Holiness does not come from miracles, as much as our everyday activities.

Parashat Terumah — Holiness Is Built, Not Miraculous

Parashat Terumah shifts the Torah in a surprising direction.

We have already:

1. Left Egypt — freedom
2. Received the Ten Commandments — morality
3. Received civil law — justice

And now… we build the Mishkan, the Tabernacle.

But why?

God says:

“Build Me a sanctuary so that I may dwell among you.”

Not in it — but among you.

God does not need a house.
We need a way to live with God.

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The Progression: From Freedom → Law → Responsibility → Holiness

The Torah is teaching a political and spiritual philosophy:

• Miracles do not create holiness
• Inspiration does not create holiness
• Even revelation at Sinai does not create holiness

Behavior creates holiness

A holy society is built — literally — by human beings acting properly toward each other.

The Mishkan is therefore not a building for God.
It is a training system for human character.

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The Test of Holiness: Money

Terumah begins with voluntary donations.

Not taxes.
Not forced charity.

Voluntary giving.

Because the real test of spirituality is how a person relates to property.

People often quote:

“Money is the root of all evil.”

That is incorrect.

The real idea is:

The love of money is the root of evil.

And Judaism goes even further:

You cannot do a mitzvah through a sin.

• Charity from stolen money → invalid
• Offering a sacrifice you don’t own → invalid
• “Holy crimes” → invalid

The Torah rejects the Robin Hood principle.

Good intentions never justify wrongdoing.

That is also the meaning of:

Not taking God’s name in vain

It does not mean merely swearing.

It means committing wrongdoing and claiming God wants it.

The Torah rejects the attitude:

“I’m doing this for a holy cause.”

(Great comedy example: “We’re on a mission from God” — and committing crimes.)

Holiness demands integrity, not justification.

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A Society Built on the Image of God

Why build the Mishkan?

To train us to see God in people.

The great sages taught:
When a human being enters the room — the image of God has entered.

That is the goal.

Not ritual alone.
Not miracles alone.
Not inspiration alone.

But a society where every human being is treated as carrying divine dignity.

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A Historical Reflection

Before the American Civil War, many abolitionists were deeply religious people.
They believed that if every person is created in God’s image — slavery cannot exist.

That same principle lies behind the Mishkan.

You cannot build a dwelling place for God
while denying the divine image in man.

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The Message of Terumah

God does not live in buildings.

God lives in societies built on justice, honesty, and dignity.

The Mishkan was never about creating a place for God.

It was about creating a people capable of living with Him.

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Something to think about:
Holiness is not what happens in sacred spaces.
Holiness is what happens between people — and the Mishkan trains us to live that way.

Teruma teaches us to prepare to build the Tabernacle for a better life. The month of Adar teaches us to be happy and that we are not victims no matter what comes our way.

The Connection of Parshat Terumah and Adar

1) Terumah — God when He is visible

In Parashat Terumah the Jewish people are secure.
They just left Egypt. They saw the sea split. Revelation happened publicly.

So God says:

“V’asu li Mikdash v’shachanti b’tocham — Make Me a sanctuary and I will dwell among them.”

Notice — not in it, but among them.

The Mishkan is not for God.
It is a training device for awareness.

And that explains why the donations must be voluntary:

“From every person whose heart moves him…”

Because the Mishkan only works if people feel God’s presence willingly.
When God is obvious, service comes naturally.

This is Judaism in its ideal state:
clarity → gratitude → generosity → closeness.

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2) Purim — God when He is hidden

Now jump to Adar.

No prophecy.
No miracles.
No Temple.
No army.
No sovereignty.

And most importantly:

God’s name never appears in the Megillah.

That is not accidental — it’s the entire message.

Ahasuerus doesn’t save the Jews because of justice
He doesn’t save them because of morality
He doesn’t save them because of covenant

He saves them because he loves Esther.

History looks random.

Politics looks petty.

Everything looks human.

