Shoftim
King Me
Elul Reflections on Power, Leadership, and Wholeness
How many of us would actually want to live under a monarchy?
Let’s be honest.
Not a monarchy like in the fairy tales — not the gauzy dreams of crowns and banquets, castles and carriages. A real monarchy. One where the king makes actual decisions, rules with authority, taxes your grain, drafts your children, enforces the law — and can’t be voted out.
How many of us would say, “Yes please, I’d like to live under a system where one person holds all the power, for life”?
Not many.
We’re suspicious of power. And rightly so. History has taught us to be.
And yet — it’s a mitzvah.
In this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Shoftim, the Torah lays out the mitzvah of appointing a king over Israel. A human king. Not symbolic. Not ceremonial. A real one. One with soldiers and scribes and sealed documents. One whose decisions matter. And it’s not just allowed — it’s commanded. And it has remained throughout our history.
Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi was a literal king of Israel, as well as the publisher of the Mishna.
The Talmud refers to the historically later heads of great Babylonian Acadamies as "Kings."
And in the Orthodox world, society is led by local Torah leaders.
One way to study this line of "Kingship" would be to examine Rambam's introduction to his magnus opus, his Mishne Torah. Or even an in depth study of the first Mishna in Pirkei Avot... "Moses received the Torah from Sinai, and transmitted it Yehoshua etc...."
But let us begin with the Torah itself - and our parsha.
The Torah's King – Devarim 17:14-20
“When you come into the land that the LORD your God is giving you, and you possess it and dwell in it, and you say, ‘I will set a king over me, like all the nations around me,’
You shall indeed set over yourself a king, whom the LORD your God shall choose. From among your brothers you shall set a king over you; you may not set a foreigner over you, who is not your brother.
Only: he must not acquire many horses for himself, and he must not return the people to Egypt to acquire horses, for the LORD has told you, ‘You shall never return that way again.’
He must not have many wives, lest his heart go astray.
Nor shall he greatly increase silver and gold for himself.
And when he sits on the throne of his kingdom, he shall write for himself a copy of this Torah… and it shall be with him, and he shall read it all the days of his life, that he may learn to fear the LORD his God, to keep all the words of this Torah…
That his heart not be lifted above his brothers, and that he not turn aside from the commandments…”
What kind of king is this?
A king who doesn’t ride too many horses — meaning, don’t build a massive army. Don’t lean on brute force like Egypt.
A king who doesn’t collect wives — meaning, don’t use power for pleasure or status.
A king who doesn’t amass silver and gold — meaning, don’t exploit your position for wealth and glory.
And perhaps most importantly:
A king who writes a Sefer Torah, with his own hand, and carries it with him everywhere. He reads from it daily. It is his mirror and his map.
This is not your average monarch. This is a Jewish king.
A King Who Knows He’s Not the King
In Jewish thought, power is never unchecked. The king may sit on the throne, but the Torah sits above him. And so does the true King of Kings.
It’s worth noting something crucial: The verse doesn’t command “appoint a king.” It says, “When you say, ‘I will appoint a king’… you shall surely appoint one whom God chooses.”
So is it voluntary? Or a mitzvah?
The Rambam (Hilchot Melachim 1:1) makes it clear: It’s a mitzvah. Just like appointing judges and building a Beit HaMikdash.
But the Torah’s careful language reveals the ambivalence. God doesn’t force us to appoint a king. He waits until we ask for one — and then He gives us rules to make it work.
Why?
Because power is dangerous. Even religious power. Even Jewish power.
And nowhere is that danger more evident than in the tragic story of Israel’s first king.
The Rise and Fall of King Shaul
Centuries after the Torah was given, the people demand a king. It’s the Book of Shmuel (I Samuel 8). The prophet Shmuel is old. The people are afraid. They want a strong leader. Someone with muscles. Someone who can fight battles. Someone with charisma. Someone… like the other nations have.
Shmuel is hurt. But God reassures him:
“Listen to the people. They are not rejecting you. They are rejecting Me — that I should not reign over them.”
God allows it. Because we have free-will. And that necessitates that when we cannot handle a higher spiritual level, than we must adapt, and live at a lower level, without losing ourselves completely.
So. Shaul is chosen — tall, noble, modest. A worthy choice.
But he makes one fatal mistake.
He spares Agag, the king of Amalek.
It seems like a small detail. He had already defeated Amalek. What’s one man, for one night?
But that one night — as the Midrash teaches — is all it took for Agag to father a child. A child whose descendants would one day include Haman.
And Haman’s spiritual DNA — Amalekite hatred for Israel — would haunt us for centuries. Even, some might argue, into the 20th century, wearing new uniforms and speaking new tongues.
All because of one act of misplaced mercy. Or maybe — fear.
