He shall bring him [the eved] to Elokim.

Rashi explains Elokim here as “the court and the judges.” Indeed, the word elohim often refers to human authorities, including judges; at other times it refers to G-d—Elokim with a capital “E.” Rashi appears to be stating the obvious: the eved is brought before a human court. There is no mystical transport to the Divine Throne.

Yet perhaps Rashi is signaling something far more profound about the Torah’s conception of justice.

Most legal systems—even good and effective ones—aim at preventing injustice. They restrain bad actors from harming others and adjudicate disputes when two parties cannot determine fair terms. In short, they protect individuals from being wronged.

Our case is fundamentally different.

The eved, after six years of service, refuses his freedom. He prefers to remain with his master. The master, in turn, is not eager to retain him. On the contrary, he views continued servitude as an injustice to the eved, who has served faithfully for six years. He recoils from perpetuating even a form of semi-servitude.

And yet the Torah instructs: bring him to the court.

The court pierces the eved’s ear at the doorpost. His willingness to relinquish his freedom is treated as a grave failing. Not a crime against his master. Not a crime against society. A crime against himself.

Freedom is a Divine gift. To voluntarily surrender it is a betrayal of one’s own dignity and calling. Therefore, once the ritual is performed, he cannot later reverse course. He becomes a permanent servant—at least until Yovel. This is not merely a long-term employment contract; it is a diminished legal status.

Here the Torah ventures where other legal systems do not—and cannot—go. The Torah addresses not only injustice inflicted on others, but injustice a person inflicts upon himself.

Secular systems cannot legislate what is objectively best for a person’s moral and spiritual development. They cannot summon someone to court and say: “Your choices undermine your own potential. You are failing yourself.” Only the Ribbono Shel Olam can demand that level of accountability—and He does so through His Torah.

Thus, the eved is brought before elohim—human judges. But the words they speak are the words of Elokim. The term in our pasuk may therefore carry both meanings at once: G-d, and the judges who act as His agents in elevating justice to an entirely different plane.

This may also illuminate the Targum’s rendering of Moshe’s explanation to Yisro about the long lines awaiting judgment:

“Because the people come to me seeking Elokim.”

Onkelos translates: “seeking instruction from Hashem.”

The people were not merely seeking redress against wrongdoing. They were seeking clarity about how to act before acting. Even when the other party in a potential dispute might waive his own interests, a person would hesitate to proceed without knowing whether doing so was proper. They sought objective moral guidance—not simply legal arbitration.

They came not merely for justice, but for direction.

And this, Moshe tells Yisro, cannot be delegated. To convey what Hashem demands of them—this requires Moshe’s personal touch.