“My friends, Shalom — and good evening to all of you gathered here.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Parashat Mishpatim this week. Right after the thunder and lightning of Sinai, the Torah doesn’t give us more poetry. It gives us rules. Practical ones. About how to treat people when the glow of revelation fades and real life sets in.
And one of those rules hits hard: ‘You shall not oppress the stranger, for you know the heart of the stranger — you were strangers in Egypt.’ Not ‘maybe oppress.’ Not ‘oppress if it’s convenient.’ No — do not oppress. Because empathy isn’t optional. It’s baked into the memory of a people who spent generations as outsiders, as the vulnerable ones, the ones without rights, without a voice.
Now, I’m no stranger to that feeling myself. My father came from Kenya; my mother from Kansas. Parts of my family tree crossed oceans, crossed borders, looking for something better. And when I think about the immigrant families at our borders today — mothers walking miles with children in their arms, fathers risking everything to escape violence or poverty — I hear that ancient command echoing. We were strangers once, too. Every wave of newcomers to this country — Irish, Italians, Jews, Chinese, Latinos, Africans — they were strangers. And America grew stronger not by turning them away, but by remembering what it felt like to be the outsider and choosing welcome instead.
Of course, it’s not always easy. Borders matter. Laws matter. Security matters. But when we start seeing people fleeing desperation as threats rather than as human beings with hearts we’re commanded to understand — well, that’s when we drift from the blueprint Mishpatim lays out. A nation that forgets its own story of wandering risks becoming the Pharaoh it once escaped.
And let’s talk about another part of this portion that cuts even deeper for us Americans: the laws about slavery. Six years of service, then freedom. Not indefinite bondage. Not generational chains. In the seventh year, you set them free — and you don’t send them away empty-handed. You give them what they need to start again: livestock, grain, wine. Dignity in freedom.
Now, compare that to our own history. We didn’t follow that model. We built an economy on the backs of enslaved people — stolen from Africa, families torn apart, generations denied the chance to build wealth or even basic humanity. And when emancipation finally came — praise God for that — it wasn’t with provisions for a fresh start. No land, no resources, no real compensation. Instead, we got sharecropping, Jim Crow, redlining, mass incarceration — systems that kept the wound open, that made freedom feel like a half-measure.
Folks, that’s what we mean by systemic racism. It’s not just bad apples or isolated prejudice. It’s structures — inherited, baked-in — that continue to limit opportunity, that make the ladder shorter for some even generations later. And ignoring that doesn’t make it go away. It just lets the inequality fester.
But here’s the good news — the Torah doesn’t leave us in despair. It gives us laws precisely because societies can choose differently. We can choose justice. We can choose repair. We can look at the stranger in our midst — whether the immigrant at the border or the descendant of the enslaved in our cities — and say, ‘We know your heart, because we’ve been there too.’ Or at least our forebears have. And because of that, we’re going to act with compassion, with fairness, with the kind of bold empathy that builds a more perfect union.
Look, I’m not pretending it’s simple. Immigration reform takes tough compromises. Addressing systemic racism takes honest reckoning and real investment — in schools, in jobs, in criminal justice, in closing those wealth gaps. But if we lean into Mishpatim’s vision — freedom with dignity, justice without oppression, welcome rooted in shared memory — then we’re not just reading ancient words. We’re living them.
So let’s do that. Let’s not oppress the stranger. Let’s not chain the past to the present. Let’s free each other to build something better — together.
"But there is so much more in the parsha. We have fifty-three mitzvot. We get laws about property. We get laws about damages. We get laws about what happens when your neighbor's ox—and let’s be honest, there’s always that one neighbor—decides to go rogue.
And I’ve been there. I’ve dealt with Congress. I know what it’s like to try and negotiate with an 'ox' that doesn’t want to stay in its lane.
Why the Details Matter
Folks, it’s easy to be inspired when there’s thunder and lightning on the mountain. It’s easy to feel 'change' when the shofar is blowing. But the real work? The hard work? That happens in the fine print.
The Social Safety Net: Mishpatim tells us how to treat the stranger, the widow, and the orphan. It’s the original 'Affordable Care Act,' but for human dignity.
Property Rights: It reminds us that your neighbor's donkey matters. Even if you don't like the donkey. Even if the donkey didn't vote for you.
The 'Na’aseh V’Nishma' Moment: The Israelites said, 'We will do, and then we will understand.' Now, in Washington, we usually do the opposite—we talk for six months, understand nothing, and then... well, we’ll get back to you on the 'doing' part."
A Note on the "Goring Ox"
"I looked at the text. It says if an ox gores once, it’s a fluke. But if it’s a muad—a repeat offender—then we’ve got a systemic issue.
I think there’s a lesson there for all of us. Whether you’re a king, a citizen, or a community organizer: Pay attention to the patterns. If the ox keeps goring, stop blaming the ox and start looking at the fence.
And if you see your enemy’s donkey struggling under a heavy load? The Torah doesn't say 'check his Twitter feed to see if he deserves help.' It says: You shall surely help him. Even if he’s from the other side of the aisle."
Closing Thoughts
"So, as you go through this Parsha, don’t get bogged down in the legalese. Remember that the 'Mishpatim'—the judgments—are what turn a crowd of people into a community. It’s what turns a mountain-top experience into a sustainable way of life.
May we all be a little more careful with our neighbors' oxen, and a lot more generous with our own spirit.
Thank you, Shabbat Shalom, and God bless!
