Mishneh Torah, The Sanhedrin and the Penalties within Their Jurisdiction 7-9

Hook

If your memory of Jewish law is a dusty scroll, filled with arcane rules and impenetrable logic, you’re not alone. Many of us, especially those who dipped a toe in Hebrew school, carry a stale take: "Jewish law is rigid, unyielding, and obsessed with abstract rules, utterly disconnected from real-world messiness." It’s the kind of impression that leaves you feeling small, maybe a little bewildered, and certainly bored. You weren't wrong to feel that way; the way it was often presented simply didn't do it justice.

Think back. Perhaps it was a dizzying array of mitzvot to memorize, disconnected from their "why." Or maybe it was endless debates over minutiae, presented without the animating spirit of justice, compassion, or human dignity that often fueled them. The typical Hebrew school experience, while well-intentioned, frequently oversimplified complex legal systems into a series of dos and don'ts, often neglecting the rich, vibrant tapestry of human experience, ethical deliberation, and profound wisdom woven into the very fabric of texts like the Mishneh Torah. We might have learned what the law said, but rarely how it was built, why it mattered, or who it was designed to serve. This reductionist approach stripped the law of its dynamic nature, transforming it from a living conversation into a static decree.

What was lost in that simplification? We missed the heartbeat of a legal system that grappled with the profound intricacies of human interaction, that valued fairness above all else, and that, surprisingly, often bent over backwards to ensure justice was not just dispensed, but truly found. We lost sight of the fact that these ancient texts are not just about regulations; they are profound explorations of human nature, conflict resolution, and the very architecture of a just society. When we encounter these texts as adults, bringing our own experiences of navigating complex relationships, workplace dynamics, and ethical dilemmas, a different kind of wisdom emerges. We begin to see not just rules, but principles. Not just pronouncements, but profound insights into human psychology and the often-elusive pursuit of truth.

This isn’t about convincing you to become an expert in ancient jurisprudence. It's about offering a fresh lens, one that reveals the surprising empathy, flexibility, and deep commitment to fairness embedded within Jewish legal thought. Today, we're going to dive into a section of the Mishneh Torah that, on the surface, seems like pure legal procedure for courts. But beneath the surface, it’s a masterclass in due process, human agency, and the relentless pursuit of truth. Prepare to rediscover a legal system that, far from being rigid, is surprisingly adaptable, deeply human, and remarkably insightful about what it takes to get to the heart of the matter. You weren't wrong to find it dense; you just needed to see the human heart beating beneath the rules. Let's try again.

Context

The text we're exploring today comes from Maimonides' (Rambam's) monumental work, the Mishneh Torah, specifically from the section on Sanhedrin, which deals with the Jewish legal court system.

• What is the Mishneh Torah? Written in the 12th century, it's a comprehensive codification of all Jewish law, organized thematically rather than by the order of the Talmud. Rambam's goal was to make Jewish law accessible and understandable to everyone, presenting it in clear, concise Hebrew, summarizing centuries of rabbinic discussion into a definitive legal code. It's a foundational text for understanding halakha (Jewish law).
• What is a Sanhedrin? Historically, the Sanhedrin was the supreme Jewish court, comprising 23 or 71 judges, depending on its jurisdiction. This text deals with the practicalities of how courts operate, from selecting judges to handling evidence and rendering verdicts, particularly in monetary and capital cases. Even though the Sanhedrin as a supreme body hasn't existed for centuries, the principles discussed here continue to inform Jewish legal thought and ethical considerations around justice.
• What's happening in this specific text (Sanhedrin 7-9)? We're looking at the nitty-gritty of judicial process: how judges are chosen, when litigants can retract agreements, the presentation of evidence (even after a verdict), the role of oaths, and how courts handle disagreements among judges, especially when seeking a majority ruling.

Demystifying "Rule-Heavy" Misconception: Beyond the Letter of the Law

One common misconception is that Jewish law is purely an authoritarian, top-down system, prioritizing rigid rules over human context or the nuanced search for truth. This text utterly shatters that perception. Far from being an inflexible bureaucracy, the judicial system described here is remarkably flexible, deeply invested in ensuring fairness, and surprisingly deferential to the litigant's agency, especially in the pursuit of emet (truth).

