The Haftorah for Parshat Shekalim (II Kings 12:1-17 according to the Ashkenazi custom) is not a comforting read. It offers neither soaring poetry nor prophetic consolation. Instead, it confronts us with something seemingly far more mundane: the demand for accountability.
King Jehoash ascends the throne of Judea at the age of seven, guided by the righteous priest Yehoyada. Things seem to go well enough. Yet at some point, a basic responsibility is neglected. The Temple - the physical and spiritual heart of the nation - is in disrepair. Funds have been collected, donations pledged, intentions expressed. And still, nothing gets done.
“In the twenty-third year of King Jehoash, it was found that the priests had not made repairs to the House [i.e. the Temple]" (12:7). Jehoash finally intervenes. He calls the priests to account and asks the obvious question: Why has the House of G-d not been repaired? The money was taken but the repairs never happened. Whether through inertia, mismanagement or quiet self-interest, the system failed.
The king’s response is decisive. He bypasses the existing structure and institutes a new mechanism: a locked chest, publicly placed, transparently administered, with funds counted openly and used solely for their stated purpose. The chest had a hole bored into it in a manner, explains the Ralbag (Rabbi Levi ben Gershon, 1288-1344), such that people could insert donations but the funds could only be removed by opening it. Only once this new system was in place does the repair of the Temple finally begin.
The message is unmistakable. Good intentions are not enough. Even longstanding institutions cannot be exempt from scrutiny. Sacred missions demand clean hands.
That lesson resonates uncomfortably well today.
We live in an age saturated with slogans and declarations of virtue. Leaders speak incessantly about values, unity, responsibility and sacrifice. Yet too often, when it comes time to deliver results - to fix what is broken, to protect what is essential - accountability vanishes into bureaucracy.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in the aftermath of national crises.
When systems fail catastrophically, as they have in recent years, the instinct of those in power is often not introspection but insulation. Committees are formed, reports are delayed, jurisdiction is blurred. Responsibility is diffused so thoroughly that it disappears altogether. Everyone was involved, which means no one is accountable.
The Haftorah offers no patience for this kind of evasion.
Jehoash does not accept explanations about complexity or institutional inertia. He does not allow the priests’ status to shield them from scrutiny. He recognizes a simple truth: when something vital is neglected, leadership must intervene directly and transparently.
This is not merely a lesson in governance. It is a moral principle.
Parshat Shekalim itself revolves around the half-shekel - a modest, equal contribution required of every individual, rich and poor alike, toward the communal service. No one could buy influence with a larger donation, and no one was exempt. Collective responsibility was built on individual participation and trust that the funds would be used properly.
That trust is fragile. Once broken, it is extraordinarily difficult to restore.
In our own time, citizens are repeatedly asked to sacrifice - financially, emotionally, and physically. They comply not because they are naïve, but because they believe the system, however imperfect, is ultimately acting in good faith. When that belief erodes, the social fabric begins to fray.
The Haftorah reminds us that legitimacy flows from integrity. Institutions exist to serve a mission, not themselves.
There is also a quieter, more personal challenge embedded in this text.
Each of us contributes our own “half shekel" to the societies we inhabit: our time, our attention, our trust. We place these into the hands of leaders, organizations, and causes we believe in. Parshat Shekalim asks us to be neither cynical nor complacent. Support is not a blank check. Loyalty does not mean silence.
Judaism has never sanctified passivity. From the prophets onward, moral responsibility has always included the obligation to ask hard questions, especially of those closest to the altar.
As the month of Adar begins this week and the approach of Purim with its miracles is in the air, the Haftorah issues a sobering reminder: renewal begins with probity and accountability.
Before a Temple can be rebuilt, its walls must be honestly repaired. Before a nation can heal, its leaders must be willing to open the box, count the coins, and answer for how they were used.
That demand is not subversive. It is sacred.