral responsibilities surrounding us.

That is something worth thinking about.

The Torah admonishes judges to judge the facts before them. It is known that in many countries where the courts are perceived to be biased fall apart for that very reason.

Justice Is the Foundation of a Society

Now for a quick D’var Torah.

This week’s parsha, Shoftim, is one of the most interesting portions of the Torah because it reminds us what Moshe is trying to accomplish as the Jewish people prepare to enter the Land of Israel.

The forty years in the wilderness were not merely about getting from Egypt to Israel. They were about preparing a people who had been slaves to become a nation capable of governing itself. Much of Sefer Devarim—Deuteronomy—is Moshe’s final lesson in how to build a just society.

And Shoftim begins with one of the foundations of such a society: justice.

The Torah commands:

“Justice, justice shall you pursue.”

Why is justice so important?

Because when people lose confidence in the justice system, eventually they lose confidence in society itself.

We can see this throughout the world. There are countries blessed with tremendous natural and human resources that nevertheless remain poor because corruption has become part of everyday life. People do not trust the courts. They do not trust the government. Eventually, they begin to believe that the only way to succeed is to cheat the system.

Once cheating becomes normal—whether in business, taxes, government, or everyday dealings—the entire society begins to suffer. If everybody believes everybody else is cheating, then being honest starts to look foolish.

The Torah demands something different.

A judge cannot favor someone because he is wealthy or powerful. But neither may a judge favor someone simply because he is poor and deserving of sympathy. The question before the court must be: What are the facts, and what does the law require?

Justice cannot depend upon your social position.

There is an interesting parallel in sports. Players generally like having a system in which certain calls can be challenged or reviewed. Officials can make mistakes—they are human—but the knowledge that a decision can be reviewed helps maintain confidence in the system.

Baseball great Derek Jeter once made essentially this point about umpires: they are going to make mistakes, but the important thing is that those mistakes are not deliberately favoring one team over another.

That distinction matters.

We do not expect judges—or umpires—to be perfect. We expect them to be fair.

You may walk out of court unhappy because you lost your case. But there is an enormous difference between saying, “I lost because the facts and the law were against me,” and saying, “I lost because the judge was bought, biased, intimidated, or influenced by who the other person was.”

The first preserves society. The second destroys trust in it.

And that is why this lesson appears as the Jewish people are preparing to enter the Land of Israel. Moshe is not merely teaching individuals how to behave. He is teaching a nation how to govern itself.

If we want a society that lasts, its judges must rise above wealth, poverty, influence, friendship, sympathy, and personal opinion. Justice must be based upon the facts of the case and the law.

A society can survive an occasional mistake.

What it cannot survive for long is the belief that justice itself is for sale.

Something to think about.

We are commanded to destroy all forms of idolatry but must keep anything with God’s name on it. This is because idolatry is inherently false and will lead people astray, while the Torah is true and will make us better.

Good morning.

Now for a quick devar Torah.

This week’s parashah contains the source of the mitzvah of genizah—or, as many Ashkenazim call it, sheimos. The Torah commands us to destroy every trace of idolatry: tear it down, burn it, erase it. But immediately afterward it adds, “You shall not do so to the Lord your God.” From this, the Sages learned that anything bearing God’s Name, or objects that possess holiness, may not simply be discarded or destroyed. Instead, they are respectfully placed in a genizah.

Why this contrast?

The Torah is teaching us that falsehood deserves no permanence. Idolatry is based on a lie, and lies eventually disappear. Truth, however, is eternal. The Torah represents God’s truth, and therefore we preserve it with dignity and respect.

This principle led to some fascinating practical questions throughout Jewish history.

After the Hasmoneans defeated the Syrian Greeks, the ban on writing God’s Name was lifted. People became so enthusiastic that they began writing God’s Name in ordinary letters and business correspondence. The Sages realized that this created a problem. Once the letter was no longer needed, it could not simply be thrown away because it contained God’s Name. To avoid this, people often substituted abbreviations such as ב״ה (”With God’s help”) instead of writing the Divine Name itself.

Ironically, this rabbinic ruling became a tremendous gift to historians. Thousands of these discarded letters, contracts, and everyday documents were preserved in the famous Cairo Genizah. Because they were never destroyed, we now have an extraordinary window into Jewish daily life a thousand years ago.

The mitzvah also produced difficult halachic questions. During epidemics such as typhus, hospitals sometimes burned patients’ clothing and belongings to prevent the spread of disease. What if someone had brought tefillin? Could sacred objects be destroyed to save lives? These were serious halachic questions, illustrating how preserving holiness sometimes intersects with protecting human life.

The lesson for us is simple. Falsehood eventually disappears. Truth endures. The Torah teaches us not only to reject what is false, but also to honor and preserve what is holy. The respect we show to sacred objects reminds us to show the same respect for the eternal truths they contain.

Something to think about.

The idea of the Sabbatical Year is for a social reset. To teach us that we have to help our fellows know how to make a living and to train them to do so.

Now for a quick d’var Torah.

One of the subjects covered in this week’s parashah is Shemitah, the sabbatical year. Every seventh year, the land is allowed to lie fallow, debts are forgiven, and a Hebrew servant goes free—unless he chooses to remain with his master.

That raises an interesting question: Why would anyone choose to remain a slave? And why does the Torah require that, if he makes that choice, his ear is pierced?

The Sages explain that God wants us to be free people. We are meant to be servants of God, not permanent servants of another human being. The piercing of the ear is not simply a punishment. It is a reminder that the ear which heard at Mount Sinai, “For the Children of Israel are My servants,” has chosen a different kind of servitude.

Shemitah is also a national reset. The Torah teaches that poverty should not become permanent. People go through difficult times, and society has an obligation to help them get back on their feet. When a Hebrew servant is released, he is not sent away empty-handed. The Torah commands that he be given resources so he can begin a new life with dignity and the ability to support himself.

Sometimes a person became a servant because he stole and could not repay what he had taken. Jewish law insists that the victim be made whole. If the thief has nothing left to repay—even after his possessions are sold—he may be sold into servitude so that his labor can repay the debt. In a sense, the person who treated someone else’s property as worthless now learns the value of responsibility. More importantly, during those years he learns how to work, manage a household, and support himself honestly.

The goal is never humiliation. The goal is rehabilitation. The Torah seeks to restore a person’s dignity, not destroy it. By the time he leaves, he has a trade, experience, and the means to build a better future.

The message of Shemitah is that people deserve a second chance. Society must uphold justice, but it must also create opportunities for redemption. Freedom carries responsibility, and when we help people regain their independence with dignity, we strengthen the entire community.

Something to think about.