When I was accepted to graduate school at the Milken Institute School of Public Health at The George Washington University, my best friend gifted me a small box with quiet intent. Nestled inside was a pendant, engraved with the words “Tzedek, tzedek tirdof.” Justice, justice, shall you pursue.
It became my guidepost. She understood that I wasn’t simply going back to school; I was continuing an ongoing journey on a path of ethical responsibility, where systems and policies must be shaped to honor those, they serve.
I wore the pendant often during my studies: in classes on equity frameworks, leadership ethics, and community-centered design. Not as ornamentation, but as orientation. That inscription became a touchstone that has been a daily reminder that true leadership begins where accountability meets compassion.
I wore it through hospital halls, corporate headquarters and urgent meetings, while picking up my stepson from school, at family simchas and at my mother’s side as her healthcare advocate. It rested against my skin in moments of policy and presence, curriculum and caregiving. Not just a symbol, but a throughline that threads together the spaces where purpose and care converge.
Shoftim opens with that same command. It doesn’t describe justice as a static goal but as a pursuit, one that is active, rigorous, and collective. It invites us into an enduring moral project: building institutions that reflect our highest values while recognizing our human limits.
The Framework of Justice
Shoftim unfolds as a blueprint for a morally resilient society. One where leadership is not merely a matter of charisma, but of character. The Torah doesn’t simply legislate; it curates a system grounded in accountability. Judges are appointed to uphold fairness but warned against partiality and bribery. Kings may ascend, but only under strict limitations. They must not multiply wealth or power, and they must write their own copy of the law, reading it daily, lest they elevate themselves above their peers. Prophets are permitted to speak, but only if their words reflect divine integrity. And the cities of refuge, established for those who kill unintentionally, underscore a radical truth: justice is not vengeance, but structured mercy.
The architecture of Shoftim invites reflection not just on governance, but on restraint. It cautions against excess and sanctifies balance. It insists that power must be regulated by humility, and that leadership demands a commitment to the law: not a manipulation of it.
This ethical design resonates with thinkers who, centuries after the Torah was first given, grappled with the same tensions of justice, authority, and moral clarity. Søren Kierkegaard, writing in a post-Enlightenment Europe, recognized the complexity of moral action. His concept of “teleological suspension of the ethical” – the idea that moral law can be eclipsed by higher purpose – mirrors Shoftim’s recognition that justice is not always simple but must be pursued with courage and intention.
We must be cautious that mercy divorced from justice becomes cruelty. The Torah warns against a transcendent moral standard. Without restraint, Kierkegaard agrees, compassion can erode accountability. Shoftim’s limits on kingship reflect this balance: compassion must be paired with discipline; authority with humility.
In the world of healthcare, Quint Studer has translated these ideals into operational strategy. His work in hospital systems underscores that justice must be measurable and embedded in structures that serve, not harm. Through this lens, the Torah’s cities of refuge read less as relics of ancient law and more as early prototypes of trauma-informed policy; physical spaces that protect dignity while seeking truth.
Brené Brown adds texture to this framework. Her writings on leadership and vulnerability insist that the most courageous leaders are those who choose what is right over what is easy. Her understanding of integrity aligns with the Torah’s image of a king who must read the law daily as a private discipline that defines public service.
These thinkers each echo the pulse of Shoftim: justice pursued not as performance, but as practice. Leadership is cast not as dominion, but as responsibility. And systems, whether political, spiritual, or health-based, must be designed to uplift, protect, and hold power accountable.
Rhythms of Responsibility: Shoftim and Yeshayahu in Dialogue
In Shoftim, we learn that systems matter, that justice must be built, safeguarded, and written into the very rhythm of life. “Tzedek, tzedek tirdof” (Devarim 16:20) pulses like a heartbeat. And yet, justice pursued without comfort can become a brittle thing.
Yeshayahu enters here: not as a disruptor, but as a balm. “Anochi, Anochi hu menachemchem” I, I am He who comforts you (Yeshayahu 51:12). Again, two repetitions. Two imperatives. One calls us to strive; the other to soothe. In tandem, they model embodied leadership: a rhythm of responsibility, remembrance, and restraint.
