The prophet Amos’s declaration—”But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5:24)—offers a majestic, lyrical vision of societal perfection. Yet, this poetic ideal immediately clashes with the complexity of human reality.
Here in North Carolina, we have learned that water, while life-giving, is also an undeniable, powerful force capable of immense destruction. This truth provides a crucial counter-image to the prophecy: Justice can either be a cleansing, reliable current, or it can be a destructive torrent. This tension—between the reliable stream of God’s ideal and the untempered flash flood of human application—is the core challenge of defining justice.
As a society, we attempt to define justice through our system of laws. However, our collective definition is fundamentally flawed by deep-seated racial, economic, and religious inequities. These laws, their enforcement, and our belief in justice are also constantly shaped by individual experience and the powerful, yet often toxic, desire for retribution.
For example, a President’s view of justice, shaped by their unique experiences and political mandate, may become consumed with the desire for political retribution. This view is often dramatically different from mine, which is framed by personal experiences with inequality, hardship, and abuse. Justice, unlike gravity, is not a universal constant; it is a shifting concept defined by self-interest and personal pain.
The confusion of justice with “getting even” is perhaps the most human and destructive flaw. Retributive justice focuses solely on punishment—an eye for an eye—but it often overlooks the underlying causes of the harm and fails to repair the community. It leaves both the victim and the perpetrator wounded and unhealed, only to discover that “getting even” seldom results in true justice. This kind of justice is a stagnant pond of resentment, not an ever-flowing stream of healing.
Amos, speaking to a nation steeped in oppression, was asking for a dramatic societal correction—a justice (mishpat) that was overwhelming and absolute in its defense of the poor, the widow, and the marginalized. His call for justice is intrinsically linked to righteousness (tzedakah).
My hope that justice be tempered by mercy, kindness, and love is, in fact, the theological foundation of Amos’s call. In Hebrew Scripture, tzedakah (righteousness/justice) is not merely adherence to ritual; it is fundamentally about acting rightly toward one another, especially the vulnerable. An “ever-flowing stream” of justice is therefore defined not by its overwhelming force of vengeance, but by its reliability, its purity, and its capacity to sustain life. It is a demand for a perpetual, reliable flow of social equity, compassion, and communal care.
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