Shaul didn’t kill Agag because he was kind. He hesitated because he was insecure. He listened to the people instead of the prophet. Instead of God.
He wanted to be loved more than he wanted to lead.
And that is not what a king does.
In Torah law, a Kingdom ruled by a holy leader is worlds better than a Democracy, which is, in essence, a popularity contest. The thinking being - that sheep need a shepherd.
The Problem with Democracy (and Why We Still Need It)
Democracy is messy. And beautiful. But it's not without spiritual risk.
Because when you lead by popularity, you follow the polls. And when you follow the polls, you stop hearing the still, small voice of conscience. The prophetic voice. The God voice. You stop writing your own Torah - despite being a key figure of the history which will be written - one day.
Shaul fell not because he lacked strength — but because he lacked kavod. For his office. He did not honor the weight of his role. He forgot that the throne wasn’t his. That he was only a representative of Heaven's Will.
Because in Judaism, just like your money is not really your own - but on loan from God, so too is power - even for the monarchy. In fact, especially for the Monarch.
A Jewish king must not just be moral. He must be more than moral. He must be immune to ego and resistant to flattery. His honour is not his own — it belongs to the people, and to God.
That’s why he’s forbidden to forgive personal insults. Because his kavod is not personal. It represents the divine sovereignty over Israel.
Read David’s reign with that in mind, and many of his decisions — even the hard ones — come into sharper focus.
Who’s the Real King?
This brings us to Rosh Hashanah. The Day of the King.
“Avinu Malkeinu.”
Our Father. Our King.
Not just a poetic duality. Not just a metaphor.
The Jewish God is both.
Elul is the month where this duality dances in front of us, every day.
We blow the shofar. We say L'David HaShem Ori. We do spiritual accounting. We prepare for coronation.
Rosh Hashanah is not just the “New Year.” It is Yom HaDin — the Day of Judgment — and Yom HaZikaron — the Day of Remembrance. But above all, it is Coronation Day.
We do not beg for forgiveness.
We proclaim: HaShem Melech!
And we crown Him. Not because He needs it — but because we do.
Because we need to remember who the real King is.
Because otherwise we will crown something else.
Money.
Fear.
Popularity.
Ourselves.
A Hut or a Palace? (The Chassidic Allegory)
Chassidus gives us a beautiful parable:
A king once banished his son for poor behaviour. The boy wandered the wilderness, became a shepherd, ragged and rough. Years passed. The king, out of habit, still made royal tours of his countryside.
One day, the son sees the royal carriage approaching. He rushes forward, tattered and trembling, clutching a scrap of parchment with a petition. He throws it through the open window.
The king, surprised, retrieves the note and reads:
“Please sir, if it pleases the King, may I have a hut to shelter me from sun and rain?”
The king bursts into tears.
“He could have asked for anything. He could have asked to come home.”
That’s Elul.
God is in the field, says the Baal HaTanya. He’s not in His palace, remote and lofty. He’s walking among us, approachable, listening.
And we — like fools — ask for a hut. A raise. A shortcut. A fleeting pleasure.
When we could be asking for the Geulah.
For the shofar of Mashiach.
For the final redemption.
For home.
What Does It Mean to Be “Whole with God”?
There’s another passage in this parsha that often gets overlooked.
“You shall be tamim (whole, simple, pure) with the LORD your God.” (Deut. 18:13)
Rashi explains: Walk with Him in temimut — simplicity, trust. Don’t obsess over the future. Don’t seek omens, fortune-tellers, or guarantees. Just walk with God in the moment.
Being whole doesn’t mean being naïve. It means choosing to believe — even without full control.
To be tamim is to choose God over control. Torah over anxiety. Faith over fear.
So, Who Is a King?
In Talmudic language, the term “King” can refer to the gadol ha-dor — the greatest sage of the generation. Rav Yosef is said to have “ruled” after Rava died.
Why? Because leadership, in Torah thought, is not about wielding power. It’s about channeling Divine wisdom.
That’s why the Mashiach is called a King, not a guru. The world doesn’t need another influencer. It needs a leader. Someone strong enough to be gentle. Humble enough to rule. Brave enough to listen to God.
God, Our King
When we say “Baruch Atah HaShem Elokeinu Melech haOlam” — we’re not just stating a theological fact. We’re pledging allegiance.
We’re saying:
“You are my leader.
You are the One I follow.
You guide me, command me, love me, correct me.”
A Jewish King leads not just with laws, but with Torah. Not with fear, but with awe. Not with ego, but with truth.
So when we call God our King — let’s mean it.
Let’s walk in His footsteps. Let’s carry His scroll. Let’s crown Him not just on Rosh Hashanah, but every day.
Let’s not ask for a hut.