Consider the text’s emphasis on allowing litigants to challenge rulings, bring new evidence even after a judgment, and even choose judges who might otherwise be "disqualified." This isn't about legal loopholes; it's about a profound commitment to due process and the idea that a judgment isn't truly "true" if every possible avenue for clarification hasn't been explored. The commentary on Sanhedrin 7:1:1, "שֶׁמִּתּוֹךְ כָּךְ יֵצֵא הַדִּין לַאֲמִתּוֹ . שכל דיין יהפך בזכות בעל הדין שבחר בו ומתוך כך יתבררו כל צדדי הזכות שיש לשני בעלי הדין (ראה כס”מ)," translates to: "So that judgment may emerge in its truth. That each judge will turn to the merit of the litigant who chose him, and from that, all aspects of the merit of both litigants will be clarified." This isn't a passive system; it's an active, even adversarial, search for truth, where advocacy is seen as a crucial component of justice. The system is designed to avoid rushing to judgment, to prioritize exhaustive fact-finding, and to grant second (and third, and fourth) chances for new information to emerge. It pushes back against the idea that efficiency trumps discovery, highlighting a deep-seated belief that true justice is worth the extra effort, the additional judges, and the reconsideration of what seemed settled. It’s a legal framework that implicitly trusts that the truth, given enough space and opportunity, will eventually reveal itself.

Text Snapshot

Here are a few lines from the Mishneh Torah, Sanhedrin 7-9, that capture the essence of our discussion:

"The following law applies when one of the litigants says: 'Let so and so act as a judge for me,' and the other litigant says: 'Let so and so act as a judge for me.' Together the two judges which were chosen by each of the litigants respectively choose a third judge and the three of them adjudicate the case for the two litigants. In this manner, a true judgment will emerge." (Sanhedrin 7:1)

"When a person was obligated by a court to take an oath to a colleague and the person to whom the oath must be given state: 'Take an oath on your own life, and be freed of liability,' or 'Take an oath on your own life that your claim is justified and I will give you everything that you claim.' If he affirms his commitment with a kinyan, he cannot retract his consent. If he did not affirm his commitment with a kinyan, he can retract his consent until the case is concluded." (Sanhedrin 7:3)

"When a person was obligated by a court, and then brought witnesses or proof to vindicate himself, the judgment is rescinded and the case should be tried again. Although the judgment was already rendered, whenever he brings support for his claim, the judgment is rescinded." (Sanhedrin 8:1)

"If, in this situation as well, the opinions are evenly balanced and one says: 'I don't know,' or in any situation that there is a doubt, we continue to add two more judges until we reach 71 judges. If, after reaching 71, the issue is still unresolved... they debate the matter until the judge who has not made up his mind sides with one of the opinions and thus there will be 36 who vindicate him or 36 who hold him liable. If neither that judge or another changes his opinion, the matter remains unresolved and the money is allowed to remain in the possession of its owner." (Sanhedrin 9:4)

New Angle

This isn't just dry legal code. It's a profound exploration of human decision-making, the quest for truth, and the weight of commitment. When viewed through the lens of adult life, these ancient rulings offer surprising insights into how we navigate our careers, families, and personal values.

Insight 1: The Relentless Pursuit of Truth and Due Process Over Efficiency

Our text reveals a judicial system obsessed with reaching the absolute truth of a matter, even if it means sacrificing efficiency, extending timelines, and embracing a level of procedural flexibility that might seem counterintuitive to modern legal systems. This isn't just about "justice"; it’s about a deep philosophical stance that the true outcome is paramount, and every reasonable opportunity must be given to uncover it.

The very first example in our text sets this tone: litigants get to choose their own judges. And then those two judges choose a third. Steinsaltz's commentary on 7:1:1 ("שֶׁמִּתּוֹךְ כָּךְ יֵצֵא הַדִּין לַאֲמִתּוֹ") emphasizes that this process ensures "all aspects of the merit of both litigants will be clarified." This isn't just about fairness; it's an acknowledgment that passionate advocacy, even from a "biased" perspective (the judge chosen by one litigant), is a powerful engine for uncovering the full story. It suggests that truth isn't found by dispassionate, neutral observation alone, but through the dynamic interplay of competing claims, thoroughly championed.

