In eJewishPhilanthropy’s exclusive opinion column The 501(C) Suite, leading foundation executives share what they are working on and thinking about with the wider philanthropic field. 

In the Daf Yomi cycle, the recently completed Tractate Horayot opens with a jarring question: What happens when those entrusted with wisdom and power — judges, priests, kings — err, and the people follow? 

The tractate begins with the unsettling scenario of the High Court issuing a mistaken ruling that leads the majority of the people to transgress unknowingly. Afterward, the court and its followers must reckon with the outcome, with the court bringing a sacrifice to atone for this collective error. Horayot is not a tractate about deliberate evils; it is about error and frailty in the highest places and what leadership must do when its fallibility becomes visible. 

During the 10 Days of Repentance between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, this reckoning with accountability feels even more urgent, and it can serve as a lens for considering the accountability of our own philanthropic leadership. 

By virtue of our resources, philanthropic leadership can exercise outsized impact on the fields we care about. We have the privilege of time and space — to conduct research, convene stakeholders, see the big picture and take risks. But we also define priorities and articulate values; we decide which voices are amplified and which projects receive support. The consequences of our judgments ripple outward. 

And like those of the ancient High Court, philanthropic judgments can also be mistaken. Strategies we work hard to craft miss the mark. The context in which we’re operating shifts, whether due to new emergencies or misplaced assumptions. We misjudge the needs of our community or overlook perspectives that could have helped to inform us. We invest in initiatives that aren’t successful, underestimate our grantees’ challenges or overestimate their capacity to accomplish ambitious goals. 

Horayot gives us a standard: It matters less that error occurs and more how philanthropic leadership acknowledges, responds and learns from it. When a foundation gives a grant based on what seemed like sound judgement but later things veer off course, we have a choice: We can cast blame and retreat, or partner with the grantee to understand what went wrong and chart a new path together. 

To do this well, transparency matters — not to expose failure for its own sake, but to signal that values of learning and trust are not optional. The Russell Berrie Foundation’s grant agreement includes a material changes clause that obligates a grantee to tell us when things aren’t going as expected. We emphasize that this provision is for an organization’s own protection: We expect that things will sometimes go awry, and we want our grantees to trust that, if they are transparent with us, we can be flexible with them. I’ve found some of our most meaningful partnerships emerged from these moments of honest calibration. 

We are not always right, but we should be responsible — not only for our decisions, but for creating environments in which error is something we examine, not reject.

The temptation to follow, and the power of discernment

After describing what happens if the High Court makes an error, the Talmud proceeds to ask: What happens if there is an individual scholar or judge who is learned enough to recognize that the judges made a mistake? Is that individual free of personal responsibility because the rest of the community followed the judgment into error? Instead, the Talmud suggests that those who “should know better” have a responsibility to act with conscience and not to let the machinery of authority become a shield. These individuals are liable for their own sacrificial atonement, together with the court. 

Philanthropic ecosystems are not immune to this scenario. Foundation leaders must recognize the power dynamics that exist in the funding process, which can stifle a nonprofit’s ability to call out a funder’s mistake. Grantees may feel pressure to conform to donor expectations, modifying their priorities to meet the strategic interest of the philanthropy. Often, they might even convince themselves that these new directions do not stray too far from the north star of their mission. I can recall initiatives where our well-intentioned enthusiasm for an idea led us to encourage expansions that stretched organizations beyond their comfort zones — teaching us as much about our own blind spots as about program design. 

Foundations rely on entrenched paradigms, and when new situations arise — emergencies, changing landscapes, shifting values — we may opt for the safer path or even choose inaction rather than change direction or take controversial risks. It’s no secret that our polarizing times reward conformity; and even among philanthropic leaders, it takes courage to question orthodoxies. The cost of that silence, whether in boardrooms or broader civic life, compounds when those of us with resources and platforms choose comfort over conscience. The Talmud reminds us that leadership invites questioning and imposes accountability on those scholars and judges who choose compliance.

A model for accountability

I’ve learned to recognize the sinking feeling when I realize we’ve miscalculated not because a grantee has failed but because we asked the wrong questions at the outset. Sometimes it’s a program design that looked elegant on paper but ignored the messy realities of implementation. Other times, it’s our own assumptions about what a community needed — assumptions we hadn’t sufficiently tested.

If we take Horayot seriously, what might a philanthropic model of accountability look like? 

• Acknowledge fallibility openly, and create space for grantees to do the same without fear. 
• Design feedback loops, not just with postmortem audits but through regular opportunities during a grant cycle to invite challenge and surface differing perspectives.
• Be willing to shift when evidence shows a decision isn’t working. Change course, adjust priorities and carry forward the lessons. 
• Cultivate humility. Make being correct less about preserving pride and more about realizing purpose.
• Make recompense. Sometimes funds must be redirected; allow grantees to propose alternate uses.
• Protect speech, ensuring that those who raise questions or challenge orthodoxies are not punished but valued.

The Russell Berrie Foundation does not claim perfection. But we do try — to lean into our own mistakes, listen when others say we’re wrong and be humble in the face of missteps that we and our grantees might take.

A sacred duty

The sages in Horayot teach us that error is human, but leadership is sacred. Mistakes from the highest places carry real consequences: they shape norms, shift values and erode trust. Accountability is not only a burden; it is also a sacred duty, especially for those who lead.

We live in a time when much authority is left unchallenged. Decisions are accepted without critical scrutiny. Those who should know better remain silent. As The Russell Berrie Foundation approaches its sunset, I’m acutely aware that our accountability extends beyond individual grants to the example we can set for how philanthropic leadership can model humility. Horayot reminds us that leadership demands more: the courage to make difficult decisions and the greater courage to acknowledge that some decisions might have been mistakes. As leaders — religious, political or philanthropic — we must learn to respond, to atone, to grow.

What might change — in our communities, our institutions, our philanthropy, our democracy — if accountability was treated not as a defect but as the very measure of leadership’s integrity?

Idana Goldberg is the CEO of the Russell Berrie Foundation.