Let’s ask to come home.
How many of us would actually want to live under a monarchy?
Let’s be honest.
Not a monarchy like in the fairy tales — not the gauzy dreams of crowns and banquets, castles and carriages. A real monarchy. One where the king makes actual decisions, rules with authority, taxes your grain, drafts your children, enforces the law — and can’t be voted out.
How many of us would say, “Yes please, I’d like to live under a system where one person holds all the power, for life”?
Not many.
We’re suspicious of power. And rightly so. History has taught us to be.
And yet — it’s a mitzvah.
In this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Shoftim, the Torah lays out the mitzvah of appointing a king over Israel. A human king. Not symbolic. Not ceremonial. A real one. One with soldiers and scribes and sealed documents. One whose decisions matter. And it’s not just allowed — it’s commanded. And it has remained throughout our history.
Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi was a literal king of Israel, as well as the publisher of the Mishna.
The Talmud refers to the historically later heads of great Babylonian Acadamies as "Kings."
And in the Orthodox world, society is led by local Torah leaders.
One way to study this line of "Kingship" would be to examine Rambam's introduction to his magnus opus, his Mishne Torah. Or even an in depth study of the first Mishna in Pirkei Avot... "Moses received the Torah from Sinai, and transmitted it Yehoshua etc...."
But let us begin with the Torah itself - and our parsha.
The Torah's King – Devarim 17:14-20
“When you come into the land that the LORD your God is giving you, and you possess it and dwell in it, and you say, ‘I will set a king over me, like all the nations around me,’
You shall indeed set over yourself a king, whom the LORD your God shall choose. From among your brothers you shall set a king over you; you may not set a foreigner over you, who is not your brother.
Only: he must not acquire many horses for himself, and he must not return the people to Egypt to acquire horses, for the LORD has told you, ‘You shall never return that way again.’
He must not have many wives, lest his heart go astray.
Nor shall he greatly increase silver and gold for himself.
And when he sits on the throne of his kingdom, he shall write for himself a copy of this Torah… and it shall be with him, and he shall read it all the days of his life, that he may learn to fear the LORD his God, to keep all the words of this Torah…
That his heart not be lifted above his brothers, and that he not turn aside from the commandments…”
What kind of king is this?
A king who doesn’t ride too many horses — meaning, don’t build a massive army. Don’t lean on brute force like Egypt.
A king who doesn’t collect wives — meaning, don’t use power for pleasure or status.
A king who doesn’t amass silver and gold — meaning, don’t exploit your position for wealth and glory.
And perhaps most importantly:
A king who writes a Sefer Torah, with his own hand, and carries it with him everywhere. He reads from it daily. It is his mirror and his map.
This is not your average monarch. This is a Jewish king.
A King Who Knows He’s Not the King
In Jewish thought, power is never unchecked. The king may sit on the throne, but the Torah sits above him. And so does the true King of Kings.
It’s worth noting something crucial: The verse doesn’t command “appoint a king.” It says, “When you say, ‘I will appoint a king’… you shall surely appoint one whom God chooses.”
So is it voluntary? Or a mitzvah?
The Rambam (Hilchot Melachim 1:1) makes it clear: It’s a mitzvah. Just like appointing judges and building a Beit HaMikdash.
But the Torah’s careful language reveals the ambivalence. God doesn’t force us to appoint a king. He waits until we ask for one — and then He gives us rules to make it work.
Why?
Because power is dangerous. Even religious power. Even Jewish power.
And nowhere is that danger more evident than in the tragic story of Israel’s first king.
The Rise and Fall of King Shaul
Centuries after the Torah was given, the people demand a king. It’s the Book of Shmuel (I Samuel 8). The prophet Shmuel is old. The people are afraid. They want a strong leader. Someone with muscles. Someone who can fight battles. Someone with charisma. Someone… like the other nations have.
Shmuel is hurt. But God reassures him:
“Listen to the people. They are not rejecting you. They are rejecting Me — that I should not reign over them.”
God allows it. Because we have free-will. And that necessitates that when we cannot handle a higher spiritual level, than we must adapt, and live at a lower level, without losing ourselves completely.
So. Shaul is chosen — tall, noble, modest. A worthy choice.
But he makes one fatal mistake.
He spares Agag, the king of Amalek.
It seems like a small detail. He had already defeated Amalek. What’s one man, for one night?
But that one night — as the Midrash teaches — is all it took for Agag to father a child. A child whose descendants would one day include Haman.
And Haman’s spiritual DNA — Amalekite hatred for Israel — would haunt us for centuries. Even, some might argue, into the 20th century, wearing new uniforms and speaking new tongues.
All because of one act of misplaced mercy. Or maybe — fear.
