Parshat Shoftim – Seen Without Judgment: Replace judgment with curiosity

Judges at the Gates — Pursuing Justice Without Distortion (16:18–20)

Shoftim begins: “שֹׁפְטִים וְשֹׁטְרִים תִּתֵּן לְךָ בְּכָל־שְׁעָרֶיךָ… וְשָׁפְטוּ אֶת־הָעָם מִשְׁפַּט־צֶדֶק” — “Judges and officers you shall appoint at all your gates… and they shall judge the people with righteous judgment” (16:18).

On the surface, this pasuk sets out the structure of a just society. But Chassidic commentaries like the Sfas Emes read it inwardly: the she’arim — gates — are also the gates of the self, the eyes, ears, mouth, and heart through which life flows. Each gate requires its own judge, a presence of discernment that slows impulse and demands fairness before reaction. Without such inner judges, impressions and emotions rush in unchecked — and judgments rush out distorted.

The Torah immediately warns against distortion: “לֹא־תַטֶּה מִשְׁפָּט, לֹא תַכִּיר פָּנִים, וְלֹא תִקַּח שֹׁחַד” — “Do not pervert judgment, do not decide by appearances, and do not take a bribe” (16:19). Rambam explains that even subtle bias — anger, fatigue, or fear of others — is a form of shochad (bribe). The Sfas Emes adds: shochad = shehu chad — the bribe fuses with you, blinding you to truth. Parents know these “bribes” well. They don’t come in envelopes, but in emotions: the frustration of a long day, the shame of “what will the neighbors think,” the fear that my child’s struggle reflects on me. These inner pulls cloud vision until we rush to distorted labels: “lazy,” “defiant,” “ungrateful.”

The Torah then presses further: “צֶדֶק צֶדֶק תִּרְדֹּף” — “Justice, justice you shall pursue” (16:20). Ramban explains: justice is not passive; it must be sought. The Chiddushei HaRim adds that the doubling points to two layers: outer fact and inner essence. Real justice demands pursuing not only what happened, but what it means.

This is the discipline parents need most. We often assume the facts are obvious: the tantrum proves defiance, the silence proves apathy, the slammed door proves disrespect. But Shoftim insists: what looks like justice at first glance may not be justice at all. A tantrum may mask exhaustion. Silence may conceal shame. A slammed door may cover a desperate bid for dignity. Quick judgment sees only behavior; curiosity pursues the need beneath it.

Psychology echoes this Torah wisdom. Neuroscience shows that under stress, our brains default to snap judgments, collapsing the child into “always” or “never.” Trauma research reminds us: behavior is communication. What looks like defiance may be dysregulation. What looks like laziness may be overwhelm. What looks like apathy may be fear of failure. To stop at the surface is to mistake the symptom for the story.

In practice, pursuing justice begins with a pause. A parent can name it to themselves: I am at the gate. A verdict is about to pass my lips. Can I appoint a judge here before I speak? That single pause allows space for fairness before reaction.

Consider the child who spills milk at the end of a long day. Instinct says, “You’re so careless.” But when the inner judge steps in, the parent remembers: it is late, the child is tired, and this was an accident. Instead of a verdict that condemns, the parent says, “Let’s clean it up together — next time, slower.” The moment is reframed, and the child’s dignity is preserved.

Or imagine a teen who slams their bedroom door. The quick judgment is, “You’re disrespectful.” But pursuing justice asks instead: what shame, frustration, or pain might lie beneath this act? The parent pauses and responds differently: “Looks like you’ve had a rough day — let’s talk later.” The behavior is not excused, but the verdict leaves room for context.

A similar shift happens when a child refuses homework. On the surface, the refusal looks like laziness. But a deeper pursuit may reveal overwhelm or quiet anxiety. Instead of branding the child “lazy,” the parent might say, “This feels hard. Let’s start with one problem together.” The work still gets addressed, but the child is not reduced to the label.

