You shall appoint judges and officials throughout your tribes, in all your towns that the Lord your God is giving you . . . ()

Shemaiah used to say: love work, hate acting superior (rabbanut; literally “mastery,” or perhaps “the Rabbinate”), and do not attempt to draw near to the ruling authority. ()

The year was 1752, the place Copenhagen, and Rabbi Yehonatan Eybeshutz, Chief Rabbi of Hamburg, Altona, and Wandsbeck, was on trial before the royal court of Denmark. King Frederick V himself was acting as the presiding judge. Altona was legally a province of Denmark, and the Altona City Council had turned to the king to resolve a controversy among the Jews that was breaking into violence in the streets. They had already tried placing Eybeshutz’s opponent in the matter, Rabbi Yaakov Emden, under house arrest. Emden’s escape to Amsterdam under cover of darkness made matters worse. The intensified presence of the city watch among the Jews only increased tensions. In desperation the burghers of Altona had turned to the king of Denmark.

The controversy was the result of a complex set of circumstances and motivations, but in brief, shortly after Eybeshutz took up his office as chief rabbi of the three cities in 1750, Emden had accused him of being the worst sort of heretic. Emden claimed that kabbalistic amulets Eybeshutz had issued to pregnant women in Frankfurt contained coded references to the false messiah Shabbatai Zvi, who had converted to Islam over 80 years earlier. These amulets revealed Eybeshutz’s true colors and made him unfit for office, Emden claimed.

The communities of the three cities, and soon all the Jews of Europe, were split into two factions, each supporting one of these two famous rabbis, who were among the most learned of the day. Eybeshutz’s supporters claimed that the charges were totally without merit and that Emden’s charges were sour grapes that he had not been chosen as chief rabbi of the three cities himself. Emden’s supporters responded that the codes in the amulets were easy to decipher and plainly referred to “Shabbatai Zvi King Messiah,” and that Emden had never wanted the job in the first place. He made a fine living as a printer of Hebrew books and did not need to be a community rabbi. Indeed, Emden was fond of saying that when he made the morning blessing praising God for not making him a slave, his intent was to express gratitude for not being the rabbi of a community.

Emden’s idea, that the leader of a community is no more than a slave to its members, seems odd in light of the Torah’s requirement in our parashah that every tribe is obligated to appoint leaders, judges, and officials to govern the community. The Torah clearly believes that community leaders are a good thing. How could Emden be so dismissive of authority?

However, when we look at the mishnah from Avot quoted above, it is clear that our Sages viewed authority as a double-edged sword, at best. In Rabbi Emden’s commentary on the Mishnah, Lehem Shamayyim, he brings this idea to the fore. Commenting on , he writes that the Mishnah is warning against the attractions of authority, for that is how the snare is laid, and one’s losses will be greater than whatever one gains. Finally, he says, “. . . for the king is called the slave of the people.”

Indeed, our parashah’s description of the ideal king () is one who rejects material wealth: few horses, few wives, and little money. The king’s power is limited to governance. A ruler who enriches himself is clearly corrupt. I believe that corruption of leadership is what Emden thought he was fighting against in his opposition to Eybeshutz. Not corruption from avarice, but perhaps something worse: he saw Eybeshutz as harboring a secret agenda, smoothing the way for a foreign influence into the hearts of otherwise good-hearted Jews.

That spring of 1752, Frederick V of Denmark demanded that Eybeshutz come before him and give his account of the amulets. The king was also concerned that Eybeshutz had been elected as chief rabbi fraudulently. Eybeshutz’s advocate, a former student of his who had converted to Christianity, convinced the king of his innocence. The king cleared Eybeschutz of suspicion and placed a ban on any further accusations against the chief rabbi or his amulets. Secondly, the king ordered a new election of the chief rabbi. In December 1752 the community held a new election and Eybeshutz won reappointment easily.

But the ultimate conclusion of the episode was not so simple. The involvement of the king had created a non-Jewish political football: Though Altona was under Frederick’s rule, Hamburg was a “free” city, independent of Danish control. Soon after his reelection as chief rabbi, the Hamburg City Council asserted its authority, rejecting both the king’s verdict and Eybeshutz’s reappointment. A new long, complicated legal battle began to formally define the office of the chief-rabbinate of the three cities and its powers.