Exactly like the story you told about Rabbi Moshe Seel —
the entire fate of a Jewish life hanging on a friendship between two women and a tired secret-police officer’s marriage.

That is Purim reality.

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3) The Deep Connection

Terumah teaches:

God lives among us when we see Him.

Purim teaches:

God lives among us when we don’t see Him.

The Mishkan = revealed providence
Purim = concealed providence

In the desert:
Clouds, fire, miracles

In exile:
Coincidences, relationships, politics, personalities

But the Torah is telling us:

Both are the same divine presence.

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4) Why Adar Begins with Donations

Now the calendar suddenly makes sense.

Before Purim we read about giving (Terumah and Shekalim).

Because the Jewish mistake in exile is passivity.

When God is hidden, people become victims:

“History happens to us.”

Purim comes to destroy that idea.

Mordechai doesn’t say pray only
He says act

Esther risks her life
The Jews organize
They fast together
They strategize

God saves them — but only after they behave like partners in history.

So we read Terumah now to remind us:

Even when God is hidden, we still build His dwelling place — through what we do.

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5) The Real Meaning of “Mishenichnas Adar Marbim B’simcha”

Joy in Adar is not optimism.

It is confidence in hidden meaning.

A Jew in Adar says:

I may not see miracles
I may not control politics
But history is not random
And therefore I am never a victim

That’s exactly your point.

Egypt = slavery of the body
Exile = slavery of the mind

Purim frees the Jewish psyche.

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A One-Sentence Connection

Terumah teaches how Jews live with God in the Land.
Purim teaches how Jews survive with God in exile.

And the same God is present in both —
once openly in a sanctuary,
and once secretly in events.

That’s why they always arrive together.

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God commands us to build Him a home so that He can dwell among us. What God really wants is for us to have a just society. That we treat each other with respect.

Rosh Chodesh Adar and Parashat Terumah.

There is a quiet but very radical shift happening in the Torah at this moment.

Up until now in Sefer Shemot:

• God breaks nature (the plagues)
• God breaks history (the Exodus)
• God breaks physics (the sea)
• God speaks from heaven (Sinai)

Human beings are basically spectators.

Then suddenly — everything changes.

“וְעָשׂוּ לִי מִקְדָּשׁ — Build Me a sanctuary,
וְשָׁכַנְתִּי בְּתוֹכָם — and I will dwell among them.”

Not in it — among them.

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The Revolution of the Mishkan

In the ancient world, temples existed everywhere — Egypt, Mesopotamia, Canaan — but they all worked the same way:

You brought offerings → you appeased the god → the god left you alone.

The deity lived there.
Human beings lived here.

The Torah introduces a completely different theology:

God does not want a residence.
God wants a relationship.

The Mishkan is therefore not God’s house.

It is the training ground for humans to learn how to live with the Divine presence.

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Why Humans Must Build It

If God split the sea, He can assemble furniture.

But that would defeat the purpose.

The Mishkan is the first place in the Torah where holiness is not created by miracle —
it is created by human behavior.

Gold, wood, wool, skins — none of these are holy.

They become holy because a human being says:

I choose to give.
I choose to restrain myself.
I choose to act for something beyond myself.

Holiness enters the world when humans act differently than nature.

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The Order Matters

Notice the Torah’s sequence:

1. Sinai — Revelation
2. Mishpatim — Civil law (how to treat people)
3. Terumah — The Mishkan

You cannot build a sanctuary before you build a society.

God will not dwell in a structure built by people who cheat each other.

So the Mishkan is not the introduction of religion.

It is the result of ethics.

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Prayer and Ritual — For Whom?

We often wonder:

Does God care which nusach I use?
Did I pronounce the words perfectly?
Did I stand at the right moment?

But the Mishkan already answered that.

The korbanot were not feeding God.
The incense was not pleasing God’s senses.

They were shaping the human being.

Ritual is not information directed upward.
It is formation directed inward.