The King’s Humility

The Torah sets limits on kings: “וְלֹא־יָרוּם לְבָבוֹ מֵאֶחָיו” — “His heart must not be raised above his brothers” (17:20). Even the highest authority in Israel is commanded to remain humble, to remember that he is not above the people but among them. Ramban comments that this pasuk protects the king from the arrogance that so easily comes with power. Malbim adds that the king is warned precisely because his role demands authority — and authority, unchecked, can slip into dominance.

Shoftim thus teaches that authority without humility becomes tyranny. And humility, in Torah, is not weakness but self-restraint. As the Mesillat Yesharim explains, true humility is knowing one’s power while refusing to wield it for self. The king must carry authority with reverence, not with ego.

The same truth applies in the home. Parents, too, are invested with authority. They set rules, enforce limits, and shape the environment of the family. But the danger is the same: when authority rises from ego, it reduces children to subjects under control. A parent convinced “I must always be right” or “My child must never question me” risks confusing leadership with domination. Shoftim reminds us: the role of parent is closer to the role of king — necessary authority, yes, but authority restrained by humility.

Chassidic thought adds that the true malchut — kingship — is not about control but about kabbalat ol (accepting Hashem’s sovereignty) and reflecting it through presence. A king who raises his heart above the people ceases to be a conduit of Divine authority and becomes an idol to himself. So too, a parent who leads from ego ceases to reflect Hashem’s compassion and begins to rule from pride. Humility is what keeps authority aligned with service.

Psychology reinforces this truth. Research on family systems shows that authoritarian parenting — control rooted in ego — often yields rebellion or collapse. Children either push back harder or fold into shame. By contrast, authoritative parenting — firm but humble, clear but compassionate — yields resilience and secure attachment. Authority held with humility is what helps children internalize boundaries without losing their sense of worth.

In practice, this humility often looks like a pause before correction: Am I reacting from my ego, or am I guiding from care? Picture a parent correcting homework. From ego: “How could you not know this? Sit until it’s done.” From humility: “This looks hard for you. Let’s tackle one problem together — you’re not alone.” Or imagine a child interrupting at the table. From ego: “Stop being so rude.” From humility: “I know you’re excited to share, but let’s wait until your sister finishes.” The boundary remains, but the correction comes from care, not pride.

Shoftim’s warning to the king is therefore also a warning to parents: do not let authority raise your heart above your children. True strength is not in overpowering but in holding back — leading with humility, not dominance. That humility is itself a form of seeing without judgment, because it recognizes: I am not above you, I am with you.

V. The Prophet’s Call to Listen

Moshe promises: “נָבִיא מִקִּרְבְּךָ מֵאַחֶיךָ כָּמוֹנִי יָקִים לְךָ ה׳ אֱלֹקֶיךָ — אֵלָיו תִּשְׁמָעוּן” — “A prophet from among you, from your brothers, like me, Hashem your God will raise up for you — to him you shall listen” (18:15).

The Torah defines the prophet not only by what he speaks, but by the call to the people: listen to him. True leadership does not begin with commanding but with listening. As Ramban notes, the prophet’s words are not his own — they are Hashem’s — and therefore the people must listen with reverence. The prophet is a vessel, and listening is what allows the Divine message to be received.

If a prophet’s authority depends on the people’s willingness to listen, then parental authority depends on the same. Leadership in the home does not begin with instruction or correction but with listening. A child who feels unheard will resist even wise direction; a child who feels listened to will accept limits because they sense they are understood.

Chassidut frames this as the difference between kol (voice) and dibbur (speech). Voice precedes words. It is the vibration of presence that makes speech possible. Similarly, listening precedes judgment. Attunement makes guidance land. Just as Am Yisrael could only receive Torah by saying na’aseh v’nishma — “we will do and we will listen” — so too a parent’s guidance is heard only when the child feels that their own voice has been listened to.

Psychology affirms this truth. Carl Rogers, the father of person-centered therapy, taught that the deepest human need is to be listened to with unconditional positive regard. Dan Siegel adds that children who feel “felt” — whose inner world is mirrored back by a listening parent — develop resilience and trust. Listening is not a passive act; it is a developmental intervention. It literally shapes the brain toward regulation and connection.

