When the Eyes Rule

Two communities can look at the same event and yet experience entirely different realities. Each is certain of its truth, each persuaded of its moral superiority, resulting in fracture rather than dialogue, certainty rather than counsel. That dynamic is not only a feature of our digital age but is also woven into one of the most disturbing narratives of the Book of Judges. In the closing chapters (19–21), a nameless woman is cast into the hands of a mob, her body sent as a message throughout the land, and Israel descends into a civil war that pushes one of the tribes to the verge of extinction. The episode begins with outrage and ends with lament. It is summarized by the closing verse:

שופטים כ״א:כ״ה

בַּיָּמִ֣ים הָהֵ֔ם אֵ֥ין מֶ֖לֶךְ בְּיִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל אִ֛ישׁ הַיָּשָׁ֥ר בְּעֵינָ֖יו יַעֲשֶֽׂה׃

For generations, readers have understood these chapters as a critique of lawlessness and failed leadership¹, or as a “text of terror” that exposes the human cost of a patriarchal society². Expanding on those readings, I want to press on a different question: what happens when every group is convinced its own perception is the only righteous one? What does this story reveal about the absence of shared truth, about the dangers of loyalty without restraint, and about how easily conviction can turn into catastrophe?

The answers matter well beyond the period of the Judges. They touch on how ancient and modern communities alike confront violence, assign blame, and mobilize in outrage for their own ends. This essay explores how testimony, perception, and belonging in Judges echo in our fractured world, and what Jewish tradition offers to resist the pull of doing “what is right in one’s own eyes.” Judges 19–21 is not a call for monarchy or a shrug at relativism; it is a portrait of competing absolutisms, where each group weaponizes its own perception as sovereign. I call this “privatized righteousness”.

Controlling the Narrative

The story opens with a Levite and his concubine traveling to Ephraim. He insists on staying in an Israelite town rather than a foreign one for safety (19:12), which turns out to be an ironic choice given the betrayal that is to come. Once inside the Benjaminite town of Gibeah, the narrative focuses on the concubine: “they raped her (יֵּדְע֣וּ א֠וֹתָ֠הּ), they abused her (יִּֽתְעַלְּלוּ־בָ֤הּ) all night, and they sent her away (יְשַׁלְּח֖וּהָ) at dawn.” (19:25). The text’s grammar reflects her social position. She is consistently acted upon by others, and never throughout the text granted the role of subject or agent. When the Levite finds her the next day, he is met only with silence (אֵ֣ין עֹנֶ֑ה) (19:28).

When he recounts the events to the assembly at Mizpah, the Levite’s framing changes entirely: “They rose against me (יָּקֻ֤מוּ עָלַי֙) […] they meant to kill me (אוֹתִי֙ דִּמּ֣וּ לַהֲרֹ֔ג)” (20:5). Notably, it’s his first-person pronouns that dominate. Her fate, on the other hand, is compressed into one phrase: “they abused my concubine until she died (אֶת־פִּילַגְשִׁ֥י עִנּ֖וּ וַתָּמֹֽת)”. What the Levite failed to mention is the fact that he handed her over to the mob to save himself. Between the first and the second account, the woman moves from being the object of violence to becoming the static evidence for his case. This editing is not accidental. By withholding his complicity in her demise and putting the focus of the threat onto himself, the Levite shapes the story into his own narrative.

The dismemberment of her body that follows (19:29) makes this quite literal. She is cut into twelve pieces and sent as proof to all tribes in order to mobilize them against Benjamin. Phyllis Trible famously calls this one of the Bible’s “texts of terror,” where a woman’s voice and agency are erased through the way the story is told³. Classical commentators, too, sense this distortion. Rashi emphasizes the expectation of kinship safety⁴, while Abarbanel criticizes the Israelites for rallying before fully investigating (20:12)⁵. The text thus shows how the narrative can be controlled through omission, compression, and silence. The commentaries also underline that the account we receive is already a tainted version of the events and not a neutral report.

Spectacle as a Tool for Mobilization

Complementary to using linguistic tools to shape the narrative of the story, it stands out how moments of sight and spectacle frame the entire episode using images to drive the plot. The Levite’s dismembered concubine is not buried. He uses the image of shock and outrage to send her body parts as a proto-viral message across Israel as a calculated act of spectacle to mobilize revenge. The Levite weaponizes appearances, and the narrative highlights the irony of that distortion. The result is instantaneous: the people assemble “as one” (20:1, 20:11) to confront Benjamin and his tribe. For them, the image they received was enough to produce unanimity. Commentators sometimes praise this unity⁶, yet the story suggests it is less about careful deliberation and more about public display.