We don’t pray to change God’s will.
We pray to change who we are — into people capable of living with God.

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Why This Fits Adar

Adar is the month of hidden miracles — the Book of Esther, where God never appears.

Because once the Mishkan exists, God stops splitting seas.

Now the question becomes:

Can humans behave in a way that allows God to be present without spectacle?

The Mishkan teaches:
God is not found in heaven-breaking events.

He is found in everyday conduct.

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The Real Sanctuary

So the Torah’s message becomes incredibly practical:

If you want God in the world —
not in heaven, not in theory, not in philosophy —

then holiness is measured by:

• honesty in business
• dignity toward others
• kindness in ordinary encounters

Smile at a neighbor → you built a beam of the Mishkan.
Act fairly → you lit the Menorah.
Control anger → you offered incense.

We were never asked to build a building for God.

We were asked to become a place where He can dwell.

Chodesh Tov — may we build it well.

The reason that God wants us to help in the building of the Tabernacle is to show us that this is a partnership with God. That our job is to bring God down to this world through the commandments.

Quick D’var Torah — From Sinai to the Mishkan: Why We Have to Build

We now enter the second half of Sefer Shemot — the building of the Mishkan.

And a basic question should bother us.

God took us out of Egypt.
God split the sea.
God gave the Ten Commandments.

So if God wants a sanctuary… why doesn’t He just build it Himself?

Why ask human beings — former slaves in the desert — to construct His dwelling?

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The Pattern We’ve Been Watching

If you follow the parshiot carefully, a progression appears.

1. Yitro – establish courts → a functioning society
2. Aseret HaDibrot – moral foundations
3. Mishpatim – civil law, daily behavior
4. Terumah–Tetzaveh – build the Mishkan

The Torah is not rushing toward spirituality.

It is building a nation.

First justice.
Then responsibility.
Then ethics.
Only then — holiness.

Because Judaism does not believe God lives in heaven alone.
God lives inside a society that behaves properly.

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Why God Doesn’t Build It

The Mishkan is not a house for God.

It is a training program for humans.

If God built it — we would admire it.

But because we build it, we become partners.

“Ve’asu li Mikdash v’shachanti b’tocham”
Not in it — but among them.

God is not asking for architecture.

He is asking for participation.

Holiness only enters the world when humans invest effort — time, money, skill, and heart.

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Bringing God Into the Street

There’s a famous story told about Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach.

A religious person says:
“God isn’t here — I’ll go to the synagogue to find Him.”

A secular person says:
“God isn’t here — therefore He doesn’t exist.”

Judaism says something else:

Bring God here.

Every mitzvah pulls the Divine Presence into ordinary life — business, family, community.

The Mishkan was never meant to keep God in one place.

It was meant to teach us how to carry Him everywhere.

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The Modern Mishkan

A synagogue is called a Mikdash Me’at — a miniature sanctuary.

But just like the original Mishkan, it does not descend from heaven.

It runs on participation.

People daven — that brings holiness.
People volunteer — that brings presence.
People contribute — that makes it possible.

Electricity, heat, staff, programs — these are not “expenses.”
They are the beams and sockets of our modern Mishkan.

God’s presence doesn’t rest where people attend.

It rests where people invest.

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The Takeaway

The Torah’s message is simple:

God did the miracles.

Now He asks us to build the relationship.

Not a one-way street.
A partnership.

We don’t just visit holiness.

We construct it.

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(And that’s why supporting the community — however one can — isn’t fundraising.
It’s participation in building a dwelling place for the Divine.)

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Before building the Tabernacle, God asks that the Jews donate what they can. The amazing thing is that they were so generous with their donations that Moses had to tell them stop.

Parashat Terumah: Belonging Means Giving

We’ve now moved through three stages of formation of the Jewish people.

First came Sinai — the Ten Commandments: our relationship with God.
Then came Mishpatim — the civil laws: how to build a just society.
Now in Terumah, we begin building the Mishkan — the Tabernacle — the place of Divine presence.