Practically, this means slowing down judgment long enough to listen beneath the surface. A child mutters, “I hate school.” The reactive parent judges: “You’re just lazy.” The listening parent leans in: “Sounds like school feels really hard right now. Want to tell me more?” Or a teen protests, “You don’t understand me.” The reactive parent replies: “Stop being so dramatic.” The listening parent says: “Maybe you’re right — help me understand better.” In both cases, the child feels Seen without judgment. Their essence is honored, even if their struggle remains.

Shoftim reminds us that prophets are not only speakers but listeners, and leaders are those who attune before they instruct. For parents, the call is clear: if we want our words to reach, we must first open the space to listen. To see a child without judgment begins with hearing the quiet places of their heart.

Guarding Truth and Dignity (19:14–19)

The Torah devotes a cluster of laws in Shoftim to one central principle: truth must be protected, and dignity preserved. Each law, though different in detail, forms a progression — from boundaries, to context, to speech — all warning us that justice collapses when dignity is violated.

“לֹא תַסִּיג גְּבוּל רֵעֲךָ” — “Do not move your neighbor’s boundary” (19:14) begins with property but reaches deeper. Chazal teach that boundaries are not only about land but also about the self. To trespass another’s boundary is to erase what belongs uniquely to them. In parenting, this happens when judgment collapses behavior into identity. “You are selfish” or “You are impossible” does more than correct an act — it crosses into the child’s inner territory, shifting the boundary of their soul. The Baal HaTurim explains that Shoftim links justice with boundaries because truth depends on restraint. To respect dignity is to know where correction ends and essence begins.

The Torah then adds a second safeguard: “עַל־פִּי שְׁנֵי עֵדִים יָקוּם דָּבָר” — “By the testimony of two witnesses shall a matter be established” (19:15). No matter how convincing, one perspective is never enough. Even in the most serious cases, truth requires confirmation, context, and time. Parenting, too, demands more than reacting to one moment. A slammed door, a failed test, or a sharp word is not the whole story. As the Sfas Emes explains, testimony must come in pairs because truth needs both the outer act and the inner intent. Without both, we risk judging appearance instead of essence.

Finally, the Torah warns against distortion through speech itself: “וַעֲשִׂיתֶם לוֹ כַּאֲשֶׁר זָמַם” — “You shall do to him as he conspired” (19:19). False testimony receives such severe treatment because it corrodes trust at its root. For parents, this danger often takes the form of labels: “the lazy one,” “the failure.” Spoken often enough, these words settle as verdicts that children carry as identity. The Baal Shem Tov taught that words are not descriptive but generative — they awaken forces that shape reality. A false label does not only misname a child; it risks creating the very exile it declares.

Modern psychology affirms the Torah’s insight. Attachment research shows that children thrive when parents separate behavior from identity: “What you did was hurtful” rather than “You are hurtful.” Trauma research warns that no single act defines a person; one witness is never enough. And labeling theory demonstrates that repeated negative names — “lazy,” “bad,” “unworthy” — sink into the psyche until they become a shame identity. Words written often enough on the heart begin to feel like truth.

Guarding truth and dignity, then, means building a discipline of pause. It means slowing down long enough to ask: Am I moving my child’s boundary by collapsing essence into behavior? Am I relying on one witness — a single moment — when context might reveal something else? Am I about to speak words that will testify falsely about who my child really is?

In practice, this can be as simple as reframing. A child shouts at a sibling. The hasty verdict: “You’re a bully.” The truer response: “What you said was hurtful. I know you can do better.” A teen struggles with homework. Quick judgment: “You’re lazy.” Careful judgment: “This looks overwhelming — let’s start with one step together.” A child melts down after a long day. False testimony: “You’re impossible.” Just speech: “This is hard for you — let’s figure it out together.”

