Over the summer, I visited the British Museum. I like to go there. That place feeds my historical musings, and it is so big that each time I go, I discover something new. It’s a real treat when. I have the time to go.
This time, I chanced upon a cast of a basalt stele inscribed in ancient Babylonian, dated from the 19th century BCE, that contains parts of the text of the code of laws which was drawn up by King Hammurabi, a king of the 1st dynasty of Babylon, c. 2,200 BCE. There were 282 laws by which the Babylonians were ordered to conduct their affairs, with blessings if they followed them and curses if they failed to do so. Of course, these laws reflected the society of their time, and many of them wouldn’t be applicable today. However, what really struck me is the fact that the first purpose of the law is to avoid anarchy, to prevent people from taking the law into their own hands and creating chaos.
Plaster cast of stela, Code of Hammurabi, British Museum.
Biblical law, and then rabbinic law, have no other purpose than establishing a clear order in the society, to keep chaos away.
Parashat Shoftim opens with these words: “שֹׁפְטִים וְשֹׁטְרִים תִּתֶּן־לְךָ בְּכָל־שְׁעָרֶיךָ” [shoftim v’shotrim titen-lecha b’chol she’arecha] – “You shall appoint judges and officers in all your gates” (Deuteronomy 16:18). This isn’t just an administrative guidance; it’s a profound statement about humanity’s eternal struggle against chaos and our capacity to create order through justice.
Before examining the Torah’s blueprint for justice, we must understand why such structures are necessary. Human beings possess both cooperative and destructive powers and impulses. We can build together or tear apart, share resources or hoard them, tell the truth or spread lies. Without agreed-upon rules and enforcement mechanisms, our worst impulses often prevail, not because we’re inherently evil, but because self-interest, fear, and short-term thinking cloud our judgement.
The parasha recognises this duality. It doesn’t pretend humans are naturally good and need only minimal guidance. Nor does it despair of human nature as irredeemably corrupt. Instead, it takes a pragmatic middle path: humans need structure to channel their better selves and constrain their demons. The detailed legal framework in Shoftim isn’t bureaucracy for its own sake. It’s a recognition that justice requires deliberate, systematic effort.
Shoftim presents an elaborate blueprint for societal organisation: judges, officers, priests, prophets, and kings, each with defined roles and crucial limitations. This separation of powers prevents any individual or group from accumulating unchecked authority. Judges interpret law but don’t enforce it; officers enforce but don’t judge; priests teach but don’t rule; kings govern but remain subject to law.
This systematic approach reveals a fundamental insight: justice isn’t a natural state but a constructed achievement. The Torah anticipates what centuries of political philosophy would later confirm: that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Therefore, power must be divided, checked, and balanced.
The repeated emphasis on fairness—”צֶדֶק צֶדֶק תִּרְדֹּף” [tzedek tzedek tirdof]—”Justice, justice you shall pursue” (Deuteronomy 16:20)—uses the repetition of the word “justice” not simply for emphasis but to convey a dual requirement: both the means and ends must be just. You cannot achieve true justice through unjust methods, nor can you use just procedures to reach unjust outcomes. Both process and result matter.
Why do humans find chaos tempting when order clearly benefits everyone? The parasha provides subtle but powerful psychological insights.
First, chaos offers immediate advantages to those positioned to exploit it. When rules break down, the strong dominate the weak, the cunning deceive the trusting, and the wealthy buy what shouldn’t be for sale. The warnings against bribery (Deuteronomy 16:19) acknowledge how easily personal gain corrupts judgement. The prohibition against moving boundary stones (Deuteronomy 19:14) recognises our impulse to expand our territory when no one’s watching. These aren’t abstract moral failings but predictable behaviours that emerge when accountability weakens.
Second, maintaining order requires constant effort, while chaos needs only neglect. It’s easier to ignore injustice than confront it, simpler to bend rules than uphold them, and more comfortable to go along with corruption than resist it. The detailed laws about false witnesses (Deuteronomy 19:15-21) reveal how easily we might destroy others through deception when the immediate cost to us seems minimal.