This commitment to truth deepens with the rules surrounding new evidence. Imagine a judgment rendered, a decision made, and then – poof! – new witnesses or proof appear. Most modern systems have strict deadlines for appeals and new evidence. Not so here, at least initially. "When a person was obligated by a court, and then brought witnesses or proof to vindicate himself, the judgment is rescinded and the case should be tried again. Although the judgment was already rendered, whenever he brings support for his claim, the judgment is rescinded." This is extraordinary. It prioritizes the actual truth over the finality of a verdict. It implies a fundamental trust that if new, valid information exists, it must be heard. Even if the court sets a 30-day deadline, if the litigant "did not discover the proof within 30 days, but found it afterwards," the judgment can still be rescinded. The system understands that truth isn't always convenient or timely.

Furthermore, the text distinguishes between a litigant who knew they had evidence but held back, and one who genuinely didn't know or couldn't access it. If someone explicitly states, "I have no witnesses at all, neither here or overseas, nor any written proof," and then later tries to introduce it, it's too late. They actively foreswore any future claims. But if they merely said, "I do not have witnesses," or "I do not have proof," and then witnesses "came from overseas" or documents were found in "a leather satchel belonging to his father... entrusted to another person," the judgment can be rescinded. Why? Because "he could claim: 'The reason I said: 'I don't have any witnesses' and 'I don't have any proof is because they were not available to me.'" This isn't just legal hair-splitting; it's a deep dive into human psychology, acknowledging that information availability, not just existence, shapes our ability to present a case. It’s a generous interpretation, always leaning towards the possibility of uncovering more truth.

The most striking manifestation of this relentless pursuit of truth comes in the rules for judicial disagreement. If a court of three judges is split one-one-one, or two-two-one (with one judge saying "I don't know"), they don't simply throw up their hands. They add two more judges. This process can continue "until we reach 71 judges." Imagine a modern court system bringing in dozens of new judges because of a persistent "I don't know" vote or an even split! This is a profound statement: judicial consensus, rooted in clarified understanding, is so critical that the court system itself must expand to achieve it. And if, even at 71 judges, the matter remains unresolved (35-35-1 "I don't know"), the money "is allowed to remain in the possession of its owner." In other words, if the court cannot definitively establish liability beyond a shadow of a doubt, the status quo is maintained. The burden of proof is immense, and doubt often benefits the defendant. This is not a system eager to make a definitive ruling at any cost; it's a system dedicated to making the right ruling, or no ruling at all.

Finally, in capital cases, the bar for conviction is even higher. A majority of one is sufficient for monetary and ritual law, but "if the majority rules that he is guilty, he should not be executed until there are at least two more judges who hold him guilty than who exonerate him." And if "all the judges of a Sanhedrin begin their judgment... and say that the defendant is liable, he is exonerated. There must be some who seek to exonerate him and argue on his behalf." This is a staggering safeguard. It institutionalizes the role of the "devil's advocate," the dissenting voice, the one who actively seeks reasons for acquittal. Without it, the system cannot function, highlighting a deep understanding of potential groupthink and the sanctity of human life.

Connecting to Adult Life:

Work & Organizational Decision-Making:

This relentless pursuit of truth and due process offers a powerful critique of our modern corporate and organizational cultures, which often prioritize speed and efficiency above all else. How many times have you witnessed a decision being rushed, a project deemed "final," or a judgment made about a colleague or initiative, only for new information to emerge later, proving the initial assessment incomplete or wrong?

The Mishneh Torah's approach challenges us to ask:

• Are we building systems that allow for genuine "due process" in decision-making? Do we actively invite dissenting opinions, even "unqualified" ones, knowing that their advocacy might uncover crucial blind spots? Do we have mechanisms for "adding more judges" (bringing in diverse perspectives, external consultants, or more senior oversight) when consensus is elusive or doubt persists?
• What is our organizational stance on "rescinding judgment" when new information comes to light? Are we agile enough to re-evaluate past decisions, even "rendered verdicts," when compelling new "evidence" appears, rather than stubbornly clinging to the initial call to save face or avoid rework? This applies to everything from product development to hiring decisions to strategic shifts. The text suggests that true leadership isn't about infallibility, but about the humility to admit when more truth has emerged.
• Do we truly foster an environment where "I don't know" is a valid and respected stance, rather than a sign of weakness? The Sanhedrin's willingness to keep adding judges until clarity emerges from doubt teaches us that genuine uncertainty, when acknowledged, can be a catalyst for deeper inquiry, rather than a roadblock to be swept aside. In a world clamoring for quick answers, the Jewish legal system whispers: slow down, dig deeper, the truth is worth it. This matters because rushing to an incomplete decision can lead to costly errors, damaged morale, and missed opportunities. By embracing the Sanhedrin's ethos, organizations can foster cultures of thoroughness, intellectual honesty, and resilience.