Shoftim’s progression of laws — from boundaries, to context, to testimony — calls parents to the same progression in our homes. We respect the boundary of dignity, we insist on context before verdict, and we guard our words as sacred testimony. To see without judgment is to affirm that no child is reducible to a single act, that no soul is defined by one failure, and that every word we speak has the power to either wound or redeem.

Encouragement Before Battle — Replacing Judgment with Courage (20:3)

Before Israel goes to war, the kohen steps forward and proclaims: “אַל־יִרַךְ לְבַבְכֶם, אַל־תִּירְאוּ, וְאַל־תַחְפְּזוּ, וְאַל־תַעַרְצוּ מִפְּנֵיהֶם” — “Do not let your hearts grow faint; do not fear; do not panic; do not be terrified before them” (20:3).

What is striking is the tone. The Torah could have spoken with rebuke: Do not be cowards! Instead, it speaks with encouragement: Do not be afraid. Take heart. Stand strong. Rashi notes that the kohen’s words are meant to infuse courage, not shame. The battlefield is frightening enough; the Torah adds no further weight of judgment. The Torah understands that fear is real, but it also teaches that courage is nurtured by words of faith.

For parents, the parallel is profound. Our children often face their own “battles”: a test they dread, a friendship in conflict, an inner struggle with anxiety, temptation, or shame. In those moments, they do not need condemnation — Why are you always so nervous? Why can’t you handle this? They need encouragement — I know this is hard. I believe in you. You don’t face it alone.

Chassidic teachers add that fear contracts the heart, while encouragement expands it. The kohen’s role was to expand the hearts of the soldiers, to open them to Hashem’s presence even in danger. Parenting works the same way: judgment contracts a child’s heart in fear, while encouragement expands their capacity to step forward with strength.

Psychology affirms this truth. Neuroscience shows that fear activates the stress response, flooding the body with cortisol and shutting down higher reasoning. Encouragement, by contrast, regulates the nervous system, restoring access to calm and problem-solving. Children who feel believed in develop what psychologists call self-efficacy — the internalized belief: I can handle hard things. Parents are the first and most powerful source of this belief.

In practice, this means paying close attention to the words we speak in moments of challenge. A child struggling with math may already feel defeated before opening the book. Judgment says: You’re just not good at this. Encouragement reframes the moment: This looks tough, but I know you can learn it step by step. I’ll help you get started. The subject remains hard, but the child feels bolstered rather than shamed. Or imagine a teen anxious about a social event. Their body tightens, fear of rejection looms. Judgment reacts: Stop being so dramatic. Encouragement opens space: I know this feels scary. And I know you’re braver than you feel right now. I believe in you. In that moment, courage begins to replace fear.

Shoftim reminds us that even on the battlefield, the Torah’s voice is encouragement. Parenting, too, must be anchored in this stance: when a child faces struggle, our words must give strength, not add fear. To see without judgment is to speak faith into our children until they can hold it for themselves.

The 5-S Framework — Seen Without Judgment

We have already seen how Shoftim warns us against collapsing behavior into identity. Within the 5-S framework, this becomes the heart of what it means for a child to feel Seen. Seen is not simply about noticing or listening — it is about preserving dignity even when correcting behavior.

In Eikev, Seen meant listening beneath the silence — hearing not only what a child says, but also what lies unspoken. In Re’eh, Seen meant noticing the good beneath appearances — catching the sparks of growth and goodness even in struggle. In Shoftim, Seen reaches a new depth: restraint. It teaches us to resist the rush to verdict, to hold back from defining a child by their lowest moment, and to separate action from essence.

This is the essence of pausing before labeling. To be Seen does not mean excusing behavior or ignoring limits. Children still need structure, direction, and consequences. But being Seen means that correction does not come at the cost of dignity. A parent may still say, “This behavior is not okay.” But they also say — explicitly or implicitly — “And you are still more than this behavior.”

