Thirty-nine years ago tonight, I was an eleven-year-old kid at summer camp. The camp director rang a bell heard across campus telling all campers to gather in the recreation hall. We had no idea why. 

When we took our seats, one row for each cabin, we saw that a television had been set up on the stage for us to watch. On that black and white television, I watched the President of the United States announce that he would resign his office as of noon the following day.

Richard Nixon became the only U.S. President ever to resign. He had been caught covering up a break-in, ordered by the White House, at the Democratic National Committee headquarters. Nixon would later justify the break-in and the cover-up by saying, "If the President does it, that means it’s not illegal." In the end, Nixon was destroyed by his belief that his will as the elected President was superior to the law and the Constitution. He believe that he was above the law. Nixon thus became democracy's worst nightmare.

Oddly enough, it is a nightmare that is anticipated in this week's Torah portion (Shoftim). Moses warned the Israelites that, in the future, if they wanted to have a king, they should be very careful that he not be allowed to accumulate too much military power or wealth, and that he always should accept in humility the law of the Torah as his guide:

Nixon, and those who aided him in abrogating the law and the Constitution, were exactly the kinds of leaders that Moses wanted to warn us about. They believed that their election meant there was nothing that stood above them or that could limit their power. There was no Torah — no authority higher than their own desires — that they would keep as a touchstone to determine whether their actions were right and just. Their arrogance led them to believe they were limitless.

I'm not sure what America has learned from the disaster of the Nixon presidency that ended thirty-nine years ago today. Since then, we have seen other Presidents who have usurped power. We have learned that we need to be skeptical of our leaders and we have learned to expect the worst from politicians. However, I don't think we have learned the central truth of Moses' teaching — that great power requires great humility, and that real leaders set aside their own interests in order to pursue a higher truth.

We have been warned.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Vayikra: The Joy of Contrition
Nurturing and Caring for Your Inner Korach

As our country enters the final months of our quadrennial election cycle, many of us (and I'm talking mostly about myself here, folks) feel the fervor building up within. We get giddy at every gaff from our political opponents, and we reel every time we see a poll showing our candidate behind.  In such an atmosphere, it is easy to confuse the pursuit of justice with the pursuit of just winning. It becomes hard to remember that there is a difference. It becomes hard to remember to listen to what people who disagree with you are saying.

This week's Torah portion (Shoftim) includes a verse that is a favorite of Jews who are committed to social action: "Justice, justice you shall pursue, that you may live and inherit the land which Adonai your God gives you" (Deuteronomy 16:20). This verse is read as a clarion call for doing everything in our power to fight for what is right and to deplore evil. What could go wrong with fighting for right over evil?

Plenty. We should be careful about our certainty that we always can tell the difference. In our zeal, we sometimes forget that even the pursuit of righteousness must be conducted with righteousness. 

Rabbi Zev Wolf of Zbaraz, a 19th century Ukrainian chassidic leader, had a novel interpretation of the verse to remind us of this truth. He read the doubling of the word "justice" as a sign of self-righteous zeal. He said:

There are many ways that our evil inclination conspires to ensnare us. Just as we sometimes trick ourselves into acting maliciously, we sometimes also entice ourselves into sin by being excessively righteous. We try to be "holier than thou." This is why the Torah warns, "Justice, justice—meaning, excessive justice—you will pursue." You must chase away that inclination, for sometimes that, too, is the way of the evil inclination. Do not be too righteous. (Itturei Torah, vol. 6, p. 110)

Be careful with your zeal. Remember that your rivals also are human beings who believe that they are pursuing justice. The moment that we cast ourselves in the role of the holier-than-thou exemplar of justice and righteousness, we become victims of our desire to win and to be right, rather than servants of what is truly just.


Other Posts on This Topic:
Welcome to the Silly Season
Vayetze: Righteous Anger

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 with care 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 desecrate and exploit. 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.

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?