Parashat Shoftim – The Pursuit of Justice and the Value of Life

שֹׁפְטִ֣ים וְשֹֽׁטְרִ֗ים תִּֽתֶּן־לְךָ֙ בְּכׇל־שְׁעָרֶ֔יךָ אֲשֶׁ֨ר יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהֶ֛יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לְךָ֖ לִשְׁבָטֶ֑יךָ וְשָׁפְט֥וּ אֶת־הָעָ֖ם שְׁפַּט־צֶֽדֶק׃

“Appoint judges and officers for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with righteous judgment.” (Deuteronomy 16:18)

So begins this week’s portion, Shoftim — Judges. A commandment that is at once simple, logical, and indispensable: upon entering the Land, Israel is to establish a system of justice. Magistrates to uphold the law, and officers to guard its observance. The purpose is clear and unequivocal: to govern the people with justice.

And yet, I cannot help but ask myself: what about our gates today? The gates of Medinat Yisrael. The gates of the Diaspora. The gates of our very own homes. Who is standing watch? Who is listening to the cry of the people? What guardians protect the entrances of our society today?

The Torah is clear. The challenge is in the application. We live in a world where the partnership of power and justice seems broken, sullied, even trampled underfoot. Leaders manipulate, social media spreads lies faster than truth, and rulers too often lack respect — for both power and for justice itself.

As the Torah insists: “You shall not judge unfairly; you shall show no partiality; you shall not take a bribe, for bribes blind the eyes of the wise and pervert the words of the just.” (Deuteronomy 16:19)

And again: “You shall not set up a sacred post beside the altar of the Lord your God… nor erect a stone pillar, for such the Lord your God detests.” (Deuteronomy 16:21–22)

“You shall not sacrifice to the Lord your God an ox or a sheep that has any serious defect, for that is abhorrent to the Lord your God.” (Deuteronomy 17:1)

The Midrash Devarim Rabbah (5:6) paints a striking picture of these verses. It tells us that King Solomon’s throne had six steps. On each step, as Solomon ascended, a herald would proclaim one of the negative commandments found here:

• Step one: Do not pervert justice.

• Step two: Do not show favoritism.

• Step three: Do not accept bribes.

• Step four: Do not plant a sacred tree.

• Step five: Do not erect a monument.

• Step six: Do not sacrifice an animal with a blemish.

Every step was a reminder. Every ascent to the throne was not merely a climb to power but a call to higher responsibility. A call to uphold justice, to safeguard ethics, to protect all without exception, and to restrain the corruption of self-interest.

And then comes perhaps the most famous line in the portion:

צֶ֥דֶק צֶ֖דֶק תִּרְדֹּ֑ף לְמַ֤עַן תִּֽחְיֶה֙ וְיָרַשְׁתָּ֣ אֶת־הָאָ֔רֶץ אֲשֶׁר־ה' אֱלֹקֶ֖יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לָֽךְ׃

“Justice, justice you shall pursue, so that you may thrive and inherit the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16:20)

The double emphasis is no accident. Justice, justice. Because it is far too easy to surrender the pursuit of justice. Far too tempting to accept the world “as it is” — broken, unjust, scarred. The Torah urges us: never relent. Never let go. Chase after justice even when it hides, even when it hurts, even when it feels beyond our reach.

Parashat Shoftim also includes the enigmatic law of the Eglah Arufah — the axed heifer. At first glance, an ancient ritual, anachronistic, irrelevant.

The portion speaks about an unsolved murder when it is impossible to punish the murderer, simply because no one knows who the murderer is. The portion presents a situation that sounds fairly absurd. The Torah demands that a whole complicated ceremony take place in order to atone for the death of an anonymous person about whom nothing is known. But there is another point that is no less interesting. Not only does this portion seem anachronistic, but its very place in the Bible is also puzzling. The section about the slain heifer is found between two sections that deal with war and begin with the words "When thou goest forth to war" (Deuteronomy 20:1, Deuteronomy 21;10) What is the connection? I read a brilliant answer to this question by Rabbi Ya'acov Ruderman. He says that there is no place more fitting for this portion than the place where it appears, between two wars. He thinks that war – any war – where there are hundreds or even thousands dead, both soldiers and civilians, brings in its wake a meaningful decrease to the value of human life. The portion of the slain heifer proves that human life is a very holy thing, so much so that a whole city and its elders are required to take responsibility for murder that took place near their territory. Our portion protests against the concept that "human life is cheap". There is no such thing in Jewish tradition; life is always of great value. There is not in Judaism – almost – a more crucial command than that referred to as "Met Mitzvah". "Met mitzvah" refers to a dead person having no one formally obligated to bury him (her). The law is that anyone who encounters this corpse is obligated to perform the burial rite even at great expense to himself or even if it means canceling other important mitzvot. Judaism rejects the notion that human life is cheap. On the contrary, life is sacred, beyond measure. Even the High Priest, who may not touch the dead — not even his parents — is obligated to defile himself to bury a met mitzvah, a corpse with no one else to tend to it. Even on Yom Kippur. That is how priceless life is.

Golda Meir, of blessed memory, understood this concept of life.

Do you remember the War of Attrition? It was a military conflict between Israel and Egypt, supported by other Arab countries, that took place between 1967 and 1970, right after the Six-Day War.

Egypt’s president, Gamal Abdel Nasser, sought to weaken Israel through constant attacks and relentless military pressure along the Suez Canal, hoping to force an Israeli withdrawal from the territories it had captured. It was not a conventional war with decisive battles, but rather a series of ongoing clashes: artillery shelling, air strikes, commando operations, and skirmishes across the canal.

The outcome? Israel held its military positions but suffered significant casualties. Egypt, too, endured heavy losses, yet managed to prove that it could continue fighting—lifting its national morale. Finally, in 1970, the war ended with a ceasefire brokered by the United States and the United Nations.

It was called the War of Attrition because its main goal was not to conquer territory but to wear down the enemy little by little—physically and psychologically—until they broke.

And the similarity with this seemingly endless war in Israel today is both striking and heartbreaking. For even as we are a people who live deeply rooted in memory and history, there are still those who cannot see beyond their hunger for power.

During that war Prime Minister Golda Meir said: “I ordered my advisors to wake me, even in the middle of the night, to inform me of the death of any Israeli soldier. The day that President Nasser issues the same order to his advisors, there will be peace between us.”

That is the chasm that divides us from our enemies. For us, life will always remain a supreme value.

And now, as we enter the month of Elul — the month of reflection and return — the Torah calls us to a cheshbon hanefesh, an accounting of the soul. To be honest with ourselves. To ask: where must we change? Where must we act? Where must we strengthen justice and cherish life, so that our communities and our world can be better, kinder, more faithful to God’s dream for humanity?

Justice and life. Tzedek and chayim. These are the twin pillars upon which a better future stands.

Shabbat Shalom.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier