In lieu of dvar Torah on Shoftim
I have nothing to add to Rabbi Ismor Schorsch's dvar Torah (below) except to note how far our politicians have fallen from the standard set by the Torah.

The past two weeks, the words of R. Hananiah have been very
much on my mind as I watched in horror with all Americans
the unraveling of law and order in the murky waters of New
Orleans. Among the impoverished masses temporarily trapped
and abandoned, panic, desperation, greed, and lust converged
to erupt in repeated outbursts of raw violence. The
inattention and unpreparedness of the federal government for
a cataclysm long known to be waiting to happen exposed again
a largely stratified society, where individual freedom
continues to run roughshod over a fair measure of equality
for all. A viable democracy cannot survive on either pillar
alone. In the months ahead, investigative commissions without
number will seek to plot missteps, assign blame, and propose
initiatives. But how will politicians, for whom winning is
everything, cleanse themselves collectively of guilt where
no one is directly culpable? How do we spiritually atone for
the stain left on our body politic by Katrina's assault?

This week's parashah, which takes up the contours of good
governance, among other subjects, actually addresses the
issue with an exotic proposal. What is to be done with the
discovery of a slain corpse in an open field when no one
has any notion as to who might have committed the crime? In
a rural society with minimal security between villages,
such cases must have not been rare.

The Torah prescribes a ritual of atonement. The unpunished
murder of a stranger polluted the land. When Cain killed
his brother Abel in a fit of jealousy, God accused him: "What
have you done? Hark, your brother's blood cries out to Me
from the ground" (Genesis 4:10). Without justice being done,
Abel's innocent blood would defile the land. Deuteronomy
returns to the case. The earth must be cleansed of bloodguilt
in a public ceremony whose awesomeness might just induce the
culprit or an accomplice to step forward.

The elders and magistrates from the town nearest the corpse
are to take a heifer that has never been yoked or worked. At
a wadi that never runs dry, they are to break its neck from
the back (with a hatchet according to the Rabbis, thus not
a sacrifice) and wash their hands over it (rather than laying
them upon it, thus no scapegoat). At which point the elders
are required to declare publicly that they were not party to
the crime either as perpetrators or bystanders: "Our hands
did not shed this blood, nor did our eyes see it done" (21:7).

The Mishnah elaborates. Is it conceivable that we might
suspect a court of law of committing murder? Hardly. The
intent of the confession is to exonerate the elders of
facilitating the travesty by their indifference. "We did
not send him away without provisions nor let him go
unaccompanied" (Sotah 9:6). That is, we know the victim;
he approached us and we did help him. We do not bear even
an indirect responsibility for his death. Only then can
the elders complete this rite of purgation by beseeching
God to absolve "Your people Israel whom You redeemed and
do not let guilt for blood of the innocent remain among
Your people Israel" (21:8).

It is significant that the Torah adds the salient detail
that the land alongside the wadi was to be barren. Modern
commentators have scarcely improved on the Talmud's
explanation of this perplexing rite. What links its
components is precisely the theme of barrenness. God said,
"Let the neck of a heifer that has not yet given birth be
broken at a site which is wholly unfertile to atone for a
human being who was stripped of his right to have offspring"
(BT Sotah 46a). In short, all the parts contribute to the
message of the whole. Though not directly responsible, the
elders lament the loss of life with all its promise. The
crime has not only desecrated the image of God imprinted
in every human soul, but also diminished the capacity of
society to sustain itself. The ritual cleanses because it
forces conscience to the fore. Without remorse, there can
be no forgiveness.

I have often wondered if office holders should not be made
to undergo a rite of purification when the public suspects
their culpability. Not an investigation in which they exercise
their right to defend their actions, but a sacred setting in
which they might give voice to their feelings of remorse and
sense of fallibility. Their oath of office, taken on a Bible,
implies a duty to God as well as society. An occasional
confession in the house of worship of their choice might even
reinforce the sanctity of their public trust. It certainly
would give authority a more human face.

Of course, I must acknowledge that the scale of things
makes a difference. The biblical ideal fell victim to
the rampant violence that marked the years prior to the
uprising against Roman rule. The Mishnah records
laconically that as the number of murderers (i.e., political
zealots) roaming the countryside increased, the rite of
breaking a heifer's neck was abandoned (Sotah 9:9).
Circumstances had rendered a divine injunction unfeasible
and ineffectual. With blood flowing like water, the soil
of Judea became irremediably impure.

But the ideal remains valid even in contemporary America.
Office holders are accountable to God as well as to their
constituencies, otherwise they would not swear on Scripture.
And for God, humility has always been one of the qualifications
of leadership. Moses looms as the greatest of ancient Israel's
leaders because in part at least he was also the humblest of
men (Numbers 12:3).