My first job out of college, long before I ever thought about rabbinic school, was working in the environmental movement. I spent eight years as a campaign staffer, a writer and editor for a national network of environmental groups. As such, I spent a lot of time thinking about and writing about the principles of environmentalism.

There is a passage in this week's Torah portion (Shoftim) that the rabbis read as a statement of environmental principles. Perhaps it is ironic that, in context, the passage states a rule of warfare. 

Moses instructs the Israelites:

When you besiege a city for many days, waging war against it to capture it, you shall not destroy [lo tashchit] its trees, wielding the axe against them. You may eat from the trees, but you may not cut them down—for is the tree of the field a human being to flee from you into the besieged city? (Deuteronomy 20:19-20)

The rabbis took this rule and expanded it into a broad principle which they called "bal tashchit," the prohibition against wasteful destruction. From it they decreed that it was a violation of the Torah to kill animals needlessly, to waste fuel oil, and otherwise to squander resources   (B. Shabbath 67b, B. Hullin 7b, B. Kiddushin 32a). Maimonides expanded the principle of bal tashchit even further to include prohibitions against breaking vessels, tearing clothes, demolishing buildings, clogging wells, or wasting food (Yad, Hilchot Melachim 6:10).

It would be easy to see this law as a simple statement of prudence and frugality. Why spoil future opportunity with present excess? But the Torah makes it clear that the principle of bal tashchit is about more than mere thrift.Why should an army not cut down the trees around the walled city? It is not because the trees may prove more valuable for another use. It is because the trees cannot protect themselves, and therefore it is our obligation to care for them. 

Are the trees of the field human beings that can flee into the city? No, of course not. We are in a position of power over the world of God's creation, so we must use that power to care for and protect the world.

Our obligation to care for resources is not primarily because it will benefit us. It is because the world is not ours to use in whatever way we wish. The world of creation has its own value and integrity apart from its usefulness to us. The world God created owes us nothing; we owe God and the world everything. 

As a writer for environmental campaigns, I usually tried to convince my readers that clean air, land and water would benefit them personally (and they do). However, there is also a greater truth. The world is not ours to treat as we wish. The most fundamental principle of environmentalism, right here in this week's Torah portion, is that we are servant's charged with the protection of a world placed in our safekeeping. 

That should be a source of joy to us. We have been given a great gift. If we can keep it, we will delight in it.  If we can remember who has given it to us, we will know ourselves to be blessed.

If…a dead body is found lying in the open and the identity of the killer is not known, your elders and leaders shall go out and measure the distances from the corpse to the nearby towns. The elders of the town nearest the corpse shall then take a cow which has never worked, which has never pulled a yoke, and the elders of that town shall…break the cow's neck… Then all the elders of the town nearest to the corpse shall wash their hands over the cow…and they shall make this declaration: “Our hands did not shed this blood, nor did our eyes see it done. Absolve, Adonai, Your people Israel whom You redeemed, and do not let guilt for the blood of the innocent remain among Your people Israel” (Deuteronomy 21:1-8).

What a strange ritual! What possibly could be the purpose of a ritual in which the leaders of a town declare their innocence in the case of a murder that did not take place in their town and of which they had no knowledge? What exactly are leaders saying by making this declaration?

In the Mishnah, the rabbis seem to have the same questions about the purpose of the ritual of the eglah arufah (the cow with the broken neck). They state:

Surely, it would not occur to anyone that the elders of the rabbinic court spilt this blood!  Rather, the declaration means, “He did not come into our hands and we did not send him away without food.  We did not see him and allow him to leave without escort." (M. Sotah 9:6)

The rabbis seem to be saying that there might actually be a hint of guilt upon the leaders of the nearby city for this crime. Their declaration is not just that they did not commit the murder, it is that they did not allow the crime to happen by neglecting the needs of the person who was killed in the lands adjacent to their town. They must perform this ritual because they should be held responsible—morally and legally—for the care of any stranger who happens to pass by their land. 

Do we accept that responsibility?

On average, more than thirty people are murdered every day in the United States. The U.S. has by far the highest murder rate in the industrialized world, despite having an overall crime rate which is similar to that of other industrialized nations. (Why?). 

When most of us hear statistics like this, we think about the role of poverty and guns in creating a climate for homicide. We may think about the frequency with which racial minorities are the perpetrators and the victims of these murders. But we don't often think about our own culpability. 

What would happen if we had to make the declaration of the cow with the broken neck described in this week's Torah portion? What if, every time you read about a homicide in your town or an adjacent area, you had to travel to the scene of the murder and declare that you had no opportunity to offer the victim food, to care for him or her, or to offer protection from harm? Could you do it? Could any of us?

As I have remarked before, the Torah has no particular interest in the rights of an individual, but it has a very keen interest in a person's obligations. The Torah offers us no right to remain uninterested in murders committed in the places near where we live. By the very fact that we do live in the place, we already are implicated. We are obliged to protect from harm even the stranger who is passing through.

If we do nothing, who will absolve us?