Abarbanel notes that Benjamin was confronted only after Israel had already gathered (20:12), so the demand to hand over the guilty came as an ultimatum rather than the desire for genuine inquiry. The Israelites demand: “Hand over the men, the scoundrels in Gibeah, that we may put them to death and purge the evil from Israel” (20:13). This was not merely Israel’s demand but a chance for Benjamin to do justice. Benjamin, on the other hand, feeling cornered by this spectacle of force, hardened his solidarity and refused. By shielding the men of Gibeah (20:13), he chose loyalty over justice. Malbim underscores that Benjamin had first responsibility to punish its own⁷; but Israel’s premature display of unity and force only fueled resentment and led to a reflexive defense of the guilty on Benjamin’s part. Modern literary readers highlight how repeated refrains and visual cues train us to notice this dynamic⁸. Indeed, it almost seems as if the louder the image, the swifter the unanimity. And yet, as the story shows, such unanimity rests not on tested fact but on perception, leaving the community vulnerable to manipulation and postponing reflection on the larger implications of their actions.

Performative Oaths

When Benjamin refuses to surrender the men who had committed the crime, the people escalate further. In chapter 21, the Israelites’ outrage turns into an oath that hardens their stance. Israel had already sworn at Mizpah: “None of us must ever give his daughter in marriage to a Benjaminite” (21:1), but only after the war did they grapple with its consequences. This can be viewed as an attempt by the community to codify their outrage into permanence, leaving no space for revision or reconciliation. This makes the guilty and innocent alike unworthy of reintegration and condemns the Benjaminites as outcasts. However, the Israelites quickly realize that their oath puts them in a difficult position: either they risk extinction of one of the tribes or they undermine their own authority. They poignantly ask:

שופטים כ״א:ג׳

וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ לָמָ֗ה יְהֹוָה֙ אֱלֹהֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל הָ֥יְתָה זֹּ֖את בְּיִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל לְהִפָּקֵ֥ד הַיּ֛וֹם מִיִּשְׂרָאֵ֖ל שֵׁ֥בֶט אֶחָֽד׃

The use of pronouns marks this pivotal point in the story. Earlier, Israel had demanded of Benjamin, “What is this evil that has happened among you?” (20:13). However, the language has changed. Benjamin is not referred to by name but as a missing piece of Israel. Their realization indicates a moment of clarity. In nearly destroying the “others”, they realized they had nearly destroyed themselves.

Also, notice how the verse says: “Israel… Israel… Israel” (21:3) —not once but three times. The very repetition almost sounds like liturgy, as if they try restoring unity with their words. Now, with one tribe nearly erased, they realize that the loss of Benjamin is a loss of Israel itself. Their repeated naming is less about information and more about invocation. In liturgy, words do not just describe reality. Instead, they seek to create it. So, too, here: the cadence of “Israel” is an attempt to bring back together what their violence has torn apart.

Scrambling to undo the consequences of their own oath, the Israelites resort to desperate workarounds. They slaughter the entire population of Jabesh-Gilead for failing to appear at Mizpah, sparing only four hundred virgins to provide wives for Benjamin (21:10–12). When that proves insufficient, they abduct the women of Shiloh (21:19–23). What began as an attempt to reconcile with the Benjaminites now culminates in atrocities against their own. The way they carried out their righteousness undermined the very holiness they meant to protect. Instead of repairing Israel’s covenant, they fractured it further, nearly erased one tribe entirely, and turned women into victims. Their conviction for righteousness thus ended up producing even more violence and guilt.

From Permission to Promise

The book’s lament that “there was no king in Israel” (17:6; 18:1; 19:1; 21:25) is best illustrated during the Israelites’ three consultations with God before the battles. On the first day, Israel asks: “Who of us shall advance first to fight the Benjaminites?” (Judges 20:18). God’s answer is correspondingly short: “Judah first” (20:18). On the second day of battle, they weep and ask: “Shall we again join battle with our kinsmen the Benjaminites?” (Judges 20:23). God’s response is: “March against them” (Judges 20:23). On the third day, only after fasting, burnt offerings and peace offerings, with the Ark present and Phinehas officiating, do they receive a havtacha, a promise from God: “Go up, for tomorrow I will deliver them into your hands” (Judges 20:28). This raises some unsettling questions. Why would God allow one of Israel’s tribes to be decimated? And even after having received divine authorization, why did Israel suffer defeat twice?