Governance and the dangers of politics go hand-in-hand. But we must rule ourselves nonetheless: this is the commandment of the Torah. Most Jews live in democracies today and it is our obligation—indeed, I believe it is a mitzvah—to vote. It is my blessing that we are all able to fulfill this mitzvah in its proper time.

This commentary is indebted to the book  by Rabbi Pini Dunner, which caused me to reassess Emden’s motivations in this affair.

This commentary was originally published in 2020.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

First is the establishment of courts, their organization and their authority. But the parashah has a larger vision than establishing the nature of the judiciary alone. Bernard M. Levinson, in his commentary on Deuteronomy in The Oxford Jewish Study Bible, points out “Although western political theory is normally traced back to ancient Athens, this section is remarkable for providing what seems to be the first blueprint for a constitutional system of government.” Over the course of this week’s reading the Torah presents a careful balance among four specific elements of power in ancient Israel: the judges, the priests, the prophets, and the king. No one element has absolute authority. Judges may assert their authority in matters of criminal and civil offenses; prophets may assert their vision about wrongdoing and future consequences; priests may hold sway over the primary ritual elements of ancient Israelite life, the sacrificial cult; and the king may rule “over them” (). But none of these powerful figures can be dominant over the others.

Of course, the parashah is laying out the idealized model. How it worked in real life is another matter, one which we can only infer from the meager evidence that we have. For example just considering the stories of Saul and David as the Bible reports them to us gives us a good deal of insight into the complexity of operating this system of what we might call “checks and balances”; in the same way that reading the United States Constitution only gives us a picture of the way that the three branches of our government are “supposed to” work. As we have seen in a variety of instances sometimes a “check” on one branch of government may not lead to much “balance” in the world of realpolitik. Yet without the ideal we would have no standard by which to evaluate the real, and these chapters in our Torah reading give us a picture of what the Bible viewed as the proper functioning of a system of government.

For me the most powerful and moving part of the description in Shofetim is the delineation of the limitations on the king. Sometime in the future, God says, you will be settled in Eretz Yisrael and you will want to set a king over yourselves to be like “all the other nations” (). With almost an exasperated acceptance, God tells them if that’s what you want, you can do it. But there are restrictions that need to be in place—you can’t choose someone who is not one of your own people; the king can’t keep many horses, nor can he have many wives. But what is most striking to me is the following passage:

When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Teaching (Torah) written for him on a scroll by the levitical priests. Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere the Lord his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching as well as these laws. ()

The version above is from the standard contemporary New Jewish Publication Society translation used in the Conservative movement’s Etz Hayim Humash as well as The Oxford Jewish Study Bible, and it has the advantage of readability and up-to-date biblical scholarship. But there are times that its very clarity obscures the way certain biblical passages have been interpreted and understood in Jewish commentary across the generations. In our passage, for instance, torah, a common biblical word, is quite properly understood as “teaching,” as we see above. It appears that in their original context the verses are meant to say that the king should have before him a specific “teaching,” the biblical verses that apply to a king, and that he should keep those verses with him as a written document. But in this case the word torah has in classic Jewish sources been understood in a different way: to refer quite literally to a Sefer Torah scroll. In addition, the NJPS smoothes over some confusing elements of the Hebrew original, leading to an interpretation that is essentially completely different from the way that this passage has been understood in our traditional texts.

NJPS tells us that the “levitical priests” write the “Teaching” for the king. But later Jewish tradition sees it differently. This becomes quite clear by simply looking at the way the Mishnah interprets the obligations of a king:

And he shall write in his own name a Sefer Torah. When he goes forth to war he must take it with him; on returning, he brings it back with him; when he sits in judgment it shall be with him, and when he sits down to eat, before him, as it is written: and it shall be with him and he shall read therein all the days of his life. ()

The Mishnah sees the king as writing the Torah scroll for himself. The Talmud elaborates on this concept:

A Tanna taught: And he must not take credit for one belonging to his ancestors. Rabbah said: Even if one’s parents have left him a Sefer Torah, yet it is proper that he should write one of his own . . . ()

Moreover, NJPS renders one phrase in our passage as “let him read in it all his life” (italics added)—a perfectly reasonable translation of כָּל-יְמֵי חַיָּיו, but older translations’ more literal “all the days of his life” has a greater appeal. The latter suggests, in capturing the specificity of “days of,” that the king should read this Torah every single day, a more powerful understanding of the injunction on the king than “all his life.”