Family, Relationships, and Personal Growth:

The principles here translate beautifully into the messy, human realm of personal relationships and self-reflection.

• Giving the Benefit of the Doubt and Seeking Full Understanding: How often do we "render a judgment" about a loved one's intentions or actions based on partial information? The text's readiness to rescind judgment with new proof encourages us to stay open, to listen, and to actively seek out the "witnesses from overseas" – the missing context, the unspoken feelings, the unarticulated motivations – that might entirely change our understanding. It's an invitation to pause before labeling, to explore before concluding, and to understand that people, like cases, are rarely simple.
• The Courage to Say "I Don't Know": In our personal lives, admitting "I don't know" can be incredibly vulnerable. We might feel pressure to have all the answers, especially as parents, partners, or friends. Yet, the Sanhedrin's "I don't know" judge, far from being dismissed, triggers a profound expansion of the inquiry. This teaches us the power of intellectual humility. When we genuinely admit uncertainty, we open ourselves and our relationships to deeper exploration, to inviting more "judges" (perspectives from trusted friends, therapists, or even internal self-reflection) into the deliberation. This matters because genuine understanding and connection flourish in spaces where vulnerability and the pursuit of truth are valued over performative certainty. It’s about being willing to re-examine our own "verdicts" about ourselves or others, embracing personal growth as a continuous process of discovery rather than a fixed state.

Insight 2: The Power and Peril of Consent – When Commitment Becomes Binding

The Mishneh Torah, particularly in its repeated references to kinyan (a formal act of acquisition or agreement), offers a nuanced and profound exploration of human agency, commitment, and the moments when our choices become truly binding. It highlights that while the system is highly flexible in the pursuit of truth, there are specific, intentional points where one's word, sealed with a formal act, shifts from a preliminary statement to an irrevocable bond.

The text consistently illustrates this dynamic: "If he affirms his commitment with a kinyan, he cannot retract his consent. If he did not affirm his commitment with a kinyan, he can retract his consent until the case is concluded." This applies to accepting a judge, accepting a witness, agreeing to an oath, or even agreeing to forfeit a claim by a certain date. The kinyan is the hinge. Before it, there is flexibility, room for reconsideration, a right to change one's mind. After it, the choice is sealed.

What is a kinyan? Steinsaltz on Sanhedrin 7:2:4 explains it as strengthening "the acceptance of the disqualified person through a kinyan sudar (see Laws of Sale 5:5 and its explanation there)." A kinyan sudar is a symbolic act where one party transfers a small object (like a scarf or handkerchief – sudar) to another, signifying a mutual agreement or transfer of property/obligation. It's a tangible, physical act that elevates an oral agreement to a legally binding one. It's not just saying "yes"; it's performing an action that signifies a definitive "yes."

This concept isn't about punishment for retraction; it’s about defining the moment when a choice is truly sealed, when one's agency is fully expressed in a commitment that then shapes future possibilities. It acknowledges that human beings need clear markers for when a decision transitions from tentative to final, from reversible to irrevocable. The system respects a litigant's right to retract until that formal act of kinyan takes place, or until the verdict is rendered (without a kinyan). This implies a recognition of human fallibility, of the need for deliberation and the space to reconsider. But it also emphasizes the power and weight of a deliberately chosen, formalized commitment.

There's also a fascinating exception to the kinyan's finality: "If, however, he brings proof that he was held back by forces beyond his control on that day, he is not bound by his agreement." Even a kinyan-sealed agreement to forfeit a claim by a certain date can be nullified by anus (force majeure, circumstances beyond one's control). This adds another layer of nuance: while commitment is powerful, it's not absolute in the face of true impossibility. The system understands that life happens, and sometimes, even the strongest will cannot overcome external obstacles. This isn't about breaking a promise; it's about recognizing when a promise, through no fault of the promisor, becomes impossible to fulfill.

