5 min read

The Judge, the Tyrant, and the Promise Jacob Left Behind

A judge whispers his fears to himself on the bench. A tyrant discovers that even his crown was not his own. Only one dying man keeps his eyes on what matters.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Judge Who Was Afraid of His Neighbor
  2. Even Moses Needed Help
  3. Pharaoh's Crown Was Not His Own
  4. Jacob's Last Words

The Judge Who Was Afraid of His Neighbor

Yehoshafat, king of Judah, gathered his judges and told them their hands belonged to God. Take heed what you do, he said, for you judge not for man but for the Lord who is with you in judgment. A king's instruction to his courts. It sounds elevated until you hear what the judge says to himself when the gavel is in his hand.

The tradition put the fear in the judge's own mouth, one internal monologue spoken at the worst possible moment. I am afraid of that man. He might kill my son. He might burn my grain stacks. He might cut down my vineyard. The judge on the bench, weighing testimony, doing the arithmetic of justice with property in the balance, is calculating what the truth will cost him in enemies and reprisals.

Sifrei Devarim handed him one sentence: the judgment is God's. The vineyard you are protecting is on loan. Decide the case.

The tradition was not being cruel about this fear. It named the fear first, gave it specific objects, let the judge's panic about his property feel real, and only then said: and now here is the only leverage that actually matters. Your vineyard is not yours in the way you think it is. Neither is his life. Both of you are in the same ledger. The case in front of you was placed there by the same hand that placed your grain stacks in the field. Judge it.

Even Moses Needed Help

The tradition turned from the frightened judge to Moses, the lawgiver, the man who had climbed Sinai and come back glowing. God sent him a test with five women. Five daughters of Zelophchad, who had died leaving no sons, stood before the community and asked for their father's inheritance. The law had no provision for daughters inheriting directly.

Moses, who had received 611 commandments and delivered them without dropping one, did not know the answer. He brought the case before God. The tradition read this not as a failure but as a model: the judge who does not know must say he does not know and go to a higher authority rather than guess. The five women got their inheritance. The precedent was set. The humility of the man who had carried the whole Torah on his shoulders, when he hit the edge of the law, was the same humility the frightened judge needed to access when he hit the edge of his own courage.

Pharaoh's Crown Was Not His Own

Then the tradition turned to a different kind of failure. Pharaoh thought the world was his to bend. He thought his crown was the measure of his authority and his will the mechanism of events. Sifrei Devarim caught him in his error through a verse in Deuteronomy about whom God apportioned territories to among the nations. God set the boundaries of the peoples, the Torah said, according to the number of the children of Israel.

The implication the rabbis drew was vertiginous: Pharaoh's Egypt existed on its current territory because of a calculation God made regarding Israel. The most powerful nation in the ancient world had its borders where they were because of a people Pharaoh was currently drowning in the Nile. The tyrant who thought he was running the world from his palace was living inside a map drawn for someone he considered subhuman. His crown was a prop in a story about the nation he was destroying.

Jacob's Last Words

The tradition let only one figure in this cluster keep his eyes on what actually mattered, and that figure was already dying when he spoke. Jacob lay on his deathbed in Egypt, four hundred years before the Exodus, and made his son swear an oath. Do not bury me in Egypt. Carry me up to the cave of Machpelah, to the land my fathers walked. God will surely bring you back to your land.

The tradition lingered on those words. Jacob did not say: I hope. He said: He will surely. Not as a prophecy being delivered to astonish. As a man who had wrestled an angel and been given a name he did not choose, and who knew, from that morning at the river Jabbok forward, that the Name behind the name kept its appointments. The judge was afraid of his neighbor. Pharaoh thought his crown was the point. The man on the deathbed in Egypt, whispering a promise to a son who would himself die in Egypt, had his eyes open and saw what was actually coming, four hundred years away and as certain as morning.

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From the tradition

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The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Sifrei Devarim 17:7Sifrei Devarim

We all have. But what does Jewish tradition tell us about facing those fears, especially when justice is on the line?