What difference do these distinctions make? Am I quibbling over minor details? I’d like to argue that this is a case where the translation matters. First, no matter what this text may have meant in its own time, it is worthwhile to remember the way it has been viewed by the core texts of our tradition—the Mishnah, the Babylonian Talmud, and later commentators such as Rashi and Maimonides.

But more than that, I believe that in emphasizing the need for the king to do the writing himself—even if he inherited a perfectly fine Sefer Torah from his parents or ancestors—the tradition understood that the very act of writing the Torah scroll is a way of making the Torah, quite literally, one’s own. The act of doing that writing becomes a powerful pedagogy through which the king comes to understand what his moral position must be. As the Torah tells us, this connection, this act of identification with the values inherent in God’s “teaching,” will insure that “he will not act haughtily toward his fellows” (), which, as Ibn Ezra points out, would be likely to happen if the king were “free” from the commandments. As we think about leaders in our times, it may be helpful to remember that being “above the law” is not the way for any king to view himself. Rather, as the Torah says, to “reign long” means to know that the “law” is above us all.

This commentary was originally published in 2017

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

The parashah opens by relating the imperative to create a judiciary and the qualities to look for in a judge:

You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that your God יהוה is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for bribes blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the plea of the just.

Deut. 16:18–19

As the Israelites are entering the new land that God is showing them, they need a system that offers the people due justice. In creating a functional society, the Torah lays out three qualities for those passing judgement: do not judge unfairly, show no partiality, and do not take bribes. Each of these provides a baseline for creating a civil society in which the people have access to fair rulings.

The opening verses of the parashah end with the famous call: צדק צדק תרדף (tzedek,tzedek tirdof), “Justice, justice shall you pursue,” with which many of us are familiar from current Jewish movements for social justice. But the caveat after this initial call, “that you may settle the land,” is the pivot point for medieval commentators. Maimonides writes:

JUSTICE, JUSTICE SHALT THOU PURSUE. “Go to seek a reliable court. THAT THOU MAYEST LIVE, AND INHERIT THE LAND. The appointment of qualified judges is of sufficient [importance] to sustain Israel and to settle them upon their Land.” . . . The reason for the repetition [of the word “justice”] is to indicate that the judges should judge the people with righteous judgment.

Maimonides on Deut. 16:20

Fair courts with fair judges are essential to the creation of a fair society. But the parashah is aware of the ways in which fairness is difficult to attain and the challenges and limits of human nature. A judicial system must have protections to stop people from misleading or being misled. In two separate spaces in the portion, the Torah points to the importance of having multiple witnesses, never trusting that one person could have the full story or the motivations of the individual, and sets up specific (albeit harsh) punishments for one who bears false witness—the punishment is death. Deuteronomy 19:15 was cited in a footnote of the Constitutional Convention’s argument on witnesses and treason, building the requirement for having multiple witnesses for capital offenses.[1]

Judges themselves are also vulnerable. The opening of our parashah establishes greed as an impediment to rendering fair judgement. It also accounts for the fact that as individuals, there may be situations in which one cannot be impartial. “If a case is too baffling for you to decide, be it a controversy over homicide, civil law, or assault—matters of disputes in your courts— . . . appear before the Levitical priests, or the magistrate in charge at the time, and present your problem . . . ” (Deut 17:8–9). Shofetimstresses the importance of trustworthy systems, providing the judge and litigant with pathways for just decisions.

The question of the responsibilities of judicial systems and fair jurisprudence are circling in very different ways in the US and Israel at this moment. In the US, the current controversy of the Supreme Court is focused on one of the three fundamental rules of judicial fairness—do not accept bribes—with the following questions at the center: What constitutes a gift between friends? What constitutes a bribe? Arguments about ethical reform played out along party lines recently in the Senate Judiciary Committee, with both sides claiming that the other would hamper the impartiality of the highest court.

In Israel, judicial changes are at the center of the maelstrom, with the lines of divide harder to understand and see. Rabbi Daniel Gordis described the Israeli mood in the weeks leading up to the Knesset vote on reform as follows:   

If Israel was a marriage, it would now be waiting in the lobby of the divorce lawyer’s office. The days of arguing about substance are long over. No longer does it really matter to anyone who is not earning enough, who is not helping enough with the kids, who never cleans up around the house, why the intimacy evaporated. Now we are simply drowning in seething mutual resentment, in a sea of hatred.