And the very first command?

Not prayer.
Not sacrifices.
Not ritual.

Donation.

“Take for Me a contribution — from every person whose heart moves him.”

No taxes. No assessments. Completely voluntary.

And what happens?

The Torah tells us the people give so much that Moshe has to announce:

“Stop donating — we have more than enough.”

Possibly the only fundraising campaign in Jewish history that succeeded too well.

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Why begin holiness with money?

Because the Mishkan is not just a holy building — it is a shared responsibility.

God is teaching something fundamental:

You cannot just attend a community.
You cannot just benefit from a community.
You must invest in a community.

Holiness requires participation.

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We actually saw this in modern times as well.
During Operation Solomon in 1991, when Ethiopian Jews were airlifted to Israel with almost nothing, the public was asked to donate clothing and supplies.

Within one day they had to announce:

Stop — there is already more than enough.

When people feel ownership, generosity appears.

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A profound halachic idea

Even someone supported entirely by charity must still give charity.

Why?

Because dignity comes from contribution.

A Jew is not just a recipient — a Jew is a participant.

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The message of the Mishkan

God says: Build Me a sanctuary so I can dwell among you —
not in it, but among you.

The Divine Presence rests in a community where people give of themselves — materially, emotionally, and spiritually.

So the Torah begins the holiest structure ever built with a simple lesson:

Membership is not declared by words.
Membership is proven by contribution.

If you want to belong — build.

Something to think about.

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In the middle of the civil and criminal laws of Parshat Mishpatim, we have a reminder to keep Shabbat. This is to remind us that our civil and criminal laws come from God, not man.

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Shabbat in the Middle of the Laws

This week’s parsha, Mishpatim, is—on the surface—a very “dry” parsha.
It deals with torts, damages, property law, servants, loans, courts. Very intellectual. Very legal. It reads almost like a civil code.

And then suddenly—right in the middle—we encounter Shabbat.

At first glance, it feels out of place. We’re talking about oxen goring and property damage—why interrupt that with Shabbat?

But in reality, it is exactly where Shabbat belongs.

Law Needs Soul

The Torah is teaching us something profound:
These civil laws may appear logical. Any advanced society could theoretically develop rules about damages, theft, and justice. But the Torah insists that these laws are not merely social contracts. They are Divine commands.

Shabbat is inserted here to remind us:
Without God at the center, even the most rational legal system loses its foundation.

The civil laws buttress the spiritual ideals.
The spiritual ideals buttress the civil laws.

You cannot separate the two.

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“More Than the Jews Have Kept Shabbat…”

The early Zionist thinker Ahad Ha’am—not a traditionally observant Jew—made the famous remark:

“More than the Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.”

What did he mean?

That Shabbat is not just another mitzvah.
It is the center that holds everything together.

Remove Shabbat, and Jewish identity slowly dissolves.
Remove transcendence, and the law becomes mechanical.

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Radical Equality

In the ancient world, slaves did not rest. Animals did not rest. Productivity was everything.

Shabbat says:

• Your servant rests.
• Your maidservant rests.
• The stranger rests.
• Even your animals rest.

The animal does not know it is Shabbat.
But you know.

Shabbat trains the human being to stop.
To limit power.
To recognize that we are not masters of the universe.

If you do not allow others to rest, you will never rest.

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The Friday Night Boundary

You told the story of your employer who invited you for Friday night—but with one condition:

“If you bring up work, don’t bother coming in on Monday.”

That is Shabbat.

Six days we build the business.
One day we remember why we build it.

Without that boundary, work consumes life.
With that boundary, work has meaning.

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The Psalm Before Barchu

On Friday night we say Mizmor Shir L’Yom HaShabbat (Psalm 92).
It has a magnificent title—“A song for the day of Shabbat”—
yet the word Shabbat barely appears in the body of the psalm.

It seems almost forgotten.