The Sifrei Devarim, a collection of legal interpretations on the Book of Deuteronomy, tackles this head-on. It starts with a powerful, direct command: "Do not fear any man." Now, this isn't some naive call to recklessness. It's a reminder of where true judgment comes from. The text anticipates our anxieties: "Lest you say: I am afraid of that man. He may kill my son, or burn my stacks, or cut down my plants…" The worries are real, the stakes are high. But the Sifrei insists we can't let those fears dictate our actions, because ultimately, "the judgment is G-d's."

This idea isn't isolated. We find it echoed in other parts of the Hebrew Bible. Take the story of Yehoshafat, King of Judah. II (Chronicles 19:6) recounts his charge to the judges: "Take heed what you do, for you judge not for the man, but for the L-rd who is with you in the judgment." It’s a powerful reminder that earthly judges are acting as agents of a higher authority. Their decisions should be guided by divine principles, not personal fears or biases.

What happens when we feel overwhelmed, when the case seems just too complicated? The Sifrei addresses this too, recounting a fascinating exchange between G-d and Moses. G-d tells Moses, essentially, "You think you're judging difficult cases? I'll show you a case so simple even the women can figure it out, but you'll be stumped!" What is it? The case of the daughters of Tzelafchad.

These women, as we read in Bamidbar (Numbers) 27:5, came before Moses seeking their inheritance rights. It was a complex legal question that challenged existing norms. And "Moses brought forth their judgment before the L-rd," meaning he sought divine guidance. The implication? Even the greatest leader, the lawgiver himself, needed to acknowledge the limits of his own understanding and seek a higher perspective.

This theme of human fallibility, even among the most righteous, continues with the story of Saul and Samuel. We find it in I Samuel 9 and 16. Saul, searching for a lost donkey, encounters Samuel, a seer – a prophet. Saul asks Samuel, "Tell me now, which is the house of the seer?" Samuel replies, "I am the seer." The Holy One, Blessed be He, basically says, "Oh, you think you’re the seer? I’ll show you."

How? By sending Samuel to find a new king from among the sons of Yishai (Jesse) of Bethlehem. When Samuel sees Eliav, Yishai's eldest son, he's immediately impressed. "Surely, before the L-rd is His anointed one!" But G-d corrects him: "Do not look at his appearance and at his tall stature, for I have rejected him. For it is not as a man sees. For a man sees to the (beauty of) the eyes, but the L-rd sees to the heart."

Did you catch that? Samuel, the prophet, judged based on outward appearances, on what he thought a king should look like. He relied on his own limited perspective. But G-d looks deeper, at the heart, at the inner qualities that truly matter. The story emphasizes the limitations of human perception. Even those with prophetic gifts can misjudge when relying solely on their own understanding.

What can we take away from these stories? Perhaps it's this: facing injustice, making difficult decisions, requires courage, humility, and a constant awareness of our own limitations. It requires us to look beyond surface appearances, to challenge our assumptions, and to remember that ultimately, true judgment rests with something far greater than ourselves. The task is daunting, yes, but we are not alone in facing it.

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Sifrei Devarim 333:1Sifrei Devarim

Sifrei Devarim 333, in a rather striking interpretation, suggests that all the punishments in Egypt are "pinned on Pharaoh's head" because he was the first to subjugate Israel. It uses the Hebrew word peraoth, which sounds awfully similar to "Pharaoh," to make the point. It's a clever play on words. But it also carries a heavier message. Pharaoh wasn’t just a ruler; he initiated a system of oppression. He set the stage. He created the conditions for everything that followed. So, in a way, he is responsible for the cascading consequences. It’s that initial breach, that first act of injustice, that sets everything else in motion. And that act, according to this reading, makes him accountable for all the suffering that ensued. It is a concept that we can apply to all areas of life.

There’s also a flip side to this story, a glimpse into a hopeful future. Devarim 32:43 speaks of a time when "the nations will praise His people." What does that even mean?