7/12/23

The parashah asserts the importance of creating courts that people trust. In this messy moment, any legitimate concerns about the judiciary have been drowned out as the court’s power threatens to be diminished by the Knesset. It is hard to imagine that those who are protesting would have any faith in the justice system that will emerge from this vote. The American mood towards the judiciary is similarly bleak—confidence in the Supreme Court is at an all time low and while people aren’t taking to the street, there are increasing calls for reform.

Let’s return the central verb of this parashah’s call to action—“Justice, Justice shall you pursue.” And pursue we must if we want to uphold the safety and integrity of our civic institutions. In her sweeping article, “Autocratic Legalism,” Princeton Law Professor Kim Lane Scheppele identifies the myriad of ways in which the powers of a free judiciary are being undermined. To protect the legal system, she writes, “[c]ivic education needs to teach people to recognize the new signs of danger. Under what circumstances is it safe to trust the appointment of judges to a political process? . . . People beyond the educated elite need to know why these questions matter, and they need to learn how to think about answering them” (39).[2]  Certainly in Israel, this kind of activism is underway. Each of us must challenge ourselves to continue to pursue the values centered in Shofetim. The title of this piece asks, “Who are you to judge?” The answer is that you are essential to judging the system and determining its merit.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

[1] Finkelstein, Sheldon. “.” Litigation. September 2010.

[2] Scheppele, Kim Lane. “.” The University of Chicago Law Review. 2018

As a person of faith, I develop a religious language and perspective that extends beyond certainties. One that is not circumscribed by only that which I can know, see, and prove. And, most importantly, a language that encompasses aspirational qualities of the religious imagination and the human heart and soul.

I think of the distinction between faith and belief in the context of Parashat Shofetim which is concerned with the various types of leaders that governed Israelite society: judges, kings, priests, and prophets. Throughout the parashah, the Torah seems concerned with placing limitations upon Israelite leaders to prevent the abuse of power. Judges must not accept bribes in the pursuit of justice. Kings must not accumulate too many horses or wives. Priests have no territorial claims and are supported only through prescribed cultic offerings. Prophets must speak in God’s name and may not practice any forms of divination by casting spells or consulting with spirits.

Prophets stand out among the leaders mentioned in Shofetim. Priests and kings are dynastic leaders born into their positions. Judges are appointed by the people, presumably because they demonstrated wisdom and integrity. Prophets, however, are called into service by God, and therefore must assert their authority over, and prove their legitimacy before, the people. Given this, the question posed by the people in  is genuine and vital: How will we know [אֵיכָה נֵדַע] that the word spoken is the word of God?

The question “How will we know?” sounds to my ear like a fundamental question of belief not faith. The people want to know with certainty that the prophet speaks for God. In other words, they want to believe in the prophet and not have faith that the prophet speaks for God.

In response, the Torah offers two means to test the veracity of a prophet. First, the true prophet speaks in God’s name and not in the name of other gods. Second, the prophecy must come true. The first criterion easily is satisfied. Even a false prophet should have enough smarts not to speak in the name of another god, though  condemns prophets who apparently spoke in Baal’s name. The second criterion is more difficult to fake. The prophet must prove right. There can be no doubt.

I do not blame the people for wanting to believe in (and not solely have faith in) their prophets and for asking the question “How will we know?” I understand their anxiety and desire for certainty. I, too, desire certainty in a world that appears to grow more and more unstable and want to appoint leaders that I know will guide me through it. Yet, unlike my ancient forebearers, I do not expect nor want to believe in my leaders. I want to have faith in them, particularly in my religious leaders. And I want my religious leaders to express themselves with the language of faith, not belief.

I look for religious leaders who strive to hear God, but who don’t know they speak for God. I seek religious leaders who are sensitive to the mysteries of our existence and who are poets that can express those mysteries. I seek religious leaders who have faith that we are more than the sum of our parts and who offer some vision for what that means. Faith may lack certainty, but it incorporates hope. Expressions of faith offer a hopeful vision of what can be and not what is. I look for religious leaders who can express that vision and that can inspire me to claim my place within that vision.

In my view, Israel’s prophets were people of faith and not belief. Their words were more effective than true. They were Israel’s poets who were able to see and express the mysteries of the universe. They also expressed hope with images of a restored Israel. Even their visions of doom were, at some level, hopeful as they were meant to inspire repentance and a renewed commitment to God.