Third, chaos can feel liberating, at least initially. Rules constrain everyone, including us. In moments of frustration with legitimate restrictions, we might fantasise about their absence, forgetting that the same rules protecting others also protect us. The parasha understands that preventing societal breakdown requires not just external enforcement but internal commitment; people must value order even when it constrains them personally.
What makes Shoftim remarkable is how its ancient laws offer enduring principles for any just society. These aren’t culturally specific rules but universal requirements for human flourishing:
Equality before law: The command that judges must not show favouritism (Deuteronomy 16:19) establishes that justice must be blind to status, wealth, or connection. A society where different rules apply to different people isn’t experiencing temporary injustice; it’s turning its back on justice altogether. This principle, revolutionary in the ancient world where social hierarchy was assumed, remains the foundation of legitimate legal systems.
Evidence-based judgement: The requirement for multiple witnesses (Deuteronomy 19:15) protects against false accusation and establishes that serious allegations require substantial proof. This isn’t simply procedural. It recognises both human fallibility (single witnesses can be mistaken) and human malice (people lie for advantage). By demanding corroboration, the law forces us to slow down, investigate thoroughly, and resist rushing to judgement.
Proportional response: The principle of “עַיִן תַּחַת עַיִן” [ayin tachat ayin], “an eye for an eye” (Deuteronomy 19:21), often misunderstood as harsh, actually limits revenge by ensuring that punishment doesn’t exceed crime. In a world where blood feuds could escalate endlessly, this principle breaks the cycle by establishing proportionality. The Talmud’s interpretation (Bava Kama 83b – 84a) as requiring financial compensation further humanises the law, showing how principles can evolve while maintaining their essential purpose.
Protection of the law: The establishment of cities of refuge (Deuteronomy 19:1-13) for accidental killers creates space for determining truth without mob justice. This acknowledges that immediate emotional responses, however understandable, shouldn’t determine outcomes. Justice requires calm deliberation, which requires physical safety for all parties while facts are established.
Constrained leadership: Even kings must write and study Torah (Deuteronomy 17:14-20), reminding them they serve the law, not the reverse. This radical limitation on monarchy—the most powerful position in ancient society—establishes that no one stands above justice. If kings must obey law, then certainly everyone else must too.
That begs the ultimate question: can we envision a society that is truly just for all? Shoftim suggests we can, but not through utopian fantasies or revolutionary upheaval. Instead, it offers an achievable vision: a society where institutions function properly, where the powerful face accountability, where the vulnerable find protection, and where justice is pursued consistently, even when inconvenient.
This isn’t perfection. The parasha acknowledges that disputes will arise, crimes will occur, and leaders will face temptation. But these challenges can be met through systematic, fair processes rather than arbitrary power or mob rule. Justice emerges not from eliminating human nature but from channelling it through proper structures.
The key insight is that justice is communal, not individual. The command to appoint judges comes in second person singular, “you shall appoint”, but refers to collective action. Each individual bears responsibility for establishing and maintaining just institutions. When the Torah declares, “Justice, justice you shall pursue,” it addresses the entire community.
For those inclined toward cynicism, those who’ve seen enough injustice to doubt whether true fairness is possible, Shoftim offers neither naive optimism nor resigned despair. Instead, it presents active hope: the belief that while perfect justice may be unattainable, better justice is always possible through deliberate, sustained effort.
The parasha’s detailed legal framework isn’t meant to be applied mechanically but to embody principles we must constantly interpret and reapply. Each generation faces new forms of corruption, new ways chaos might emerge, and new challenges to justice. The work never ends, but neither does our capacity to meet these challenges.
Ultimately, Shoftim teaches that the choice between order and chaos isn’t made once but daily, in countless small decisions. Do we speak truthfully in trivial matters? Do we resist small corruptions that might benefit us? Do we support institutions even when they rule against our interests? These choices, combined, can create or erode justice.
The parasha’s vision remains radical: that ordinary humans, despite our flaws, can create and sustain justice. We need not be angels or heroes, but people committed to something larger than immediate self-interest. As we read Shoftim each year, we’re reminded that justice isn’t inherited but must be actively pursued by each generation. The choice is ours: will we pursue justice, however imperfectly, or abandon the effort and let chaos reign? Shoftim insists we can choose justice, and in that insistence lies both challenge and hope.