But perhaps that’s the point.

Shabbat is not only about saying “Shabbat.”
It is about what Shabbat produces:

• Perspective
• Gratitude
• Family
• Reconnection to God
• Recognition that life is not just productivity

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Why Here?

So why place Shabbat in the middle of Mishpatim?

Because the Torah is teaching:

A just society without spirituality becomes cold.
Spirituality without justice becomes empty.

Shabbat reminds us that all law comes from God.
And the laws remind us that holiness must shape how we treat one another.

Without Shabbat, nothing else matters.

And that is why it sits—not at the beginning, not at the end—

—but in the middle.

The Torah states that someone who wishes to remain a slave is punished. The Torah wants you to earn your potential but to do so you have to free, and not a slave.

The Eved Ivri Who Refuses Freedom

4

The Torah says that after six years, the Hebrew servant must go free. But if he declares:

“I love my master, my wife and my children; I do not wish to go free” (Exodus 21:5)

Then he is brought to the doorpost and his ear is pierced with an awl.

Why the Ear?

Chazal famously explain:
The ear that heard at Sinai, “For the Children of Israel are My servants” (Leviticus 25:55), and nevertheless chooses another master — that ear must be pierced.

In other words:
You already heard at Sinai that you are a servant of God. You cannot voluntarily downgrade yourself to permanent servitude to flesh and blood.

But there is something even deeper here.

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The Psychology of Slavery

The Torah is not just legislating — it is diagnosing.

A slave has:

• Guaranteed food
• Guaranteed shelter
• No existential anxiety
• No responsibility

Freedom, by contrast, is frightening.

Freedom means:

• You must earn.
• You must risk.
• You might fail.
• You are responsible.

That’s why the ear is pierced at the doorpost — the same place where blood was placed on the night of the Exodus. That doorpost represents the moment we chose freedom over security.

The eved Ivri is symbolically being asked:
Did you really leave Egypt?

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Cradle-to-Grave vs. Covenant

You correctly connect this to totalitarian systems.

Communism. Fascism. Statism.

Their promise is always the same:
“We will take care of you. Just surrender autonomy.”

But Torah rejects that model.

God says:
You are My servants — not servants to servants.

And here’s the key distinction:

• A totalitarian state removes responsibility.
• The Torah increases responsibility.

The Torah’s system is harder — but it dignifies.

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Potential vs. Entitlement

You made a sharp observation about “entitlement.” There really is no Hebrew word that captures the modern ideological sense of being owed something for existing.

There is “zachiti” — I merited.
There is “hagiah li” — it reached me.
There is “ani ra’ui” — I am worthy.

But none mean:
“The universe owes me.”

Torah says:
You are given abilities.
You are given opportunity.
You are given covenant.

But you must activate it.

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The American Parallel

Take Cornelius Vanderbilt.

He began in poverty and built an empire in shipping and railroads. However one evaluates his methods, his life reflected one core American principle: mobility through effort.

And that aligns deeply with Torah thought.

Not aristocracy by birth.
Not priesthood by inheritance (except where explicitly commanded).
Not monarchy by divine right in this context.

Even a judge — as noted — must earn the position.

Leadership is not entitlement.
It is achievement.

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The Bore in the Ear as Moral Wake-Up Call

The piercing is not punishment in the criminal sense.

It is a symbolic rebuke:

You are settling.

You are choosing security over destiny.

The Torah is essentially telling the servant:

You are not failing because you are poor.
You are failing because you are refusing to try.

And that is far more tragic.

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The Big Idea

The Torah’s opening laws after Sinai are not about ritual — they are about human dignity.

The first societal law teaches:

Freedom is not comfort.
Freedom is responsibility.

And God wants you to attempt greatness.

Whether you succeed is secondary.

But you must put skin in the game.

That’s a strong “something to think about” — and very much in the spirit of Mishpatim.

