Steadying the Scales

Fairness is something we come into the world understanding, almost before we have words for it. Watch two kids at dessert—give one a bigger scoop, and the protest is immediate. That sting of injustice, that sense that the scales are tipped, is nearly instinctive. We want things to be right. We want the powerful to use their strength to protect, not to take advantage.

But justice is deeper than a feeling. It’s a moral instinct, yes, but it’s also a spiritual impulse—the quiet sense that fairness matters for reasons bigger than ourselves. That longing to see wrongs made right echoes something higher. Something divine.

And yet, we live surrounded by imbalance. Rich and poor. Loud and unheard. Secure and struggling. In a world where trust in institutions is shaky and public confidence is worn thin, the pursuit of justice isn’t just a civic obligation—it becomes something sacred.

Not justice as payback, but justice as repair.

That’s the justice we need now: the kind that patches what’s broken, lifts up those who’ve fallen, and moves us closer to wholeness—not just as individuals, but as a community.

There’s a connection in Jewish tradition that’s always struck me. The Hebrew word for justice—tzedek—shares a root with tzedakah, meaning charity. That’s not a coincidence. Justice isn’t limited to courtrooms or legal debates. It happens in kitchens, in schools, on street corners. It’s there when someone quietly notices, “If I have more than I need, it probably means someone else has less.” Giving, in this light, isn’t just generosity. It’s doing what’s right.

The Torah doesn’t tell us to admire justice. It tells us to chase it.

“Tzedek, tzedek tirdof—Justice, justice shall you pursue.” (Deuteronomy 16:20)

The repetition isn’t just for effect—it’s urgent. Justice isn’t only about the outcome. It’s about the means, the process. Justice for everyone, not a select few. Justice, even when it’s inconvenient, or when it costs us.

But even justice needs balance.

Justice without mercy can turn cold. Mercy without justice can feel empty. The goal isn’t to choose one or the other, but to hold both in tension—to walk the line that keeps us human.

There’s a story I keep coming back to. Nearly a hundred years ago, New York’s mayor, Fiorello LaGuardia, sat in on a night court session. An elderly woman was brought in for stealing a loaf of bread. Her grandchildren were hungry. The shopkeeper pressed charges anyway.

LaGuardia fined her $10—but then reached into his own pocket to pay it. Then he fined everyone in the courtroom fifty cents for living in a city where a grandmother had to steal bread to feed her family. The collection, including the shopkeeper’s share, went to the woman.

That’s what justice looks like when it’s tempered by compassion. It doesn’t just punish—it heals.

The Torah reminds us that G-d loves justice, but also that He is “gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in kindness.” If we are made in G-d’s image, then we, too, are called to seek justice—but always with mercy close by.

This isn’t only about the big things. It starts small. In how we bill a client. In how we tip the waitress. In how we listen when someone speaks, even if there’s nothing in it for us. It’s in the way we treat those who can’t do anything for us in return, or the way we talk about people who aren’t there to defend themselves.

Sometimes justice asks us to risk comfort—to speak up when silence would be easier. But if we stay quiet, who will fill that gap? If we hold back, the world tips a little further from the fairness it aches for.

Justice isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s as small as telling the truth when a lie would pass, or offering grace when we’ve been wronged. These aren’t just moments of decency. They’re seeds—tiny acts that grow into a more righteous world.

You don’t have to be a lawyer or a judge to pursue justice. You just have to be awake to the imbalances around you. Willing to notice. Willing to speak. Willing to do something, however small.

Every time you stand up for what’s right—with compassion, with care, with conviction—you help steady the scale.

And in doing so, you bring a little more balance, and a little more light, into a world that needs both.

Yonatan Hambourger is a rabbi and writer dedicated to serving spiritual seekers of all backgrounds on behalf of Chabad of Rural Georgia. You can contact him at y@tasteoftorah.org.