Israel’s prophets could see beyond what was happening to what was possible. They could see beyond Israel’s sins to Israel’s potential for good. They were people of faith. There may be no better example of prophetic faith than Isaiah’s words from this week’s haftarah. Isaiah addresses a decimated Israel who has suffered God’s rebuke—an Israel who swoons in the streets and reels from having drunk from the cup of God’s wrath ().

To this Israel, Isaiah beckons them to arise from the dust and adorn robes of majesty (52:1–2).

To this Israel, the faithful prophet proclaims: “Your watchmen raise their voices. Together, they shout for joy. For every eye will see God’s return to Zion. Raise a shout together, Ruins of Jerusalem! For God will comfort the people. God will redeem Jerusalem” (vv. 8–9).

How do we know that the prophet Isaiah speaks the truth? We don’t. But I have faith that he does.

This piece was published originally in 2019

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

When it was my turn to get in the golfcart and check the eruv, I was expecting some fun along with a minimum of physical labor. Yet securing the eruv, and thereby providing others the opportunity to navigate a dimension of Shabbat, offered an occasion to think about the responsibility we hold toward others in our Jewish community. When the work was complete and Shabbat arrived, I had a newfound appreciation for the purposes of eruvin and understanding of kol yisrael arevim zeh ba’zeh: “all of Israel are responsible for each other.” Creating a ritual opportunity and peace of mind for an entire community is a sacred task and, having previously discussed these ancient words with campers, I now had a more personal connection to these safeguards.

There are two possible roots for the words eruv and arevim that are worth exploring against the backdrop of the end of Parashat Shofetim. First, an arev can be a loan guarantor, or standard co-signer—someone who takes responsibility for another. The wordplay between an arev and eruv is interesting because the enactment of an eruv guarantees an individual or community’s ability to observe certain aspects of Shabbat. The second and more common derivation from arevim is mixing, as in a �ٲ�’a���DZ���� (mixture), when different types of food are combined. An eruv (short for eruv hazerot) is when domains are mixed or blended so that one can carry on Shabbat from one domain to another. Some people feel bound to others by looking out for them, and as the campers discussed, feel connected through others’ actions. Just as an eruv blends domains and reduces the separation between them, the act of putting up an eruv bonds people through collective responsibility.

The very end of Shofetim invites us to examine the idea of Kol yisrael arevim zeh ba’zeh and eruv with the law of the eglah arufah (heifer whose neck is broken). As the text states, when a person is killed by an unknown murderer and the body is found abandoned in a field, the elders of the city located closest to the deceased must go to the body and make a special sacrifice asking for forgiveness that innocent blood has been shed. The elders arrive and say, “Our hands did not shed this blood, nor did our eyes see [this crime]” ().

This is a strange remark. Why would the camp elders be associated with this murder or even considered guilty of such an act? And if the elders are not responsible, for what are they seeking forgiveness? The Talmud offers the following explanation, “Rather, [the elders declared:] We did not see him and let him depart without food or escort” (B. ). Hizkuni, a 13th-century commentator, elaborates that a host was responsible for sending a traveler with adequate provision and protection. “According to our sages, one is duty bound to provide his guest with five amenities: food, drink, accompany him a short distance when he leaves, provide him with a bed if he wishes to stay for the night, and to give him an ever so minimal gift on his departure” (Hizkuni, ). The elders’ expression of failure to look after the person’s wellbeing weighed on them and disturbed them. Their comment suggests a level of accountability they strived for in and beyond their domains; it’s an idea that is inherent to the meaning of a true eruv.  

Behind the law of eglah arufah is the principle that one might try being responsible for what occurs outside of the areas where one is fully in control. The law highlights the responsibility of the community (and its leaders) for what they do and for what they might have prevented from being done. The establishment of an eruv does not simply mean that a community is enclosed or surrounded by a wall. Rather, the formation of an eruv indicates that people have created a shared collective, accepting responsibility for what occurs within one’s individual jurisdiction while being compassionate and connecting to what occurs outside it.  