The key to a just society is that the judges follow the law. That they do not favor either the wealthy or the poor. All are equal before the law and cases can only be tried on the facts or the evidence. Not on anything else.

1. Getting Egypt Out of Us

The Torah does not move from the Ten Commandments directly into building the Mishkan. Instead, it moves into civil law.

Why?

Because freedom without law is chaos.

Egypt was not merely a place of slavery; it was a worldview — hierarchy, power, arbitrary justice, different laws for different classes. Leaving Egypt physically was easy. Removing the Egyptian mindset required law.

Mishpatim creates a society governed not by power, but by דין — objective justice.

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2. Judges May Not Play Social Engineer

The Torah is explicit:

• לא תטה משפט אביונך בריבו — do not bend judgment even for the poor.
• לא תהדר פני גדול — do not favor the powerful.

Justice is not about sympathy.
Justice is not about revenge.
Justice is not about social correction.

Justice is about law and evidence.

In the ancient world — as in the Code of Hammurabi — punishment varied by class. Noble and commoner did not receive equal treatment. Torah law applies equally to all.

One law.
One standard.
One courtroom.

That itself was revolutionary.

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3. “An Eye for an Eye” — What It Really Means

📜 “עין תחת עין”

The phrase is intentionally precise. It does not say:

• עין בעין (an eye in exchange for an eye)
• nor עין תחתיו (his eye instead of the eye)

The word תחת means “in place of” — compensation replacing the damage.

The Oral Law makes this explicit: monetary damages. The Talmud (Bava Kamma 83b–84a) derives this through linguistic analysis and comparison to adjacent verses discussing financial restitution.

The Torah removes revenge from the equation.

You don’t take vengeance.
You don’t retaliate.
You go to court.

That alone separates Torah civilization from the brutality of the ancient world.

Even more: the court assesses five categories of damages — loss, pain, medical costs, unemployment, humiliation. That is sophisticated tort law thousands of years before modern jurisprudence.

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4. Why Begin With the Maidservant?

The parasha opens with laws of the Hebrew maidservant — the lowest rung in society.

Why begin there?

Because justice is measured from the bottom up.

If the weakest are protected,
everyone is protected.

If the weakest are ignored,
no one is safe.

This is not sentimentalism.
It is structural stability.

A society that does not protect its lowest member will eventually collapse — morally and legally.

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5. Sinai Without Mishpatim Is Memory

This may be the deepest point you made.

Sinai is transcendence.
Mishpatim is daily conduct.

How do I:

• run my business?
• treat an employee?
• handle damages?
• conduct testimony?
• judge fairly?
• avoid revenge?

Torah is not meant to be a spiritual high that fades.
It is meant to regulate daily behavior.

Without Mishpatim, Sinai becomes nostalgia.

With Mishpatim, Sinai becomes civilization.

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6. The Radical Idea

The Torah’s revolution was not ritual.
It was law restrained by morality and accountability to God.

Not:

• Power decides.
• Class decides.
• Emotion decides.

But:

• Law decides.
• Evidence decides.
• Justice decides.

And the judge answers not to society — but to God.

That is what removes Egypt from within us.

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This is a powerful theme for a D’var Torah:

Freedom is not the absence of chains.
Freedom is the presence of law.

Sinai gave us inspiration.
Mishpatim gave us civilization.

Something very much to think about.

That we get societal laws right after the revelation at Mt. Sinai teaches us that the spiritual laws are important but is our society is unjust then the spiritual laws will not matter.

Quick D’var Torah – Parashat Mishpatim

This week’s parashah, Mishpatim, is one of the most demanding portions in the Torah—but it makes a foundational point about freedom.
Yes, we left Egypt. But the real question is: did Egypt leave us?

The Torah’s goal isn’t just liberation; it’s transformation. Freedom without law is meaningless. If there are no shared rules, freedom quickly collapses into chaos—and chaos always ends with people giving up their freedom.

