By Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel in Chula Vista, California
Two elderly Southern ladies sat in the front pew as the preacher thundered against sin. When he condemned stealing, they cried, “Amen, Brother!” When he denounced lust, they shouted, “Preach it, Reverend!” When he blasted lying, they leaped up: “Tell it like it is!”
Then he turned to the sin of refusing to give one’s neighbor the benefit of the doubt. Silence. One leaned over and whispered, “He’s quit preachin’ and gone to meddlin’.”
That is the moment most of us recognize ourselves.
Who is going to heaven—the Israeli bus driver or the rabbi? The punchline is usually the same: the bus driver, because he made people pray.
Shabbat Shoftim is often called the Shabbat of Justice. Its opening words set the tone: Shoftim v’shotrim titen lekha — “You shall appoint judges and officials for yourselves.” Not for some distant ideal, but for yourselves. The pursuit of justice begins at home, in the quiet decisions we make about how we treat one another.
The centerpiece is the uncompromising command Tzedek tzedek tirdof — “Justice, justice shall you pursue.” The doubling is deliberate. Justice must be sought, and it must be sought justly. There is no license for the self-righteous shortcut or the angry one.
In our day we have more English translations of the Torah than flavors of ice cream. Each can open a window, yet none replaces the original. David Ben-Gurion put it perfectly: reading the Bible in translation is like kissing your beloved through a handkerchief. Technically possible. Spiritually unsatisfying.
This week’s parsha shows what we miss when we settle for the handkerchief.
Deuteronomy 16:18 “You shall appoint judges and officers in all your towns…”
The New English Bible comes closer: “You shall appoint for yourselves…” That little phrase is the whole sermon. Before you sit in judgment on anyone else, first appoint a judge over yourself.
The Midrash tells of Rabbi Hanina ben Elazar. A man complained that his neighbor’s tree branches hung over his property. Rabbi Hanina listened, then adjourned the case. He hurried home, took a saw, and cut every branch of his own tree that crossed the fence. When the litigants returned, he ordered the branches removed. The complainant exploded: “Look who’s talking!”
The rabbi smiled. “I already did. Now you can.”
No double standards. The moment we demand from others what we quietly exempt ourselves from, we become the least convincing moral authorities in the room.
The Talmud drives the point home. Rav Ashi was teaching about the three kings who lost their share in the World to Come—Jeroboam, Ahab, and Manasseh. At the end of the lecture he announced, a touch sarcastically, that tomorrow they would study “what these three great masters have to say.”
That night King Manasseh appeared in a dream and asked, “From which part of the bread do you recite Hamotzi?” Rav Ashi admitted he did not know. Manasseh answered, “From the crust—the part that is well baked.” Then the king added the line that still stings: “Had you lived in my generation, you would have gathered up the hem of your garment and run after me to the idols.”
Twenty-twenty hindsight is easy when you are safely outside the fire. That is why we do not sit in judgment on Holocaust survivors who did not “fight back,” or who lost faith, or who did what they had to do to stay alive. We were not there. Three fingers always point back at the critic.
The Torah is precise: b’tzedek tishpot amitecha—with righteousness shall you judge your fellow. Give the other person the same benefit of the doubt you hope for yourself.
Unfortunately, too many of us choose a life where double standards are the norm.
The pig is the classic illustration of the double standard. A kosher animal must have two signs: split hooves and chew its cud. The pig has the split hooves and is happy to show them off: “Look at my feet—I’m practically kosher!” Internally, of course, it fails the test. External piety without internal consistency is just a well-manicured hoof.
Deuteronomy 16:20 Tzedek tzedek tirdof—Justice, justice shall you pursue.
Not “justice by any means necessary.” Stolen money does not become tzedakah just because you give it away with a blessing. Anger does not become righteous rebuke just because the other person was wrong. The ends never cleanse the means. If you want justice, you have to chase it down the road of justice.
So, when we open the Torah, three questions remain useful: What did the Author intend? What does the text actually say? And—most uncomfortable of all—what is it saying to me right now?
Study it in the original when you can. The handkerchief is optional. The kiss is not.
Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel is the spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California.