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

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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.

Holiness is to be found in how we treat each other. Someone who cheats in business or in some other way abuse his fellow man is by definition not holy.

We’ve just come off the greatest spiritual high in Jewish history: Har Sinai. Thunder, lightning, קול ה’, the Aseret HaDibrot. You would expect the Torah to say: Okay, now let’s go even higher. Let’s talk about the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. Sacred space. Divine presence.

But instead, the Torah makes a sharp detour.

Before we talk about how to build a house for God, we talk about how human beings treat one another.

And not lofty ideals either. The Torah starts with the most uncomfortable cases: the ama ivriyah, the maidservant—the lowest rung of society. Someone with no power, no prestige, no voice. The kind of person society would rather not see, let alone legislate protections for.

And the Torah says: Start here.

That’s not an accident. It’s a statement.

Judaism is not a religion that allows you to soar spiritually while stepping on people below you. You can daven with passion, bring offerings “from the heart,” talk about holiness all day—but if you exploit the weak, your spirituality is hollow.

Mishpatim reminds us what the Torah is really building: not just a spiritual people, but a just society.

Everyone is equal before the law. Rich or poor. Powerful or powerless. Slave or free. No one is above the law, and no one is beneath it.

That idea was revolutionary in the ancient world.

If you look at the Code of Hammurabi, you see a society built on class. A noble harms a slave? Minimal consequence. A slave harms a free person? Death. Human value depended on status.

The Torah rejects that outright.

Every human life has value. Every person is accountable. Justice is not adjusted based on wealth or power. And that includes property rights as well—what you earn through honest labor matters, and stealing it is not a “minor” sin. It’s a violation of God’s will just as much as idolatry.

That’s why the parsha opens with “Ve’eleh hamishpatim”—and these are the laws.
“And” means they are connected. These laws are not separate from Sinai. They are Sinai applied to real life.

Belief in God and building a just society are not two tracks. They are one system.

So before we build a sanctuary for God, the Torah insists we build a society worthy of Him.

Something very much worth thinking about.

The 10th Commandment tells us not to covet what our neighbor has. Not to be jealous of them for their success. Rather that we should learn how to be successful from them.

Now for a quick D’var Torah.

As you know, we’ve been going through the Aseret HaDibrot, the Ten Commandments. The last one—the Tenth Commandment—is especially interesting. Most of the commandments deal with action: things you do or don’t do. The tenth is different. It deals with feeling.

“Do not covet.”
You’re not allowed to covet someone else’s house, property, wealth, or even their spouse.

Why is this so important? Because coveting is where many sins begin. You start by wanting what someone else has, then you move to resentment: Why do they have it? Why don’t I? And from there, people justify all kinds of bad behavior.

But what we forget is that most success doesn’t just happen. It’s earned.

Someone once complained that professional athletes work a few hours a week and make millions. What you don’t see are the years of training, practice, discipline, and sacrifice. A player like Derek Jeter didn’t just walk onto the field as a great ballplayer—he practiced constantly, with the team and on his own.

The same is true in business. If someone is successful, it didn’t fall out of the sky. They worked at it.

There’s an economic mindset that says everything is a zero-sum game: if someone has more, someone else must have less—so we need to redistribute it. That is not the Torah’s view. The Torah’s view is the opposite. If someone is successful, don’t be jealous—study them. How did they get there? What did they do right? What can you learn and apply yourself?

It’s the same with Torah learning. If someone knows more Torah than I do, I don’t resent them. I ask: How did they learn? What habits did they develop? How can I grow?

That’s the message of the Tenth Commandment. Coveting leads to corruption. Learning leads to growth.

There’s a common phrase: “The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.” In reality, when wealth is created properly, everyone benefits. When businesses grow, they create jobs. Opportunity expands.

As John F. Kennedy famously said, “A rising tide lifts all boats.”

That idea captures the Torah’s approach perfectly. Don’t envy. Don’t covet. Learn, grow, work—and elevate yourself without tearing others down.

Something to think about.

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The Third Commandment states that we cannot take God’s name in vain. This means that we cannot commit a sin in God’s name. That we can do the right thing for the wrong reason but never the wrong thing for the right reason.