So far, we have witnessed a brutal crime that is followed by a biased retelling and the instrumentalization of images into outrage (Judg. 19:22–26; 19:29). Israel then assembled “as one” before conducting any inquiry (20:1; 20:11; cf. Deut. 13:15, darosh tidrosh) and ends by swearing an absolutist oath (21:1). The text leaves us with the unsettling picture of a community bound first by what it saw and then by what it swore. It was only later, in lament, that the speech shifts to “why has this happened in Israel?” (21:3), and the broader implications come into view.

The text suggests that God’s response to the Israelites’ dilemma is limited by the scope of the question they asked. When the Israelites’ pleading was framed from a place of predisposition and without genuine repentance on the first day, the answer they get from God merely confirms what they already presume. Their question already assumes war, and they do not ask whether to fight, but who should go first. On the second day, they show some signs of remorse, weeping but still assuming the inevitability of war. Now, however, their inquiry leaves room for a divine “no”, but God’s response remains a simple imperative. On the third day, however, they changed tactics and shifted their tone. Now, they receive a divine promise. What has changed? Contrary to the first two days, their inquiry was preceded by ritual, humility, and the possibility of reversal. Only then does God change His answer from mere permission to wage war to a sign of divine presence and guidance. God’s answer on the second day can thus not be understood as an endorsement of their actions but as a way of educating the Israelites to respect communal disciplines and institutional procedures. malkhut, in this sense, is not simply the presence of a monarch, but the discipline of collective inquiry as well as the capacity to ask questions not predetermined by one’s own perception. Where there is no malkhut, the “eye” becomes king, and divine speech cannot but mirror human determination. When inquiry is disciplined, Shekhinah re-enters, and Israel hears not just what they wanted to hear, but what they needed: that divine promise can only come when perception does not rule alone.

Privatized Righteousness vs. Moral Relativism

I want to argue that the book’s climax can be understood as a critique of privatized righteousness. Classical and modern commentaries often see “every man did that which was right in his own eyes”⁹ as moral relativism: the absence of shared standards leads to chaos¹⁰ or as a support monarchy¹¹. But if Judges critiques the absence of centralized authority, the rest of Tanakh reminds us that monarchy itself did not solve the problem (1 Sam. 22; 2 Sam. 11; 1 Kgs. 21). In other words, neither the lack or presence of a king guarantees justice.

My claim is different. Moral relativism is the view that there is no objective moral truth and that right and wrong vary by culture, individual, or circumstance. It implies indifference, where each group has their own values and that competing values can coexist. Privatized righteousness, by contrast, insists that there is a binding sense of right and wrong, where each person or group claims authority to determine and enforce justice for themselves. In Judges, no one shrugs. They swear oaths, wage war, and cry out to God, all in the name of what seems right to them. The book’s refrain (“each did what was right in his own eyes”) stands as an intentional inversion of the Torah’s charge to “do what is right and good in the eyes of God” (Deut. 6:18), i.e., not whatever each eye certifies but a shared standard before God¹².

In this way, “אֵ֥ין מֶ֖לֶךְ בְּיִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל” is not merely a political statement. It is epistemic and theological. With the lack of a sovereign (melekh), perception (einayim) rules. That is precisely the reason why the Levite’s image (the dismembered body parts) led to the Israelites’ actions: their eyes took on the work of the judge. These chapters are therefore not just a story about anarchy with the lack of a king. At its core, it is about the theological contrast between private, immediate, and subjective perception (einayim) and the lack of public, procedural, covenantal testimony (edut). God does not want the people of Israel to be a people of sovereign eyes. The revelation at Sinai and the halakhic procedures for resolving disputes are God’s way of steering us from “my perception is king” toward a discipline of shared memory, testimony, and common narrative. It is no accident, then, that the paradigm of covenant itself is narrated not to the solitary eye but the gathered ear¹³. In fact, the revelation at Mount Sinai itself is framed as a form of shared testimony:

