Among the most ancient words of the Torah, there is a phrase that still echoes today as a moral compass for humanity. It was spoken to Abraham, the first to hear the voice of a G-d who did not demand temples, but conduct. A G-d who desired not merely worshippers, but men and women capable of uniting faith with justice, love with truth, compassion with responsibility.

There are words in Scripture that do more than instruct; they shape entire civilisations. Among them, few possess such moral power as those the Eternal spoke concerning Abraham:

“For I have chosen him, that he may command his children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord, by doing what is right and just, so that the Lord may bring upon Abraham what He has spoken of him.”

(Genesis 18:19)

In this modest verse, the Creator reveals the heart of the covenant. Abraham was not called merely to be the father of a people or of many nations, but to be the founder of a vision. His mission was to build a path, a way of life in which the name of G-d would be honoured not only in words, but in deeds.

In Hebrew, the words used by G-d contain entire universes of meaning. Tzedakah (צְדָקָה) derives from tzedek, meaning righteousness, goodness, generosity, moral integrity. It is the desire to do good, not out of obligation, but out of love. It is to give, to forgive, to restore, to care, the divine heartbeat pulsing within human action. It is often inadequately translated in the New Testament as charity.

Mishpat (מִשְׁפָּט) comes from shafat, meaning to judge, to balance, to decide with equity. It represents order, truth, and discernment, the foundation that sustains justice among people. It is the sense of right and wrong, of responsibility and consequence.

Perfect justice is born when tzedakah and mishpat walk together, when law meets mercy and compassion is anchored in truth. A world that has only mishpat becomes cold and harsh; a world that has only tzedakah loses itself in emotion without direction. The balance between the two reflects the very face of G-d.

Abraham was chosen to teach this harmony. In a culture that sought to appease gods through blood and sacrifice, he was called to reveal a G-d who delights more in justice than in offerings, more in mercy than in power, more in truth than in appearance. Holiness, in its purest form, does not dwell in temples but in the conscience. The altar the Eternal desired was not made of stone, but of heart.

Yet even before hearing the divine voice, Abraham had already learned the language of justice. While the generation of the Tower of Babel sought to build a name for themselves, Abraham sought to preserve the name of his brother who had died. He married Sarah, the daughter of Haran, not out of ambition but out of compassion. His first tzedakah was a family act, silent, hidden among the sorrows of a grieving home. And perhaps that is why the Eternal chose him. For the one who guards another’s memory becomes a living memory of G-d’s own presence.

In Abraham, the calling began at home. The Eternal chose him so that he might teach his children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord by doing what is right and just. The movement is intimate, inward, familiar. Justice begins in the home, love blossoms in the tent, righteousness is learned among the children. From within arises the example that transforms what is around. The covenant with Abraham marks the birth of personal ethics, the man who learns to be just before trying to change the world.

But in David, the direction is reversed. “David reigned over all Israel, doing what was just and right for all his people.” (2 Samuel 8:15) Here the words are inverted, mishpat u’tzedakah, justice first, then mercy. The king begins with the social order, with law and governance. He rules, legislates, establishes mishpat, the rule of law, and only then allows tzedakah, compassion, to permeate the structures of the kingdom.

Why this inversion? Because Abraham speaks to the conscience, while David speaks to the crown. The first is the man of the tent; the second, the man of the throne. One is called to transform the family; the other, to reform the nation. Abraham represents the individual who radiates justice from within outward; David represents the ruler who brings justice from above downward.

In Abraham, faith shapes the home and, through it, the world. In David, leadership shapes society and, through it, the hearts of people. In the father of faith, the movement is personal and formative, building character. In the anointed king, the movement is institutional and public, building order. In Abraham, tzedakah precedes mishpat, for true justice is born of inner compassion. In David, mishpat precedes tzedakah, for true compassion needs order in which to flourish.

The first is the man who sows justice in the field of the heart. The second is the king who organises justice in the field of the nation. The first teaches his household; the second governs his people. And both reveal one divine truth: justice begins in the individual, but must reach the community; power is born of compassion, but is sustained only by equity.

And so, which path must we rediscover today? Abraham’s, awakening the conscience from within? Or David’s, reforming the world from above? Perhaps the challenge is to unite the two, to be people who build justice inwardly and extend it outward, leaders, even unseen ones, who transform structures through small and faithful acts.

The prophets understood this tension and turned it into a cry. Amos lifted his voice against religion without ethics and called for justice to roll like waters. Isaiah proclaimed that Zion would be redeemed not by ritual, but by righteousness. Jeremiah, with the tenderness of one who knows the heart of G-d, declared that there is no glory in being wise, strong, or rich, but only in knowing the Lord, who exercises kindness, justice, and righteousness on the earth, for in these He delights.

To know G-d is to imitate Him. And to imitate Him is to do good. True faith is not emotion or doctrine, but conduct. It is the union between altar and marketplace, between heart and tribunal, between prayer and action.

In the Gospels, Yeshua continued this same legacy. He criticised those who tithed meticulously yet neglected the weightier matters of the Torah, justice, mercy, and faithfulness. He did not abolish the Torah; He revealed its spirit. Justice without love is death. Love without truth is illusion. Faith without ethics is vanity. The way of the Lord is always the meeting of discipline that corrects and grace that restores.

And we, who live in a world where law becomes impersonal and love grows frail, what have we done with this calling? We speak of rights, yet forget duties. We seek compassion, yet fear truth. We long for freedom, yet flee responsibility. Still, the call of Abraham remains alive. What G-d expected of him, He still expects of us: to teach our children, to care for our homes, to walk in righteousness.

To do what is right and just is not a utopia; it is an act of spiritual resistance. It is to choose good when the world prefers convenience, to keep one’s word when silence would be easier, to share bread when instinct says to hoard, to defend the weak when the crowd turns away.

The world changes through small gestures. Each time someone chooses truth over lies, justice over vengeance, compassion over indifference, the legacy of Abraham is renewed. Every act of tzedakah is a seed of light; every gesture of mishpat is a stone in the rebuilding of humanity.

To keep the way of the Lord is to live with a heart aligned to His character. It is not to separate faith from conduct, prayer from responsibility, spirituality from humanity. The Creator does not seek perfection, but coherence. He does not demand purity without purpose, but faithfulness amidst imperfection.

Human history is a cycle of vengeance and power, yet the divine dream is to break that cycle with a river of justice. G-d does not desire a merely religious world, but one redeemed by the ethics of His Kingdom. The justice of G-d is not the sword that destroys, but the hand that corrects and heals. Righteousness is not the absence of error, but the presence of goodness.

And perhaps this is the final question that Genesis leaves us: will we be a generation that speaks of faith, or one that lives justice?

Every time truth and mercy meet, something of the Kingdom manifests among us. Every time a man or woman chooses what is right and just, Abraham once more becomes the father of many nations, and the dream of G-d breathes again among the children of promise. To do what is right and just is more than obeying a commandment; it is to share in the very breath of the Creator, to allow heaven to find a home on earth, to live so that, in looking at us, the world may perceive a reflection of the Lord.

Adivalter Sfalsin