Shaul didn’t kill Agag because he was kind. He hesitated because he was insecure. He listened to the people instead of the prophet. Instead of God.
He wanted to be loved more than he wanted to lead.
And that is not what a king does.
In Torah law, a Kingdom ruled by a holy leader is worlds better than a Democracy, which is, in essence, a popularity contest. The thinking being - that sheep need a shepherd.
The Problem with Democracy (and Why We Still Need It)
Democracy is messy. And beautiful. But it's not without spiritual risk.
Because when you lead by popularity, you follow the polls. And when you follow the polls, you stop hearing the still, small voice of conscience. The prophetic voice. The God voice. You stop writing your own Torah - despite being a key figure of the history which will be written - one day.
Shaul fell not because he lacked strength — but because he lacked kavod. For his office. He did not honor the weight of his role. He forgot that the throne wasn’t his. That he was only a representative of Heaven's Will.
Because in Judaism, just like your money is not really your own - but on loan from God, so too is power - even for the monarchy. In fact, especially for the Monarch.
A Jewish king must not just be moral. He must be more than moral. He must be immune to ego and resistant to flattery. His honour is not his own — it belongs to the people, and to God.
That’s why he’s forbidden to forgive personal insults. Because his kavod is not personal. It represents the divine sovereignty over Israel.
Read David’s reign with that in mind, and many of his decisions — even the hard ones — come into sharper focus.
Who’s the Real King?
This brings us to Rosh Hashanah. The Day of the King.
“Avinu Malkeinu.”
Our Father. Our King.
Not just a poetic duality. Not just a metaphor.
The Jewish God is both.
Elul is the month where this duality dances in front of us, every day.
We blow the shofar. We say L'David HaShem Ori. We do spiritual accounting. We prepare for coronation.
Rosh Hashanah is not just the “New Year.” It is Yom HaDin — the Day of Judgment — and Yom HaZikaron — the Day of Remembrance. But above all, it is Coronation Day.
We do not beg for forgiveness.
We proclaim: HaShem Melech!
And we crown Him. Not because He needs it — but because we do.
Because we need to remember who the real King is.
Because otherwise we will crown something else.
Money.
Fear.
Popularity.
Ourselves.
A Hut or a Palace? (The Chassidic Allegory)
Chassidus gives us a beautiful parable:
A king once banished his son for poor behaviour. The boy wandered the wilderness, became a shepherd, ragged and rough. Years passed. The king, out of habit, still made royal tours of his countryside.
One day, the son sees the royal carriage approaching. He rushes forward, tattered and trembling, clutching a scrap of parchment with a petition. He throws it through the open window.
The king, surprised, retrieves the note and reads:
“Please sir, if it pleases the King, may I have a hut to shelter me from sun and rain?”
The king bursts into tears.
“He could have asked for anything. He could have asked to come home.”
That’s Elul.
God is in the field, says the Baal HaTanya. He’s not in His palace, remote and lofty. He’s walking among us, approachable, listening.
And we — like fools — ask for a hut. A raise. A shortcut. A fleeting pleasure.
When we could be asking for the Geulah.
For the shofar of Mashiach.
For the final redemption.
For home.
What Does It Mean to Be “Whole with God”?
There’s another passage in this parsha that often gets overlooked.
“You shall be tamim (whole, simple, pure) with the LORD your God.” (Deut. 18:13)
Rashi explains: Walk with Him in temimut — simplicity, trust. Don’t obsess over the future. Don’t seek omens, fortune-tellers, or guarantees. Just walk with God in the moment.
Being whole doesn’t mean being naïve. It means choosing to believe — even without full control.
To be tamim is to choose God over control. Torah over anxiety. Faith over fear.
So, Who Is a King?
In Talmudic language, the term “King” can refer to the gadol ha-dor — the greatest sage of the generation. Rav Yosef is said to have “ruled” after Rava died.
Why? Because leadership, in Torah thought, is not about wielding power. It’s about channeling Divine wisdom.
That’s why the Mashiach is called a King, not a guru. The world doesn’t need another influencer. It needs a leader. Someone strong enough to be gentle. Humble enough to rule. Brave enough to listen to God.
God, Our King
When we say “Baruch Atah HaShem Elokeinu Melech haOlam” — we’re not just stating a theological fact. We’re pledging allegiance.
We’re saying:
“You are my leader.
You are the One I follow.
You guide me, command me, love me, correct me.”
A Jewish King leads not just with laws, but with Torah. Not with fear, but with awe. Not with ego, but with truth.
So when we call God our King — let’s mean it.
Let’s walk in His footsteps. Let’s carry His scroll. Let’s crown Him not just on Rosh Hashanah, but every day.
Let’s not ask for a hut.
Let’s ask to come home.