ישעיהו מ״ג:י׳

אַתֶּ֤ם עֵדַי֙ נְאֻם־יְהֹוָ֔ה וְעַבְדִּ֖י אֲשֶׁ֣ר בָּחָ֑רְתִּי לְמַ֣עַן תֵּ֠דְע֠וּ וְתַאֲמִ֨ינוּ לִ֤י וְתָבִ֙ינוּ֙ כִּֽי־אֲנִ֣י ה֔וּא לְפָנַי֙ לֹא־נ֣וֹצַר אֵ֔ל וְאַחֲרַ֖י לֹ֥א יִהְיֶֽה׃ {ס}

The Torah is given to the entire people in public and to everyone at once. It became the foundation on which we built our culture, laws, and traditions, and that serves as an anchor of our collective memory. It was from that public beginning that we established procedures and practices for how to handle disagreement and pursue truth, the structure of which ensured Jewish continuity for millennia.

Halakhic Infrastructure of Shared Truth (Hilchot Edut)

These procedures are codified in the Torah’s hilchot edut, which contain eight mitzvot centered on the integrity of testimony. If a person has knowledge that is relevant to a case, they are obliged to appear and bear witness before the court (Lev. 5:1). Once testimony is offered, it must be cross-examined and verified (Deut. 13:15, 19:15, and 19:18). The laws disqualify certain people from giving testimony: relatives, felons (Mishnah Sanhedrin 3:4; b. Sanhedrin 27a; cf. Exod 23:1), or anyone who is partial. In capital cases, witnesses may not even serve as a judge (Deut. 17:6 and Num. 35:30). In the ninth commandment, we’re told not to bear false witness (Exod. 20:16), and if a witness is found to have conspired against someone else, they must be punished with the same penalty they sought to impose (Deut. 19:16–19).

As I’ve outlined, testimony in Torah is never a private matter. Instead, we see truth emerging from dialogue, interrogation, and examination — all of which institutions like the beit din embodies. By shifting from claims made by an individual into a shared deliberation, justice is not just in the eyes of the beholder but a process that makes everyone accountable. The system is thus not only legal but theological. It asserts that truth can be only known when shared, tested, and held in common, and that it is not privy to our personal perception.

Contemporary Application

In Judges, the first day of battle ends in defeat because the people act out of outrage and moral certainty rather than the desire for genuine inquiry. Contemporary life often mirrors this dynamic. Social media feeds amplify incendiary content and reward judgment before verification. Sincerity masquerades as proof, and once conviction is treated as evidence, vows or virality easily step in as substitutes for due process. Much like the oath at Mizpah, a viral post today does more than express opinion. Instead, it manifests a public commitment that, once shared, is treated as irrevocable. A viral pledge or a mass call to boycott a company is not easily walked back on. Once it spreads, retracting it looks like betrayal of one’s principles. The performative force of a post or pledge thus forecloses reconsideration and replaces deliberation with loyalty tests.

Without a trusted arbiter (ein melekh), perception (einayim) rules, and one’s own version of reality becomes the only true one and morally binding. The tragedy of Gibeah illustrates the cost of this privatized righteousness. Reality splinters and entire communities are left devastated when justice becomes tribal. In Judges 20, God’s response shifts with the people’s discipline. When the question is framed narrowly, God responds with mere permission; when it is asked with humility and openness, the answer becomes assurance. Where such discipline is absent, the people experience hester panim. The story thus shows that the Shekhinah dwells only where people cultivate and respect shared public truth.

In the aftermath of division, communities often reach for mantras: “Am Yisrael Chai”, “Black Lives Matter”, “Je suis Charlie”. Such slogans are often repeated at rallies or in times of crisis. These are not merely descriptive but performative, trying to call into being the very solidarity they demand. Like the thrice-spoken “Israel” in Judges 21:3, the words themselves become liturgical, attempting to reinstate a shared identity that violence has fractured.

What the Torah offers is thus not values but the infrastructure for cultivating them. With it, we were given the tools to dethrone the eye and to restore a form of malkhut that does not depend on tribal affiliations or vows but, instead, relies on the procedures of testimony and memory. In this light, information ethics is not just peripheral to the Jewish experience but an essential part of avodat Hashem.

Conclusion: “Consider, Take Counsel, Speak” (19:30)

The Book of Judges does not just lament leaderlessness. It teaches us about the perils of privatized righteousness and about the risk that one’s own view becomes self-validating. It also offers us a remedy, however. Though modest and demanding at once, it makes us reflect on our first instincts and asks us to pause. It invites us to widen the questions we ask and to challenge our own account. It asks us to hold our own side to the same standards we ask of others. These are all small acts of malkhut that do not require a king.