Quick D’var Torah – “Do Not Take God’s Name in Vain”

This week, once again, we encounter the Ten Commandments, and the third one is often misunderstood: “Do not take God’s name in vain.”
Most people assume this just means not using God’s name casually or in profanity—but that’s not what the Torah is really getting at.

The deeper meaning is far more serious: doing something wrong and claiming you’re doing it in God’s name.
That is real blasphemy.

When someone commits a crime, causes harm, or acts immorally while invoking God—that is taking God’s name in vain. Murder, theft, or oppression justified by “holy” intentions is exactly what this commandment forbids.

And this isn’t only a Jewish obligation. Among the Seven Noahide Laws, non-Jews are also commanded not to blaspheme. Why? Because the Torah does not accept the excuse, “He meant well.”

Judaism makes a critical distinction:

• You may sometimes do the right thing for the wrong reason.
• But you may never do the wrong thing for the right reason.

Our society often celebrates the opposite. We love the anti-hero—the outlaw with a good heart. Think of Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. Or the Blues Brothers claiming they’re “on a mission from God” while breaking every law along the way.

But according to the Torah, that doesn’t work.
You cannot steal from one person to help another—no matter how noble the cause.

This principle even applies in court. When a rich person and a poor person stand before a judge, the judge cannot favor the rich for gain, and cannot favor the poor out of compassion. Justice must be based only on the facts and the law, not intentions or emotions.

That is the core message of this commandment:
It’s not enough to believe the right things or mean well. God demands that we act rightly.

Good intentions do not sanctify bad actions.
Holiness comes from doing what is right—the right way.

Something to think about.

The Second Commandment is against idolatry. This does not just mean worshiping statues but ideology. We have to be careful not to allow our politics, or even our religious practice to make us lose site of the real goal. The Torah was given to make us better people.

Quick D’var Torah – The Second of the Aseret HaDibrot

The second of the Ten Commandments is usually summarized as “don’t make idols,” but there’s a lot of misunderstanding about what that actually means.
First of all, it is not anti-art. Judaism is not against art, beauty, or creativity.

There’s a famous story about Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook. During World War I, Rav Kook was stranded in London and couldn’t return to Eretz Yisrael. One of the things he did was spend time in the British Museum, especially studying the paintings of Rembrandt. Rav Kook said that Rembrandt possessed the light of the first day of creation—the אור הגנוז, the hidden light of understanding and holiness—and that you could actually feel God shining through his artwork.

A friend of mine once said that if he had to give evidence for the existence of God, he’d say Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart—because you simply can’t explain how someone that young produced music of such depth and genius without something divine behind it.

So the Torah is not worried about art. What it is worried about is worshiping the art—or turning anything into an idol.

And idols don’t have to be statues. They can be ideologies. Political ideologies. Even religious ideologies. When someone says, “This is my party, this is my system, this is my ideology—and everything else must bow to it,” that’s also a form of idolatry. The Torah wants you to think. God wants you to bring light into the world—not to surrender your mind to something just because it carries a label.

Even within religion, there’s a danger. People can get so caught up in the minutiae that they forget the big picture.

Take Mizmor Shir Leyom HaShabbat. Beautiful title—“A Song for the Day of Shabbat.” But if you look closely, nowhere else in the psalm does it even mention Shabbat. It’s almost as if King David is telling us: don’t get lost in the details. Remember what Shabbat is really about—a day to stop, reflect, and take stock of our lives.

And that’s the message of the second commandment. Serve God—but don’t turn anything else into God. Don’t let systems, objects, or even religious precision replace purpose.

The mitzvot weren’t given because God had nothing better to do. They were given to make us better people—to make us better Jews—and through that, to improve the world.

So instead of worrying about the government—joking aside—worry about yourself:

• Did I give tzedakah today?
• Did I daven?
• Was I pleasant to the people I met?
• Did I make someone’s world a little better by being in it?

That’s the real avodah.
And that’s what the second commandment is teaching us.

Something to think about.

The first “commandment” in the Decalogue is not a commandment but a statement. God is introducing Himself and pointing out that what comes next is not from man but from Him. That this was the purpose of the Exodus.