Judgment collapses a child into failure: You are lazy. You are disrespectful. You are ungrateful. Being Seen separates identity from behavior: You forgot. You spoke sharply. You made a mistake. That separation preserves dignity, keeps connection alive even in conflict, and reassures the child that while their actions may need change, their essence remains safe in our eyes.

Chassidut explains that Hashem Himself sees us this way. “כִּי לֹא יִדַּח מִמֶּנּוּ נִדָּח” — “For no one will ever be banished from Him” (Shmuel II 14:14). Even in our worst mistakes, Hashem does not collapse identity into failure. He separates essence from action, preserving our eternal dignity as His children. When parents choose to see without judgment, they mirror this Divine stance.

Psychology affirms the same principle. Attachment researchers call it “unconditional positive regard.” Children thrive when they know their worth is not on trial every time they falter. To feel Seen is to feel safe in relationship even while being corrected. This transforms discipline from shame into growth: the child internalizes both the boundary and the belief, I am still loved. I am still whole.

In practice, Seen Without Judgment means pausing at the gate of reaction and asking: Am I about to collapse identity into behavior, or am I about to preserve dignity while addressing what happened? A child slams their door. Quick judgment says: “You’re disrespectful.” A parent who pauses says: “You’re upset right now. Let’s talk when you’ve calmed down.” A teen fails a test. Quick judgment says: “You’re lazy.” The parent who sees deeper says: “This subject is hard for you — let’s make a plan together.” The consequence may remain, but the verdict is no longer about the soul.

Gathered together, Shoftim’s nine verses form a parenting map for this pause. They call us to appoint judges at the gates of our reactions, resist distortion, pursue deeper truth, restrain ego, listen first, protect dignity, seek context, guard our words, and encourage courage. Each is a facet of what it means to See — to behold a child not through the haze of judgment, but through the clarity of essence.

Hashem’s Framework — והצלתי: I Will Save You

Shoftim’s vision of careful judgment is not only a human discipline; it mirrors the way Hashem Himself looks at His children. In Egypt, Hashem promised: “וְהִצַּלְתִּי אֶתְכֶם מֵעֲבֹדָתָם” — “I will save you from their bondage” (Shemot 6:6). Redemption began not with plagues or miracles, but with vision. Hashem looked at a people degraded, broken, enslaved — and yet He did not define them by their slavery. He saw beyond the shame of their condition to their enduring essence: בנים אתם לה׳ אלקיכם — children of God, still worthy of rescue.

Chazal emphasize that even when Israel had sunk to the forty-ninth level of impurity, Hashem still reached for them. Why? Because He saw their essence, not their failures. The והצלתי of Yetziat Mitzrayim was not only physical liberation but also a reframing of identity: You are not what Egypt has made of you. You are who you have always been to Me.

This is the model for parenting. When a child acts out, withdraws, or disrespects, it is tempting to collapse identity into behavior: This is who they are. But Hashem shows us another way. To pause before labeling, to separate essence from failure, is to enact a small והצלתי — a rescue mission. Each moment of restraint lifts a child out of false verdicts and restores them to the dignity of their true self.

Chassidut explains that Hashem’s הצלה — salvation — is not only external but internal. The Shem MiShmuel teaches that והצלתי means Hashem draws out the inner spark from beneath its outer distortions. Parenting in this way is redemptive: it is the work of seeing the spark beneath the struggle and calling it forth into light.

Psychology frames this as the difference between shame and hope. Shame says: You are your mistake. Hope says: You are more than your mistake. When parents hold back judgment and affirm essence, they rescue a child from shame’s prison and give them the courage to try again. This is what enacts resilience — not perfection, but the deep knowledge that failure does not define them.

In practice, this might sound like: “This was a hard day, but I know you are more than this moment.” Or: “Your choice was wrong, but you are not wrong.” Or to a teen who slams a door: “That outburst was hurtful, but I also know you are struggling — let’s talk when you’re ready.” Each word separates identity from behavior, each pause enacts a small והצלתי — pulling a child out of exile in their own self-concept and returning them to dignity and hope.

