In November 2024, UK Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer announced that Lord Peter Mandelson would be heading to Washington, DC as Britain’s next ambassador to the United States.

It was a striking choice. Mandelson is one of the most experienced and politically connected figures in modern British public life – but he was hardly uncontroversial, and he’d never been a diplomat.

For Americans, that might not sound unusual. In the United States, such posts are often handed to political allies, donors, or senior figures from outside the traditional diplomatic corps, with nominations subjected to public scrutiny and Senate confirmation hearings.

But Britain does things very differently. Senior diplomatic roles are almost always filled by career civil servants who have risen through the ranks of the Foreign Office. There is no equivalent of Senate confirmation: In other words, no public vetting and no televised grilling.

The system operates quietly and efficiently, and almost entirely behind closed doors – built on the assumption that professionalism, discretion, and institutional process will ensure the right outcome.

Mandelson’s appointment exposed how fragile that assumption can be. Because the moment a political figure was inserted into a system designed for career officials, its weaknesses began to show.

Questions surfaced almost immediately. Mandelson’s past was hardly unblemished – he had twice been forced to resign from government positions during the Blair years, and his long-standing association with the disgraced financier and convicted pedophile Jeffrey Epstein raised uncomfortable concerns.

Nevertheless, the appointment went ahead, and in January 2025, Mandelson took up residence in Washington.

Within months, the situation began to unravel. The release of Epstein-related documents cast a harsh new light on Mandelson’s relationship with him, suggesting continued contact far beyond what had previously been understood. There were also allegations – now the subject of an ongoing investigation – that he had shared sensitive classified information with Epstein.

Mandelson was removed from his post and later arrested on suspicion of misconduct in public office, although he has not been charged and denies wrongdoing.

And yet, somehow, Starmer survived the immediate fallout. His defense was simple: The proper procedures had been followed, and if there had been failures, they had nothing to do with how he had conducted himself, as he had done everything totally by the book.

But the story did not end there. Last week, it emerged that a security vetting process conducted in early 2025 had raised serious concerns about Mandelson’s suitability for the role – reportedly recommending that he not be sent to Washington. That assessment was ultimately overridden by the Foreign Office.

Suddenly, the focus shifted. This was no longer just about Mandelson’s conduct. It was about the system – and also about what the prime minister knew, and when.

What might once have remained an obscure internal matter has now spiraled into a full-blown constitutional and political crisis, shining an unforgiving light on a system that depends almost entirely on trust, discretion, and process.

Summoned to the House of Commons this week, Starmer was forced to issue a humiliating statement and defend his actions under hours of relentless questioning. His response was methodical and legalistic – hardly surprising for a man trained as a barrister.

Again and again, he returned to the same refrain: The process had not worked as it should have, but he had followed the process. And that, he continuously insisted, was the point.

Then veteran MP Diane Abbott stood up. Abbott, a long-serving figure on the left of Starmer’s Labour Party, was only recently reinstated after a prolonged suspension. Her relationship with Starmer has been, to put it mildly, strained.

“The prime minister has gone on at considerable length about process and procedure,” Abbott began, “but ordinary people do not really care about process and procedure. It is one thing, as the prime minister insists on saying, ‘Nobody told me, nobody told me anything,’ but what this House wants to know is: Why did the prime minister not ask?”

And just like that, Starmer’s entire “process” edifice collapsed. Because Abbott’s question didn’t engage with the process – it bypassed it and went straight to the heart of the matter. Starmer’s fixation with process was pure deflection. The real issue was something far more basic – and far harder to evade: judgment.

You can follow procedures meticulously and still get it wrong. You can insist that systems were in place and protocols were observed, but in the end, getting it right is not always about process – and you need to know that going in.

Starmer could point to what he was told and what he wasn’t told. But he could not escape the question that lingered in the chamber long after the noise had died down: Why didn’t he go beyond the process to make sure he was doing the right thing?

And that tension – between technical correctness and moral responsibility – is not unique to British politics. It sits at the heart of one of the Torah’s most famous and most elusive directives (Lev. 19:2): קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ כִּי קָדוֹשׁ אֲנִי ה׳ אֱלֹקֵיכֶם – “You shall be holy, for I, Hashem your God, am holy.”

At first glance, this mitzva sounds mystical and beyond the reach of ordinary folk. What exactly does it mean to be “holy?” Is the Torah asking us to withdraw from the world? To live some kind of ascetic, elevated existence far removed from the messiness of everyday life?

Rashi offers a good starting point, explaining that it means that one should exercise restraint. Know where to draw the line and don’t cross boundaries that compromise who you are – a definition of holiness that is rooted in discipline, self-control, and the ability to say no.

But the Ramban turns the whole idea on its head. He argues that restraint alone is not enough. You can keep every technical requirement of the Torah. You can stay firmly within the boundaries of what is permitted. And still, in his unforgettable phrase, you can be a “Naval Bir’shut HaTorah” — a scoundrel operating with the Torah’s consent.

It’s a devastating insight. You can follow every rule and still fail the moral test. Just because you ticked every procedural box doesn’t mean you are a good person. In fact, you can be doing evil while insisting you are doing everything right.

“Why did the prime minister not ask?” was not a procedural question. It was a Ramban question. Did you take responsibility? Did you exercise judgment? Did you go beyond what was technically required — and do what was right?

Systems, by their very nature, are limited. They can define what is allowed and what is forbidden. They can establish processes, protocols, and safeguards. But they cannot replace human responsibility, and they can never absolve a person from the obligation to think, to question, to probe.

We see it everywhere. In business, where companies insist they complied with regulations – even as the outcome leaves a trail of harm. In institutions, where failures are explained away as “procedural breakdowns.” In everyday life, where people defend themselves by saying, “I didn’t do anything wrong,” even when something clearly is wrong.

The Torah is not interested in producing people who merely stay within the lines. It is interested in producing people who elevate themselves within those lines – who bring integrity, sensitivity, and moral awareness into the vast space of what is technically permitted.

Holiness is not about escaping the complexity of life. It is about navigating that complexity with integrity. And in the end, that is why Prime Minister Starmer’s excuses ring so hollow. Why didn’t you ask? The Torah is clear. Holiness is not about following the rules. It begins at the point where process ends.