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

Shemaiah used to say: love work, hate acting superior (rabbanut; literally “mastery,” or perhaps “the Rabbinate”), and do not attempt to draw near to the ruling authority. (M. Avot 1:10)

The year was 1752, the place Copenhagen, and Rabbi Yehonatan Eybeshutz, Chief Rabbi of Hamburg, Altona, and Wandsbeck, was on trial before the royal court of Denmark. King Frederick V himself was acting as the presiding judge. Altona was legally a province of Denmark, and the Altona City Council had turned to the king to resolve a controversy among the Jews that was breaking into violence in the streets. They had already tried placing Eybeshutz’s opponent in the matter, Rabbi Yaakov Emden, under house arrest. Emden’s escape to Amsterdam under cover of darkness made matters worse. The intensified presence of the city watch among the Jews only increased tensions. In desperation the burghers of Altona had turned to the king of Denmark.

The controversy was the result of a complex set of circumstances and motivations, but in brief, shortly after Eybeshutz took up his office as chief rabbi of the three cities in 1750, Emden had accused him of being the worst sort of heretic. Emden claimed that kabbalistic amulets Eybeshutz had issued to pregnant women in Frankfurt contained coded references to the false messiah Shabbatai Zvi, who had converted to Islam over 80 years earlier. These amulets revealed Eybeshutz’s true colors and made him unfit for office, Emden claimed.

The communities of the three cities, and soon all the Jews of Europe, were split into two factions, each supporting one of these two famous rabbis, who were among the most learned of the day. Eybeshutz’s supporters claimed that the charges were totally without merit and that Emden’s charges were sour grapes that he had not been chosen as chief rabbi of the three cities himself. Emden’s supporters responded that the codes in the amulets were easy to decipher and plainly referred to “Shabbatai Zvi King Messiah,” and that Emden had never wanted the job in the first place. He made a fine living as a printer of Hebrew books and did not need to be a community rabbi. Indeed, Emden was fond of saying that when he made the morning blessing praising God for not making him a slave, his intent was to express gratitude for not being the rabbi of a community.

Emden’s idea, that the leader of a community is no more than a slave to its members, seems odd in light of the Torah’s requirement in our parashah that every tribe is obligated to appoint leaders, judges, and officials to govern the community. The Torah clearly believes that community leaders are a good thing. How could Emden be so dismissive of authority?

However, when we look at the mishnah from Avot quoted above, it is clear that our Sages viewed authority as a double-edged sword, at best. In Rabbi Emden’s commentary on the Mishnah, Lehem Shamayyim, he brings this idea to the fore. Commenting on M. Avot 1:10, he writes that the Mishnah is warning against the attractions of authority, for that is how the snare is laid, and one’s losses will be greater than whatever one gains. Finally, he says, “. . . for the king is called the slave of the people.”

Indeed, our parashah’s description of the ideal king (Deut. 17:14–20) is one who rejects material wealth: few horses, few wives, and little money. The king’s power is limited to governance. A ruler who enriches himself is clearly corrupt. I believe that corruption of leadership is what Emden thought he was fighting against in his opposition to Eybeshutz. Not corruption from avarice, but perhaps something worse: he saw Eybeshutz as harboring a secret agenda, smoothing the way for a foreign influence into the hearts of otherwise good-hearted Jews.

That spring of 1752, Frederick V of Denmark demanded that Eybeshutz come before him and give his account of the amulets. The king was also concerned that Eybeshutz had been elected as chief rabbi fraudulently. Eybeshutz’s advocate, a former student of his who had converted to Christianity, convinced the king of his innocence. The king cleared Eybeschutz of suspicion and placed a ban on any further accusations against the chief rabbi or his amulets. Secondly, the king ordered a new election of the chief rabbi. In December 1752 the community held a new election and Eybeshutz won reappointment easily.

But the ultimate conclusion of the episode was not so simple. The involvement of the king had created a non-Jewish political football: Though Altona was under Frederick’s rule, Hamburg was a “free” city, independent of Danish control. Soon after his reelection as chief rabbi, the Hamburg City Council asserted its authority, rejecting both the king’s verdict and Eybeshutz’s reappointment. A new long, complicated legal battle began to formally define the office of the chief-rabbinate of the three cities and its powers.

Governance and the dangers of politics go hand-in-hand. But we must rule ourselves nonetheless: this is the commandment of the Torah. Most Jews live in democracies today and it is our obligation—indeed, I believe it is a mitzvah—to vote. It is my blessing that we are all able to fulfill this mitzvah in its proper time.

This commentary is indebted to the book by Rabbi Pini Dunner, which caused me to reassess Emden’s motivations in this affair.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

As a person of faith, I develop a religious language and perspective that extends beyond certainties. One that is not circumscribed by only that which I can know, see, and prove. And, most importantly, a language that encompasses aspirational qualities of the religious imagination and the human heart and soul.

