The Bible’s Book of Judges tells the story of Israel’s struggle to reoccupy Canaan, the land of its origin, already inhabited by other peoples of different tribes and ethnicities. The historical veracity of Judges may be debated, but not its brutal honesty. It describes a violent, unstable time in which a people committed—at least in principle—to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob struggled to survive, to settle, and to remain faithful.
Whatever unity the Israelites imagined they possessed quickly fractured. The tribes competed with one another for land, political influence, and competing understandings of what it meant to be a people bound to one God. The pattern is unmistakable: periods of military success and economic prosperity led almost immediately to religious compromise. The worship of the God of their ancestors was diluted by the adoption of local pagan practices. At the same time, they abandoned the moral law given through Moses—the very law meant to shape a just and stable society.
It should have surprised no one that such behavior led to predictable consequences: social disintegration, external threat, and at times near annihilation. Repeatedly, the text tells us that leaders—“judges”—were raised up to call the people back, to restore order, and to lead them into a measure of renewed fidelity to God. It was a repetitive cycle: renewal followed by backsliding into disaster, and renewal again.
The era of the judges lasted roughly three centuries—not so different from our own national experience. Their story has something unsettling to say about us.
The European settlement of what became the United States followed a strikingly similar pattern. Those who came were united as Englishmen but not unified in purpose. Some sought religious freedom—often for themselves, not for others. Some came in search of wealth. Others fled poverty and lack of opportunity. Most claimed to be Christian, professing the way of Jesus, but their conduct often betrayed those claims.
Moreover—and this cannot be ignored—the land was already occupied. Indigenous peoples had lived here for thousands of years. It did not take long for conflict to erupt. European settlers expanded, taking more land; native populations resisted, trying to hold what was theirs. What followed was a long, uneven process of conquest, punctuated by brief periods of relative peace and stability. Those periods never lasted. They gave way to war, economic disruption, and social upheaval.
The ideals on which the nation was eventually founded—however noble—were repeatedly undermined by self-interest, rivalry, and the pursuit of power.
At moments of crisis, something akin to the biblical “judge” emerged—not in title, but in function. Figures such as George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, and Franklin D. Roosevelt helped redirect the nation toward its professed ideals. Each achieved something real, but each also worked within limits. None broke the cycle.
Others, less celebrated or less successful, led the nation toward division and decline. Yet even then, there has been a recurring pattern: when circumstances grow dire enough, the nation seems—almost instinctively—to recover some measure of clarity and to move again, however imperfectly, toward its ideals. And then, just as predictably, complacency returns.
Meanwhile, the cost has been borne disproportionately by those pushed aside. Indigenous peoples were not only dispossessed of land but stripped, as much as possible, of cultural identity and dignity. The same is true of enslaved Africans and their descendants, and of immigrants from beyond northern Europe, often treated with suspicion and contempt. In each case, the nation deprived itself of the very gifts—cultural, intellectual, moral—these peoples might have contributed to a more just and harmonious society.
It is not a simple story. It would be wrong to accuse European settlers and their descendants of being less moral than others. The cycles in American history are not so very different from those in the time of Judges, and each cycle has led to significant improvements benefiting many. Moreover, the American experience has demonstrated the resilient power of democracy to improve conditions of life for all. There is much to be proud of—without denying historical truth.
Over time, the United States has become more integrated—culturally and racially—despite persistent resistance. Leadership has arisen from every corner of this diverse population. There are signs, even now, of a growing recognition that the contributions of Indigenous peoples, enslaved and formerly enslaved persons, and immigrants from around the world are not peripheral but essential to the American story.
Which raises a question.
If we are again at a turning point—and it is difficult to argue otherwise—where will the next “judges” come from?
They are unlikely to be singular figures in the mold of Washington or Lincoln. They may not even hold political office. More likely, they will be voices—plural—calling the nation back to its senses, insisting its ideals be made real in ordinary life. Only then can presidents and Congress do the hard work of governance with the consent and moral energy of the people.
The decisive leadership we need will not come primarily from the political arena. It will come from another kind of pulpit—from those willing to speak with moral clarity, to name failure without euphemism, and to call the nation, once again, to account.