There’s a park not far from my home that’s well known for its beautifully groomed tulip and rose gardens. My wife and I often go there, and sometimes we’ll sit at the little outdoor café near the pond for lunch. Whenever I’m there, I’m reminded of a visit more than thirty years ago with my wife and in-laws. Back then, before the café was even built, we were taking a leisurely walk when we stumbled upon an unusual scene. Along the shaded edge of the pond, a crowd had gathered. About fifty people were quietly launching miniature sailboats into the water. At first, we didn’t know what was happening. Then some speeches began, and it became clear that this was a commemoration of the bombing of Hiroshima. The little sailboats were being launched as a silent protest against war, and especially against nuclear proliferation.
I remember being struck by how gentle and passive the demonstration was. My father-in-law, though, had a very different reaction. He wasn’t a hawkish man by any stretch, but he felt the protest was simplistic—ignoring the reality that the bombing, as horrific as it was, had saved countless lives. One of those lives might very well have been his own. He had just completed boot camp in Biloxi, Mississippi, and would likely have been part of a long and bloody invasion of Japan had the war not ended so abruptly.
That memory has always stayed with me. On the one hand, the bombing was unspeakably tragic. On the other hand, it preserved countless futures—including, in a way, mine. It raises the question: in an unjust and violent world, are drastic measures sometimes required in order to fulfill a mandate of compassion?
President Truman later said, “That is what war is. I didn’t start it. I tried to stop it. But I could only do it in one way.”
Reasonable people can still debate his reasoning. But what none of us can be comfortable with is the nuclear proliferation that followed, or the continuing use of weapons of mass destruction. So how do we, as Yeshua’s disciples, hold together our hatred of violence and our compassion for victims, while still recognizing the reality of evil and the necessity of justice?
This week’s parasha, Ki Tetze, begins with the words: “When you go out to war against your enemies…” (Deut. 21:10). Notice that it says when, not if. The Torah acknowledges a reality of life in this world: there will be war. This is not a divine endorsement of war, but a recognition that in a fallen world, war is inevitable.
In the ancient Near East, the gods were seen as capricious and cruel. The moral code was: “Take what you can, when you can.” Into that world, Torah introduced something radical—laws that began weaving mercy and compassion into the fabric of civilization.
The Rabbis in Midrash Tanchuma, Ki Tetze 1 note that the Torah begins here with war to teach that even in times of conflict, Israel is not released from the ethical demands of Torah. The battlefield is not exempt from holiness.
The parasha then gives us a difficult law about the captive woman, the yefat to’ar. To our ears, it sounds troubling. But the Talmud explains in Kiddushin 21b: “The Torah speaks only against the evil inclination.” That is, the command was given not because it was ideal, but to restrain human impulse in the midst of war. Compared to the cruelty of the surrounding nations, Israel’s laws were revolutionary. Captives were to be protected, given time to mourn, and treated with dignity.
From our vantage point, these laws may look inadequate, even offensive. But in their time, they were a radical step toward taming chaos and planting seeds of compassion. The Torah does not overturn the entire social order at once—it points Israel, and through Israel the nations, toward a different way of being human.
The rest of Ki Tetze continues in that direction, laying out laws full of compassion:
- protecting the rights of the firstborn son (Deut. 21:15–17),
- showing dignity even to the executed (21:22–23),
- caring for animals (22:6–7; 25:4),
- and treating workers fairly (24:14–15).
The Rabbis hear in these commandments the call to imitate God Himself. As it is written in the Talmud, Shabbat 133b: “Just as He is merciful, so you be merciful. Just as He is compassionate, so you be compassionate.”
Yeshua echoes this same teaching when he says: “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful” (Luke 6:36). The voice of the Rabbis and the voice of our Messiah are in harmony.
An ancient midrash tells the story of a king who owned delicate glass vessels. He wanted to pour hot liquid into them but feared they would shatter. He wanted to pour cold liquid into them but feared they would crack. So instead, he mixed the hot and cold together, and the glasses remained intact (Exodus Rabbah 30:3). So it is with God, the midrash teaches: if the world were filled with only justice, who could survive? But if it were filled with only mercy, evil would multiply unchecked. So the Holy One, blessed be He, sustains the world by mixing justice with mercy.
As we approach the High Holidays, this is the time to reflect on that balance. The Rabbis taught in Rosh Hashanah 17b that whenever Israel sincerely recites the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy (Ex. 34:6–7), God forgives them. But it is not enough to recite them—we must embody them.
Rachmanut—compassion—is the heartbeat of this week’s portion. Above all, our God is merciful. And as His children, and as disciples of Yeshua, we are called to reflect His mercy in our lives.
So as the shofar sounds each morning of Elul, let us hear it not only as a call to repentance but as a call to compassion. Let us ask: How can I be a more compassionate parent, neighbor, friend, employer, or child of God? How can I bring mercy into an often unjust world?
When we wrestle with that question—and live out its answers—we step more fully into our calling: to reflect the mercy of the One who is both just and compassionate, the God of Israel who sustains the world.
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