Quick D’var Torah – Parashat Yitro

This week’s parashah gives us the Aseret HaDibrot—the Ten Commandments. But it’s fascinating how they begin:

“Anochi Hashem Elokecha asher hotzeiticha me’eretz Mitzrayim” —
“I am the Lord your God who took you out of Egypt.”

That’s not a commandment. It’s a statement.

God is essentially saying: Whether you believe in Me or not, I am here. I am your God. I took you out of Egypt.
This opening frames everything that follows. These laws are not a human social contract—they are divine. They’re not based on convenience or politics, but on what God defines as right and just.

That already sets the Torah apart from ancient law codes. Human systems—like Hammurabi’s—were attempts to regulate society. The Torah does that too, but on an entirely different level: holiness, not expediency.

But there’s something deeper going on here.

God is telling the Jewish people:
Do you think I took you out of Egypt just because you were slaves? Just because I oppose slavery?
No. Slavery existed everywhere in the ancient world—and, tragically, well into modern times. God knows slavery will happen. But that’s not why He redeemed us.

He took us out for a purpose.

Freedom is not the goal; it’s the beginning. The purpose of the Exodus is mitzvot—to build a society grounded in justice, morality, and responsibility as God defines them. Not freedom from Egypt alone, but freedom for something higher.

And that leads to another radical difference between the Torah and ancient legal systems: equality before the law.
In many ancient codes, punishment depended on social class—rich and poor were judged differently. Not in the Torah. Before God’s law, everyone stands equal. Wealth, status, power—none of it matters.

That idea—equality before the law—doesn’t come from modern political theory. It comes from the Torah.

So now we understand why the Ten Commandments begin the way they do.
“I am the Lord your God who took you out of Egypt” isn’t background—it’s the foundation. Redemption wasn’t an end. It was the opening line of a mission.

Something to think about.

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Jethro arrives to the Israelite camp and gives Moses advice that entails the necessity of preparing the next generation of leaders. As it happens it is the Yahrzeit of my mother-in-law who was a teacher and felt this was her calling.

Quick D’var Torah – Parashat Yitro

Parashat Yitro is fascinating because the turning point comes from an outsider. Yitro isn’t part of the Jewish people when he approaches Moshe, yet he sees something everyone else has missed. Sometimes it takes someone standing on the outside to say, “This isn’t sustainable.”

Yitro watches Moshe judging the people from morning until night and says two critical things. First: you’re going to burn yourself out. A leader who tries to do everything alone will eventually collapse. And second—just as important—you’re not training the next generation. If everything depends on you, what happens when you’re no longer here?

So Yitro proposes a system: lower courts, developing judges, a pipeline of leadership. Moshe listens. And that moment becomes one of the foundations of Jewish continuity—not just law, but leadership transmission.

I mention this because today I davened from the amud on my mother-in-law’s yahrzeit—her tenth. She embodied this exact idea. She was an educator in every sense of the word. She didn’t just teach information; she prepared the next generation.

She wrote a book on Jewish etiquette. She had a long-running column in The Jewish Week—Ask Helen Latner—essentially the Jewish Dear Abby (and yes, Dear Abby was Jewish, as was Ann Landers—they were twins). But my mother-in-law brought a distinctly Jewish lens to guidance and values.

Together with my father-in-law, she helped preserve Jewish musical history. When he realized that Jewish recordings from the 1920s—great chazanut, recorded on fragile 78s—were disappearing, they started Collectors Guild. They rescued that music, re-recorded it, and re-released it on LPs. Thanks to that work, an entire chapter of Jewish cultural memory wasn’t lost.
(Though, as my wife will tell you, the basement filled up with records pretty quickly.)

Yet even while preserving the past, she was always focused on the future. She was an English teacher, later head of her department, an assistant principal—and when she retired, she didn’t stop. She kept writing, kept thinking, kept contributing. She lived to 97, sharp and present until the end. And that, truly, is one of the greatest berachot a person can have.

Parashat Yitro reminds us: leadership isn’t about doing everything yourself. It’s about building systems, teaching others, and ensuring continuity. That was Yitro’s wisdom—and it was my mother-in-law’s life.

May her memory continue to be a source of blessing and tikkun.