Connecting to Adult Life:

Work & Professional Commitments:

In the professional world, the concept of kinyan resonates deeply with the tension between informal agreements and binding contracts. We often operate in a grey area, where a verbal "yes" feels like a commitment, but lacks the legal weight of a signed document.

• Defining the "Kinyan Moment": For professionals, the Mishneh Torah invites us to be more deliberate about when and how we make commitments binding. Is a handshake enough? Is a verbal agreement in a meeting truly final, or is the "kinyan moment" the sending of the follow-up email, the signing of the contract, or the first tangible action taken in furtherance of the agreement? Understanding and clearly communicating these "kinyan moments" can prevent misunderstandings, build trust, and clarify expectations in negotiations, partnerships, and team projects. This matters because ambiguity around commitment can lead to wasted resources, damaged professional relationships, and legal disputes. Being explicit about when a decision is "sealed" (e.g., "Once we sign this, it's final," or "My word is my bond on this, consider it done") empowers both parties.
• The Weight of Professional Integrity: The text emphasizes that once a kinyan is made, retraction is not possible. This speaks to the powerful concept of professional integrity. When you've formalized a commitment, whether through a signed contract, a public announcement, or a clear, intentional action, your reputation and trustworthiness are on the line. The ability to retract before the kinyan but not after teaches us the importance of careful deliberation before making a binding commitment, and the serious implications of doing so. It underscores that true agency lies not just in making choices, but in understanding the moment those choices become irrevocable and accepting the consequences.

Family, Relationships, and Personal Vows:

The kinyan principle extends beautifully to the realm of personal relationships, where commitments often lack formal documentation but carry immense emotional weight.

• The Power of Intentional Vows: Think of marriage vows, promises to children, or commitments to personal growth (e.g., "I'm going to finally write that book," "I'm going to prioritize my health"). While we don't typically perform a kinyan sudar for these, the concept encourages us to create our own symbolic "kinyan moments" for significant personal commitments. This could be writing down a goal and signing it, telling a trusted friend about a major decision, or performing a small, personal ritual that signifies "this is real now." This practice elevates a mere intention to a solemn vow, enhancing our sense of responsibility and follow-through.
• Understanding Boundaries and Consent: In relationships, the concept of a kinyan can illuminate discussions around boundaries and consent. When does a "maybe" become a "yes"? When is an agreement truly solidified between partners or family members? The text suggests that clarity around the "kinyan moment"—the point where a decision is explicitly and intentionally sealed—is crucial for healthy relationships. It teaches us to be clear in our commitments and to respect the binding nature of others' explicit consent, while also recognizing that without that explicit sealing, there remains a right to retract. This matters because strong, trusting relationships are built on clear communication, honored commitments, and a mutual understanding of when a word truly becomes a bond. It also teaches us empathy for situations where external forces (the anus) truly prevent someone from fulfilling a promise, allowing for understanding rather than immediate judgment.

These ancient legal texts, far from being dry and irrelevant, offer a sophisticated framework for understanding the profound human dynamics of truth-seeking, decision-making, and the nature of commitment – lessons that resonate powerfully in the complex landscape of adult life.

Low-Lift Ritual

Let's distill these insights into a simple, actionable practice you can try this week. We’ll call it: The "Pause to Add Judges" Practice.

This ritual is inspired by the Mishneh Torah's relentless pursuit of truth: the willingness to rescind judgment, to allow for new evidence, and to keep adding judges (even up to 71!) when there's doubt or disagreement, especially when "I don't know" is on the table. It's about consciously resisting the impulse to rush to a definitive conclusion or judgment, and instead, creating space for more information, more perspectives, or more internal deliberation.

The Practice (≤2 minutes): This week, whenever you find yourself about to make a significant decision, form a strong opinion about a person or situation, or finalize a plan, consciously pause. Before you act or speak, take a deep breath, and mentally ask yourself:

1. "What's my 'I don't know'?" What piece of information am I still uncertain about? What angle haven't I fully explored?
2. "Who else could be a 'judge' here?" Whose perspective haven't I considered? Who might have "witnesses from overseas" or "proof in a satchel" that I don't know about?

You don't need to actually go find more people every time. The core of the ritual is the internal pause and questioning. It's about cultivating a mindset of curiosity and humility, acknowledging that your current information or perspective might be incomplete.