The king in Shoftim must not exalt himself, must write for himself a Torah scroll and read it daily. The haftara asks: “Mi at vatirei me’enosh yamut… vatishkach Hashem osecha?” “Who are you that you fear man… and forget Hashem your Maker?” (Yeshayahu 51:13).
Leadership, then, is not grandeur; rather, it is gravity. A daily remembering of sacred obligation. Yeshayahu warns against forgetting the Source, even as Shoftim tasks leaders with embodying it.
Even war, in Shoftim, is framed with compassion: “Mi ha-ish hayarei v’rach haleivav… yeileich v’yashov l’veito” Who is the man who is fearful and fainthearted… let him go and return to his house (Devarim 20:8).
The Torah makes space for vulnerability before battle. Yeshayahu echoes, “Uri, uri… hitna’ari mei’afar, kumi Yerushalayim” Awake, awake… shake off the dust, arise O Jerusalem (Yeshayahu 51:17).
It is a call not to harden, but to rise with dignity. To shake off despair, not shame.
So, we ask: What does justice require of us. Not just in law, but in love?
To lead with clarity, yes. To judge with restraint, absolutely.
But also, to comfort. To remember. To rise.
Justice as Infrastructure: Public Health as Expression
Shoftim commands us to set judges at the gates, not only of cities, but of decisions. That’s public health at its heart: creating gatekeepers and policies that protect the vulnerable, that insist on equity before crisis.
As tzedek, tzedek tirdof reminds us: justice must be pursued not in theory, but in structure. Epidemiological data, workforce readiness, equitable access are all modern manifestations of that chase.
Yeshayahu enters when systems strain, when communities grieve under the weight of inequity. Anochi, Anochi hu menachemchem I, I am the one who comforts you. It’s the tender side of public health: not just triage and statistics, but trauma-informed care, culturally rooted outreach, dignity at every encounter.
The Baal Shem Tov, zt”l, taught that Divine light flickers even in the mundane. Public health policy: spreadsheet, statute, and survey can become sacred practice when infused with intention. Like the king of Shoftim, who writes his own scroll as a daily act of remembrance, leaders today must embed ethics not just in vision statements, but in the rhythm of each decision. Devotion is not decorative: it’s infrastructural.
The king who must write a scroll could be today’s health administrator: responsible not just for policy, but for ethics woven into every line. The fearful soldier invited to return home evokes our obligation to acknowledge burnout, trauma, and moral injury. It’s not weakness, but wisdom in retreat.
Yeshayahu’s call to rise: “Uri, uri, hitna’ari mei’afar” can be heard across strained hospital wards and underserved neighborhoods: a spiritual call to renewal, community-driven healing, a restoration of trust in systems meant to serve.
Systems that Heal, Leadership that Remembers
To build just systems is holy work. Shoftim teaches us to guard the gates; not only of cities, but of intention, restraint, and communal responsibility. Public health echoes this charge, asking us to lead not only with strategy, but with soul.
Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, zt”l, taught that “the whole world is a very narrow bridge, and the main thing is not to be afraid.” In the strained corridors of hospitals and health departments, where burnout shadows resolve, leaders walk that bridge daily, between policy and presence, data and dignity. The Torah commands the king to write his own scroll; This teaching prompts us that courage is not the absence of fear, but the discipline to keep walking, even when the bridge trembles beneath us.
Yeshayahu reminds us that comfort is a commandment too: Anochi, Anochi hu menachemchem. Repetition becomes rhythm, rhythm becomes sacred leadership. It is a remembering written not just in Torah, but in tenderness. In data and policy, let us not forget the people these systems were made to serve. To rise is not to ascend in power. It is to return to purpose.
Shoftim, Yeshayahu, Rabbi Nachman, and the Baal Shem Tov each pulse with a shared cadence: justice pursued through structure, comfort offered through presence, and leadership refined through sacred repetition. Whether by scroll or spreadsheet, parchment or program, our faith remains our true north.
So let justice pursue, let comfort console.
Let leadership write its scroll not on parchment alone, but across the lives it touches.
Let those who fear be seen. Let those who heal be held.
And may we, the planners, prophets, and practitioners alike, remember the One who comforts us, and calls us to do the same.