That’s why Mishpatim follows Sinai. Last week we experienced the highest spiritual moment imaginable: God speaking directly to the people. But spirituality alone isn’t enough. The Torah immediately moves us into the nitty-gritty: civil law, damages, responsibility, how people treat one another. Because a holy society isn’t measured only by how it prays—but by how it functions.

There’s a fascinating linguistic note that highlights this idea. Hebrew is unique in how it refers to the United States. Instead of a literal translation of “United States,” Hebrew has long used Artzot HaBrit—“the lands of the covenant” or “the agreement.” This wasn’t a modern invention; it was already in use in the 1790s. Jews immediately sensed something distinctive about America: it was a nation defined not by a king or a people, but by law.

Notice the difference in authority. In many countries, it’s “in the name of the king,” or “the people,” or “the revolution.” In America, it’s “in the name of the law.” Even the president swears loyalty not to a person, but to the Constitution. Leadership is subordinate to law.

That idea is deeply Torah-centric. At the heart of Jewish life is halacha—law. We may disagree philosophically, culturally, or politically, and that’s fine. But a society can only survive if everyone accepts the same legal framework. Without it, freedom doesn’t expand—it evaporates.

This also explains the Torah’s structure. Last week’s parashah opens with Yitro telling Moshe to establish a system of courts—before the laws are even given. Law requires enforcement. Then come the Ten Commandments. Then Mishpatim: what those ideals look like in real life. And only after all that does God say, “Now you can build the Mishkan.” In other words: take care of society first. My dwelling place can wait.

That’s the message of Mishpatim. Sinai was the inspiration. Mishpatim is the implementation. And without law, neither freedom nor holiness can endure.

Something to think about.

The key to any society is teamwork. That is the same in football. Every member of the team has to know his job. If even a minor player fails, then the whole team will suffer. So, too, the Torah stresses that we are all part of society and we each have to help.

Quick Devar Torah – Parashat Mishpatim

This week we’re in Parashat Mishpatim, the parashah of communal law—the laws that teach us how to build a just society. What’s striking is how communal everything is in the Torah. Judaism does not envision people living in isolation. Society is meant to function as a community, with shared responsibility.

One powerful example: even someone who lives entirely on tzedakah, on charity, is still obligated to give a tenth of what they receive. Why? Because being part of a community comes with obligations—not just benefits. You are never “outside” the system.

Mishpatim is filled with laws governing how we treat one another—fairness, responsibility, accountability. And that got me thinking about another very sacred American institution we just experienced: Super Bowl Sunday. I’ll leave commentary on the game and halftime show to others—but the structure of football itself is instructive.

Football is all about rules and teamwork. No matter how great a quarterback is, if the team doesn’t function together, they will not win. In fact, the most important people for the quarterback may be the linemen—the ones who don’t get the glory, but who protect him from getting crushed. If they fail, the quarterback gets sacked every time.

That’s the lesson: success is never individual alone. The Torah understands this deeply. Society is a team. Everyone has a role. Some bless the people, some lead, some teach, some support. Even someone who is extraordinarily successful may not separate themselves from the community. In fact, separating oneself from the community is considered one of the worst things a person can do.

The Torah also insists on structure. We don’t each decide halacha for ourselves. We have leadership, courts, and authority. A society cannot function without rules and without people willing to follow them.

And here’s the key point: before the Torah moves on to the Mishkan, to sacred spaces, offerings, and ritual holiness, it says—first get society right. Care for one another. Act justly. Be responsible for each other.

One of the greatest compliments I ever heard about someone was said about a grandfather who, upon hearing there was an earthquake in Japan, immediately asked, “Were any Jews hurt?” His instinct was communal concern.

That’s Mishpatim. We are part of something larger than ourselves. We are a team. Not everyone is the quarterback—and that’s okay. You can be the lineman protecting others. You can be on defense, making sure harm doesn’t spread. But everyone matters.

That’s the message of this week’s parashah—and a lesson worth remembering long after the Super Bowl is over.