Derekh Daily · Parashat Hashavua

Transcript

Welcome to Derekh Daily.

There was once a wealthy developer named Kalman who owned a sprawling timber estate on the edge of a growing town. Kalman was a man of great influence, and when the town council decided to pave a new road to the regional market, Kalman realized that the shortest, cheapest path ran directly through a small, ancient orchard owned by an impoverished widow named Leah. To Kalman, the solution was obvious: clear the orchard, compensate Leah with a modest sum, and build the road.

Kalman brought his proposal to the town's newly appointed judge, Reb Yosef. He presented maps, economic projections, and even a generous donation to the town's charity fund, subtly hinting that a quick approval would benefit everyone. Reb Yosef listened quietly, but when Kalman finished, the rabbi pointed to the open Chumash on his desk. The Torah tells us, Reb Yosef said softly, that when we lay siege to a city in war, we must not destroy its fruit-bearing trees. If the Torah protects the trees of an enemy during wartime, how much more must we protect the livelihood of a vulnerable widow in times of peace?

Kalman grew defensive. It is just a few old trees, Rabbi! The economic progress of the entire town is at stake. Surely the needs of the many outweigh the sentiment of one woman. Reb Yosef stood up, his eyes filled with a warm but unyielding resolve. A society that cuts down the vulnerable to build roads for the powerful is a society paving its way to moral ruin. We will bend the road around the orchard, Kalman. It will take longer, and it will cost more. But when we walk that road, we will know we did not step on the broken spirit of a widow to get there.

The road was indeed built with a curve, wrapping gently around Leah's small orchard. Years later, when Kalman was an old man, he would walk that road at sunset. Looking at the blossoming apple trees, he finally understood. The curve in the road wasn't an inconvenience; it was a monument to a town that chose to pursue justice over convenience, keeping its soul intact.

This story, which echoes so much of the spirit of our parsha this week, Shoftim, gets to the heart of what it means to build a society that actually works—not just one that functions efficiently, but one that remains human. Shoftim is essentially a blueprint for a fair society. It begins with the appointment of judges and officers, and it immediately sets a standard that is as demanding as it is beautiful. We are commanded to pursue justice, and to do it without bias, without bribes, and without fear of the powerful.

But the Torah is remarkably wise; it knows that law is only as good as the people who hold the power. It doesn't just tell the judges to be good; it creates a structure that forces them to be good. It places revolutionary limits on leaders. Think about the king, for instance. We might imagine a king as someone who has everything, but the Torah says a king must not hoard wealth, he must not amass too many wives, and he must not stockpile horses for his own glory. He has to carry a personal scroll of the Torah with him everywhere he goes. Why? Because the moment a leader stops being a servant to the law, and starts thinking the law is a servant to him, he loses his way.

This theme of restraining power for the sake of the vulnerable runs through the entire parsha. We see it in the rules of war. Even when a nation is in the heat of battle, the Torah introduces what I think is one of the most astonishingly humane military drafts in history. If you have just built a home, or planted a vineyard, or gotten engaged, you are sent home. You are told to go back and enjoy the blessings of your life. And even if you are just afraid—if you are disheartened—you are excused. The Torah understands that a person who is acting out of fear, or who has too much to lose, might not be the right person for the front lines. And, of course, the rule about the trees: do not cut down fruit-bearing trees. It asks a haunting question: Are the trees of the field human, to withdraw before you into the besieged city? It’s a reminder that even when we are forced to fight, we cannot lose our connection to the living world around us. We cannot destroy the future—the very source of our food and our sustenance—just to win a fight today.

When we look at these laws, we see a consistent philosophy. A truly good society is one that creates systems of justice that restrain the powerful, protect the vulnerable, and hold every single human life as sacred. This is why the parsha includes that haunting ritual for an unsolved tragedy, the Eglah Arufah. When a body is found in a field and no one knows who the killer is, the elders of the nearest town have to come out and perform a ritual of atonement. They have to wash their hands and declare, We did not shed this blood, and our eyes did not see it. It is a way of saying that a community is collectively responsible for the safety of every person. You can't just look away and say, it wasn't my fault, or it wasn't my business. If someone dies in our orbit, we have to pause. We have to take responsibility. We have to ensure that no life slips through the cracks of our society unnoticed.

This brings us to the most famous verse in the parsha, and perhaps one of the most important commands in the entire Torah: Tzedek, tzedek tirdof—Justice, justice shall you pursue. The great commentator Ibn Ezra, who lived centuries ago, asked a very simple question about this verse: Why is the word justice repeated? Why not just say, Pursue justice?

His answer is profound. He suggests that the repetition teaches us that we must pursue justice whether it is to our advantage or our loss. It is easy to clamor for justice when we are the victims, or when the righteous outcome aligns with our personal, financial, or political interests. But the true test of our ethical character is how we react when justice demands that we lose. When the truth hurts our pockets, when it bruises our egos, or when it challenges our social standing, do we still champion it? True integrity means bowing to what is right even when it dismantles our own comfortable positions.

This is the spiritual turn that elevates justice from a mere political tool into a sacred act of worship. When we pursue a fair outcome even at a personal cost, we testify that there is a Higher Truth in this world. We step out of our self-centered desires and help build a world where truth is loved more than winning.

It’s a beautiful thought, but it’s also a challenging one. It asks us to look at our lives and ask: Where am I cutting corners because it’s convenient? Where am I ignoring a problem in my community because it’s not my direct responsibility? Where am I prioritizing my own gain over the truth?

As you sit down to your Shabbat table this week, I want to leave you with a question that touches on this idea of collective responsibility and the difficulty of finding the truth.

Imagine you are a teacher at a high school. You discover that a final exam was stolen and shared in a group chat, but you cannot prove who leaked it. The principal proposes canceling the exam and giving the entire grade a zero unless someone steps forward, arguing that the whole student body must take collective responsibility. Several honest students who studied hard protest that they shouldn't be punished for a crime they had nothing to do with.

As a teacher, would you support the principal's collective punishment to force the community to hold itself accountable, echoing the spirit of the Eglah Arufah, where the elders take responsibility for an unsolved tragedy? Or would you insist that only the specific guilty party be punished, even if it means they are never caught and the justice remains incomplete?

It’s a tough dilemma. It forces us to balance the need for social accountability against the need for individual fairness. It asks us how we build a community that cares about the truth, and how we protect the innocent without letting the guilty walk away completely unnoticed.

Whatever your answer, the point of the conversation isn't to reach a perfect solution, because often in life, there isn't one. The point is to engage with the pursuit itself. The point is to keep the question of justice alive in our homes and in our hearts. Because when we prioritize that pursuit—when we choose the curve in the road because it’s the right thing to do, even if it costs us time and money—we are doing the work of building a world that is a little more holy, a little more fair, and a little more like the one we are meant to create.

We are, all of us, the judges and the officers of our own lives and our own communities. We are the ones who decide whether we will chop down the trees for the sake of a quicker path, or whether we will take the longer, more difficult road, knowing that in the end, it is the only road that leads to a place where we can truly live in peace.

May this Shabbat be a time for you to reflect on those curves in the road—the moments where you chose integrity over convenience, and the moments where you might choose to do so in the future. May your table be filled with deep, challenging, and loving conversations that help you see the world through the eyes of justice.

Shabbat Shalom to you and your family. Thank you for joining me for this week’s Derekh Daily. I look forward to walking this path with you again next week.