I think of the distinction between faith and belief in the context of Parashat Shofetim which is concerned with the various types of leaders that governed Israelite society: judges, kings, priests, and prophets. Throughout the parashah, the Torah seems concerned with placing limitations upon Israelite leaders to prevent the abuse of power. Judges must not accept bribes in the pursuit of justice. Kings must not accumulate too many horses or wives. Priests have no territorial claims and are supported only through prescribed cultic offerings. Prophets must speak in God’s name and may not practice any forms of divination by casting spells or consulting with spirits.

Prophets stand out among the leaders mentioned in Shofetim. Priests and kings are dynastic leaders born into their positions. Judges are appointed by the people, presumably because they demonstrated wisdom and integrity. Prophets, however, are called into service by God, and therefore must assert their authority over, and prove their legitimacy before, the people. Given this, the question posed by the people in Deut. 18:21 is genuine and vital: How will we know [אֵיכָה נֵדַע] that the word spoken is the word of God?

The question “How will we know?” sounds to my ear like a fundamental question of belief not faith. The people want to know with certainty that the prophet speaks for God. In other words, they want to believe in the prophet and not have faith that the prophet speaks for God.

In response, the Torah offers two means to test the veracity of a prophet. First, the true prophet speaks in God’s name and not in the name of other gods. Second, the prophecy must come true. The first criterion easily is satisfied. Even a false prophet should have enough smarts not to speak in the name of another god, though Jer. 2:8 condemns prophets who apparently spoke in Baal’s name. The second criterion is more difficult to fake. The prophet must prove right. There can be no doubt.

I do not blame the people for wanting to believe in (and not solely have faith in) their prophets and for asking the question “How will we know?” I understand their anxiety and desire for certainty. I, too, desire certainty in a world that appears to grow more and more unstable and want to appoint leaders that I know will guide me through it. Yet, unlike my ancient forebearers, I do not expect nor want to believe in my leaders. I want to have faith in them, particularly in my religious leaders. And I want my religious leaders to express themselves with the language of faith, not belief.

I look for religious leaders who strive to hear God, but who don’t know they speak for God. I seek religious leaders who are sensitive to the mysteries of our existence and who are poets that can express those mysteries. I seek religious leaders who have faith that we are more than the sum of our parts and who offer some vision for what that means. Faith may lack certainty, but it incorporates hope. Expressions of faith offer a hopeful vision of what can be and not what is. I look for religious leaders who can express that vision and that can inspire me to claim my place within that vision.

In my view, Israel’s prophets were people of faith and not belief. Their words were more effective than true. They were Israel’s poets who were able to see and express the mysteries of the universe. They also expressed hope with images of a restored Israel. Even their visions of doom were, at some level, hopeful as they were meant to inspire repentance and a renewed commitment to God.

Israel’s prophets could see beyond what was happening to what was possible. They could see beyond Israel’s sins to Israel’s potential for good. They were people of faith. There may be no better example of prophetic faith than Isaiah’s words from this week’s haftarah. Isaiah addresses a decimated Israel who has suffered God’s rebuke—an Israel who swoons in the streets and reels from having drunk from the cup of God’s wrath (Isa. 51:20–22).

To this Israel, Isaiah beckons them to arise from the dust and adorn robes of majesty (52:1–2).

To this Israel, the faithful prophet proclaims: “Your watchmen raise their voices. Together, they shout for joy. For every eye will see God’s return to Zion. Raise a shout together, Ruins of Jerusalem! For God will comfort the people. God will redeem Jerusalem” (vv. 8–9).

How do we know that the prophet Isaiah speaks the truth? We don’t. But I have faith that he does.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

To find hope in such circumstances requires a purposeful act of imagination, envisioning and calling into being new possibilities and paths which once seemed impossible or unimaginable, a process which might be called “finding God.” The prophet therefore calls the people to rouse themselves, rise up, and awaken—to re-engage their imaginations and participate in crafting a vision of a new reality.

Food for thought:

• What inspires you to creative thinking and imaginative problem-solving?

• Do the ways you think about God assist you in such redemptive re-envisioning, or get in the way?

• If they get in the way, how might you move toward a healthier, more growth-oriented theology?

Listen to the haftarah brought to life as it is declaimed in English by renowned actor Ronald Guttman by .

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