Shoftim, then, is not only about courts, kings, and laws. It is about mirroring the way Hashem sees us: with fairness, with patience, and with rescue. Every time we pause before judgment and choose to see essence, we echo His promise of והצלתי. We save our children not only from external struggles but from the internal exile of false verdicts. And in doing so, we open the gates of their redemption — one pause of restraint, one act of truly Seeing, one step of hope.

This is what Shoftim teaches us: to pause, to withhold false verdicts, to separate essence from behavior. This pause lays the foundation for the next step: soothing the heart once it has been seen.

Closing Reflection

Shoftim is a parsha of restraint in vision. Judges must not distort, kings must not exalt themselves, prophets must be listened to, witnesses must be confirmed, boundaries must be preserved, false testimony must be guarded against, and soldiers must be encouraged. Each law, different in detail, calls us to the same discipline: truth requires patience, humility, and care.

For parents, this is not only advice for handling difficult moments but a framework for shaping a home. A just home is not one where mistakes are absent, but one where mistakes are not final. It is not a home where power silences, but one where authority is carried with humility. It is not a home where children are reduced to their worst moments, but one where dignity is preserved even in correction. Such a home gives children more than guidance in the present; it gives them a vision of how to see themselves and others for a lifetime.

And yet Shoftim also speaks beyond the home. The same restraint that builds justice in a family must also guide us in schools and communities. Teachers stand as “judges at the gates” of the classroom, deciding daily whether to see a child through the narrow lens of one misstep or through the broader truth of their potential. Principals, rabbanim, and communal leaders serve as witnesses and guardians of boundaries, modeling whether judgment is hasty or patient, whether speech wounds or heals. When educators and leaders refuse quick labels — when they pause to ask what lies beneath a child’s struggle — they extend Shoftim’s vision of justice into the very structures that shape our collective life.

This communal application matters deeply. A home that preserves dignity can give a child safety, but a school or community that does the same gives that child belonging. It teaches them that their worth is not fragile, that they can show up with both strengths and struggles and still be received with respect. And when this becomes the culture of a community, it does more than protect the vulnerable; it teaches every child how to see others with patience and without judgment. The Torah’s call for just judges thus becomes not only the foundation of courts but the foundation of classrooms, shuls, and neighborhoods.

Seen in this way, Shoftim is not standing alone. It continues the journey of the parshiyot before it. Eikev taught us to listen beneath silence, Re’eh taught us to notice the good beneath appearances, and now Shoftim teaches us to restrain the rush to verdict. Together, these parshiyot offer a progression of vision — training us to hear, to see, and finally to wait for the fuller truth to emerge. It is a Torah of perception, and it asks us to bring that same discipline into our homes, our schools, and our communities.

And yet Shoftim does more than guide us in the moment. It echoes the way Hashem Himself sees His children. והצלתי — “I will save you” — is not only a promise of redemption from Egypt; it is a model of Divine sight. Hashem saw us at our lowest and yet refused to define us by our failures. He lifted us by holding onto our essence. Parents, teachers, and leaders who hold back judgment and choose to see the essence of those before them echo that same Divine act. In those moments, they not only rescue individuals from the exile of false verdicts; they open gates of redemption in the home, the school, and the community.

This is the deeper promise of Shoftim. It teaches us how to build not only a just society but also redemptive spaces — homes where judgment does not crush, schools where words give life, and communities where every child knows they are more than their struggles. And when we live this way, we give the next generation a legacy of vision: the capacity to see themselves and others with patience, dignity, and hope. That is not only good parenting or good education. It is a quiet act of redemption — one that ripples outward, shaping families, schools, communities, and generations.

Seen without judgment is not the end of the journey, but the threshold. Eikev trained us to listen, Re’eh taught us to notice, and Shoftim now teaches us restraint. Together they prepare us for the next step: to soothe the heart once it has been seen, to offer comfort where judgment has been withheld. That is where the journey of the 5-S’s will take us next.

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar

A father Pausing before an argument