Deeper Meaning and Variations:

The "Pause to Add Judges" isn't about indecision; it's about intentional decision-making. It's a recognition that true wisdom often lies in slowing down, rather than speeding up. The Mishneh Torah teaches us that the pursuit of truth is a noble, often lengthy, endeavor, and that a truly just outcome is worth the added effort. By internalizing this pause, you embody the values of:

• Thoroughness: You push yourself beyond superficial analysis.
• Empathy: You actively consider other viewpoints, even those you might not initially agree with.
• Humility: You acknowledge the limits of your own knowledge and perspective.

Variations for Different Contexts:

• For Personal Judgments (1 minute): When you catch yourself forming a quick opinion about a friend, family member, or even a public figure, pause. Instead of mentally cementing your judgment, ask: "What might I be missing about their situation or motivation? What's another way to interpret this?" This helps to soften rigid views and fosters compassion.
• For Small Decisions (30 seconds): Choosing between two options for a home project, a work task, or even what to cook for dinner. Pause. "What haven't I considered? Is there a piece of information (e.g., a quick online review, a memory of a past experience) that could 'rescind' my initial lean?" This can save you from minor regrets.
• For Professional Discussions (2 minutes): In a team meeting where a decision is about to be made, or you're about to present a "final" solution. Pause. Ask yourself (or, if appropriate, the group): "Before we finalize, are there any 'I don't know's' remaining? Who haven't we heard from on this, or what critical data point might still be 'overseas'?" This encourages a more robust and inclusive decision-making process.

Troubleshooting Common Hesitations:

• "But I need to be decisive! This sounds like indecision." The Mishneh Torah isn't advocating for eternal indecision. It’s advocating for informed decision. The "pause" is brief. It's not about staying stuck, but about ensuring you've genuinely given due process to the decision before moving forward. Sometimes, the most decisive act is to thoroughly understand the problem.
• "This feels silly to do mentally." The power of this ritual isn't in its outward performance, but in its internal shift. It's about retraining your brain to default to curiosity and openness rather than premature closure. Over time, this mental "pause" becomes a natural part of your cognitive process, making you a more thoughtful decision-maker and a more empathetic human being.
• "What if I still don't know after the pause?" That's perfectly okay! Remember the Sanhedrin: if, even after adding 71 judges, the matter is unresolved, the money "is allowed to remain in the possession of its owner." Sometimes, the most truthful answer is "I don't know," and the most just action is to maintain the status quo or defer judgment until more clarity emerges. The ritual doesn't demand certainty; it demands a genuine effort to seek it.

By integrating this low-lift ritual into your week, you're not just practicing an ancient Jewish legal principle; you're cultivating a modern superpower: the ability to make more thoughtful, fair, and truth-aligned decisions in all areas of your life. This matters because in a world that often rewards speed over wisdom, the deliberate pause is a revolutionary act.

Chevruta Mini

Here are two questions to discuss with a partner (or reflect on yourself):

1. Reflecting on the text's emphasis on the relentless pursuit of truth and allowing new evidence to "rescind judgment": Where in your life are you tempted to rush to judgment or decision for the sake of efficiency (at work, in a relationship, or about yourself)? What might you gain by intentionally "adding more judges" (more perspectives, more information) or allowing for a "rescinded judgment" in that situation?
2. The kinyan marks a distinct point where a commitment becomes binding and irrevocable (barring force majeure). Think of a significant commitment you've made recently (personal or professional). Was there a clear, intentional "kinyan moment" that sealed it, or could more clarity around such a moment (a specific verbal declaration, a physical act, a written agreement) have served you better in understanding its weight and implications?

Takeaway

You weren't wrong to find the dense legal codes of Jewish tradition intimidating or irrelevant. But beneath the surface, these texts reveal a profound, surprisingly flexible, and deeply human legal philosophy. We've seen a system that prioritizes the relentless pursuit of truth over efficiency, granting countless opportunities for new evidence and perspectives to emerge, even to the point of "adding judges" until clarity is found. And we've explored the nuanced power of human agency and commitment, distinguishing between tentative agreements and those sealed by a definitive "kinyan," where our choices become truly binding. This isn't just about ancient courts; it's about the universal quest for fairness, the wisdom of embracing doubt, and the profound responsibility of our word. It's about the human heart beating beneath the rules, reminding us that true justice is a dynamic, empathetic, and ongoing endeavor.