The text suggests that in the future, when God brings redemption to Israel, the nations will be "wroth" before Him. The verse cites (Psalms 99:1): "The L-rd has reigned; the peoples will be wroth." Now, "wroth" might sound negative, but it's actually part of a larger cycle. It's a reaction, an acknowledgment of God's power and justice. It implies that the nations will see the wrongfulness of their past actions.

This isn’t a new phenomenon. The text reminds us that the nations were already "wroth" in the past, as we see in Shemot 15:19: "The peoples heard (of the splitting of the sea); they were wroth." The splitting of the Red Sea was a powerful demonstration of God's intervention, and the nations recognized it – they were shaken.

So, what's the connection? The Sifrei Devarim seems to be suggesting a pattern: oppression, redemption, and the nations' recognition of God's role in it all. The nations' "wrath" isn't just anger; it's a sign that they understand the significance of the events unfolding, both past and future. It's a recognition of divine justice and the power of redemption.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? What role do we play in this cycle? Are we Pharaoh, initiating injustice? Or are we part of the chorus of nations, eventually recognizing the truth and praising God's people? And perhaps, most importantly, are we actively working towards a future where redemption is a reality for all?

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Sifrei Devarim 356:9Sifrei Devarim

While definitive answers might elude us, Jewish tradition offers tantalizing hints and comforting assurances.

Our exploration begins in Sifrei Devarim, a collection of legal and ethical teachings that explore the book of Deuteronomy. Here, we find echoes of blessings past, promises of a future abundant with divine favor. The text draws a parallel to Jacob, our father, blessing his children. "And G-d will be with you," Jacob tells them, "and He will return you to the land of your fathers" (Genesis 48:21). A promise of enduring connection, a return to roots, to belonging.

What of the land itself? The text evokes the blessing of Isaac: "And may G-d give you of the dew of the heavens" (Genesis 27:28), a land of "corn and wine," blessed with abundance and sustenance. The imagery expands, drawing upon (Isaiah 45:8): "Let the heavens pour from above and the heights drip righteousness," a vision of divine grace raining down upon the world.

Then comes the powerful declaration: "Happy are you, O Israel!" This isn't just a statement; it's a divine call and response. Israel proclaims, "Who is like You among the mighty, O L-rd" (Exodus 15:11), and the Ruach (spirit) HaKodesh, the Holy Spirit, answers, "Happy are you, O Israel! Who is like you?" It’s a beautiful moment of recognition, a reciprocal acknowledgement of God's unique power and Israel's special place in the divine tapestry.

But what, specifically, makes us so happy? Imagine all of Israel gathered around Moses, their teacher, their leader, their guide. They ask him a question that burns in their hearts: "Moses, our teacher, tell us what good the Holy One Blessed be He has in store for us in the world to come." It’s the ultimate question, isn’t it? What awaits us?

And Moses, in his wisdom and humility, responds, "I don't know what to tell you. Happy are you in what is readied for you!" It's not a dismissal, but an invitation to trust, to have faith in the boundless goodness that awaits.

The Sifrei Devarim offers a beautiful analogy: Imagine a man hiring a pedagogue, a teacher, for his son. He shows him around his vast estate, saying, "All of these trees are yours! All of these grapevines are yours! All of these olive trees are yours!" He showers the pedagogue with the promise of abundance. But eventually, words fail him. He gestures to the unseen future and says, "I don't know what more to tell you. Happy are you in what is in store for you!"

It’s the same message Moses conveys to Israel. He can't fully articulate the wonders that await, but he assures them that they are blessed beyond measure. He echoes the sentiment of (Psalms 31:20): "How vast is Your good that You have stored away for those who fear You."

So, what does it all mean? Perhaps the true blessing isn't knowing the specifics of what awaits us, but trusting in the boundless love and goodness of the Divine. It's about recognizing the inherent worth and potential within each of us, and embracing the mystery of the future with joy and anticipation. Maybe the greatest happiness lies not in knowing, but in believing. What do you think?

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