The infamous last line, “In those days, there was no king in Israel; everyone did what was right in their own eyes”, must thus be understood not as a resignation but as a standing test. Faced with a fragmented society, will we enthrone the eye or uphold edut? “Consider it, take counsel, and speak.” (Judges 19:30) is perhaps the best advice available to a fractured people. It suggests that unity is not rebuilt by slogans but by the hard work of shared truth.

Bibliography

Steinsaltz, Adin. 2019. The Steinsaltz Nevi’im. Jerusalem: Toby Press LLC.

Trible, Phyllis. 1984. Texts of Terror: Literary-feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives. Philadelphia: Fortress Press.

Fokkelman, J. P. 1999. Reading Biblical Narrative: An Introductory Guide. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press.

Szpek, Heidi. 2007. “The Levite’s Concubine: The Story That Never Was.” Women In Judaism: A Multidisciplinary Journal 5 (1).

Footnotes

1. Adin Steinsaltz, The Steinsaltz Nevi’im (Jerusalem: Koren Publishers Jerusalem Limited, 2018) on Judges 21:25. ↩

2. Trible, Phyllis. 1984. Texts of Terror: Literary-feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. ↩

3. Trible, Texts of Terror, 65 ↩

4. Rashi on Judges 19:12 ↩

5. Abarbanel on Judges 20:12: “וישלחו שבטי ישראל אנשים בכל שבטי בנימן לאמר מה הרעה הזאת אשר נהיתה בכם” and “עשו הסכמה שלא מדעתם” ↩

6. Metzudat David, Radak, Ralbag, and Malbim on Judges 20:1 ↩

7. Malbim on Judges 20:12 ad loc. on “וישלחו”, who explains that Israel opened peacefully, stressing that the evil had arisen within Benjamin, making it their duty to hand over and punish the perpetrators first: “וישלחו. ספר רעת בני בנימין, ישראל שלחו להם שלוחיהם ופתחו בשלום, אמרו מה הרעה, ר”ל ראו עד כמה גדלה הרעה ומה פריה, והיא נהיתה בכם, ואתם הקודמים לבער החוטאים.” ↩

8. Fokkelman, J. P. 1999. Reading Biblical Narrative: An Introductory Guide. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, pp. 206 ↩

9. Koren, Eliyahu. The Koren Jerusalem Bible Set: Hebrew/English(three Volumes). Israel: Toby Press LLC, 2009. ↩

10. Radak ad loc. interprets “הטעם להזכיר זה כי עדיין לא היה מלך בישראל ולא שופט ולא נוגש משיב אותם לטובה עד שבא שמואל הנביא ז”ל שמספר תולדתו וענינו בספר הבא אחר” as the absence of a king or judge to restrain the people and guide them; Steinsaltz: “אין מלוכה ואין מסגרת לאומית כלל, וממילא אִישׁ הַיָּשָׁר בְּעֵינָיו יַעֲשֶׂה.”, likewise reads it as each acting by personal judgment in the absence of central authority; cf. Metzudat David ad loc.: “לזה עשה כל איש הישר בעיניו, ולא היה מי שימחה ביד מיכה” on Judg. 17:6. to underscore the reigning anarchy. ↩

11. Szpek, Heidi. 2007. “The Levite’s Concubine: The Story That Never Was.” Women In Judaism: A Multidisciplinary Journal 5 (1). ↩

12. “הַיָּשָׁ֥ר וְהַטּ֖וֹב בְּעֵינֵ֣י יְהֹוָ֑ה” (Deut. 6:18). Cf. Deut 12:25; 13:19 (MT 13:18); Prov 3:4 as “right in the eyes of God” set against “אִ֛ישׁ הַיָּשָׁ֥ר בְּעֵינָ֖יו יַעֲשֶֽׂה” (Judg. 21:25) ↩

13. “וַיִּקְרָ֖א בְּאׇזְנֵ֣י הָעָ֑ם וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ כֹּ֛ל אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה נַעֲשֶׂ֥ה וְנִשְׁמָֽע” (Exod. 24:7) cf. “שְׁמַ֖ע יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵ֖ינוּ יְהֹוָ֥ה ׀ אֶחָֽד” (Deut. 6:4) as Israel’s enduring ear practice. ↩