Mishpatim
Exodus 21:1–24:18 

 By Guest Torah Blogger, Jen Smith

Parashat Mishpatim begins: “And these are the laws that you shall set before them.” (Exodus 21:1) 

After the big show at Sinai, where God’s voice thundered in revelation, you might expect the Torah to remain in the supernatural realm of miracles and divine mystery. Instead, it turns to the laws of daily life – compensation for damage to people or property, ethical treatment of workers, and even the proper care of animals. However, hidden within these laws is something infinitely deeper: the fusion of justice and holiness (din and rachamim), law and love. 

We also hear the haunting verse that defines the Jewish people:  “Do not oppress the stranger, for you know the soul of the stranger, since you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23:9) 

This verse resonates deeply today. The people of Israel know what it means to be vulnerable. We know the pain of oppression, of exile, of being at the mercy of those who see us as sub-human. And tragically, we have seen that pain once again in the murder of the Bibas family and other hostages taken from their homes, brutalized, and executed without mercy. 

How do we, as Jews, respond to such evil?  The Zohar teaches that every human soul contains a spark of divine light, a piece of the Ein Sof, the Infinite. Our tradition teaches that when life is taken unjustly, that diving spark cries out. Just as the blood of Abel cried from the earth when Cain murdered him (Genesis 4:10), so too do the souls of the Bibas family, Oded Lifshitz, and of every innocent life and hostage lost since the atrocities of October 7. 

The Kabbalists speak of a cosmic battle between the forces of holiness (kedushah) and those of the “other side” (sitra achra), or the force of darkness. When innocent lives are destroyed, it is not just an earthly crime; it is considered as a tear in the spiritual fabric of the universe. We mourn not only the loss of life but the attack on the God’s divine presence itself. 

Yet, Jewish wisdom teaches that even in the face of utter cruelty, we must never become like our enemies. The Torah warns, “Do not follow the ways of the nations” (Leviticus 18:3). We respond to evil with strength, but we do not sacrifice our humanity. Justice is not vengeance. Strength is not cruelty. 

Mishpatim demands action. It tells us that a moral society is not built solely upon faith and ritual, but rather on laws and justice. “You shall not murder” (Exodus 20:13) is not a suggestion; it is a divine imperative. In fact, when innocent blood is spilled, the Torah does not allow us to turn away. Instead, we must demand justice, defend the innocent, and ensure that those who seek to destroy are stopped. 

But punishment is just one part of justice – Justice is also about memory. The greatest crime the Amalekites committed was not just their attack on the weak, but their desire to erase the Israelites from history. Zachor! Remember! We will not allow the names of our murdered brothers and sisters to fade. 

The Talmud teaches: “Whoever destroys a single life, it is as if they have destroyed an entire world.” (Sanhedrin 37a)  

The Bibas family was an entire world. Every hostage taken, every child, every mother, every father – each was an irreplaceable reflection of God’s image. And so, while our response must be driven by justice, it must also be driven by light. Every mitzvah we undertake, every act of kindness, every prayer, and every moment we choose to bring holiness into the world, we push back against the darkness. 

Mishpatim reminds us that law and morality are inseparable. When we uphold truth, when we stand for what is right, we do more than fight evil – we affirm that we are B’tzelem Elochim, created in the image of God, and therefore, we cannot be erased. 

May the souls of the Bibas family and all the murdered hostages be bound in the bonds of eternal life. And may we, through our actions, ensure that their memory is a blessing and a light in a dark world. 

Shabbat Shalom. 

Beshalach
Exodus 13:17–17:16 

By Guest Torah Blogger, Jen Smith

Beshalach is one of the most mystical and existentially charged portions in the Torah. It is a narrative of liminality – of thresholds crossed, waters split, and consciousness transformed. The Israelites leave Egypt, but their redemption is incomplete. They are free of Pharaoh, but they are still bound by fear. They sing even though they struggle to trust. Their journey is not simply about geography, but rather about spiritual evolution – a movement from familiar (oppressive) constraints to the vast, untamed wilderness of the unknown. 

In this portion, we encounter three defining motifs: the sea, the manna, and the song. These are not merely historical artifacts of an ancient journey; they are archetypes of human experience, mirrors of our own struggles, doubts, and aspirations. 

The Midrash teaches that the sea did not split immediately. It was only when Nachshon ben Aminadav stepped forward, allowing the waters to reach his nose, that the miracle occurred (Sotah 37a). There is something deeply unsettling about this image: the act of faith was not rewarded in advance; rather, it required an existential leap, a submission to the unknown. 

In Jewish mysticism, water represents the unconscious, the hidden strata of reality. The Kabbalists describe two modes of divine presence: Or Yashar (direct light) – these are the structured, knowable aspects of existence; and Or Chozer (returning light) – the hidden, chaotic elements that can only be understood in retrospect. The Red Sea is the Or Chozer, the realm of the unknown, where meaning is not linear but recursive. 

Each of us has our own sea – moments where clarity dissolves, where stability gives way to the abyss. Sometimes, as in the case with our friend, Nachshon, the path does not reveal itself until we fully commit, until we surrender the illusion of control and step into the uncertainty. How often do we stand at the shores of our own existential seas, unwilling to enter until we see the outcome? Beshalach demands that we rethink the nature of faith as movement despite uncertainty. 

After crossing the sea, the Israelites face a different test – not of fear, but of sustenance. They cry out in hunger, and God provides manna, with an unusual stipulation: they may gather only what they need for that day. Any attempt to hoard results in rot (Exodus 16:19-20). 

The ethical challenge of manna is profound. It subverts the instinct to accumulate, to secure one’s future through possession. The Torah is offering an alternative paradigm: spiritual security is not built on surplus, but on trust.  

The Baal Shem Tov expands this lesson into a philosophy of divine flow: just as the Israelites had to rely on daily manna, so too must we cultivate the capacity to live in the present, to believe that what we have in this moment is enough. This is not a call to passivity but to a radical reorientation of security – not as a function of what we hold, but of what we release. 

We live in a world obsessed with accumulation – of wealth, influence, even knowledge. We prepare for futures we cannot control, convinced that security lies in possession. But Beshalach challenges us: What if security is not about having more, but about needing less?  

After the sea splits, the Israelites erupt in Shirat HaYam, the Song of the Sea (Exodus 15). It is a moment of revelation, the first recorded communal song in Jewish history. But the Midrash adds an extraordinary layer: before they sang, there was absolute silence. The entire universe, it says, came to a standstill (Megillah 10b). In the mystical tradition, silence precedes song, revealing that true revelation comes from the stillness that allows an idea to be heard. 

We often think of faith as verbal, as an act of articulation. But Beshalach suggests another model: faith as listening. Before we can sing, we must be silent. Before we can know, we must dwell in mystery. 

The journey of Beshalach is not linear. Even after witnessing miracles, the Israelites doubt. Even after crossing the sea, they long for Egypt. This is not a failure of faith; it is an acknowledgment of the complexity of transformation. Redemption is not an event but a process, a constant oscillation between clarity and confusion, progress and regression. 

Each of us stands, at different moments, at the shores of our own seas, faced with choices we might be afraid to make. Each of us confronts the illusion of control, tempted to hoard certainty rather than trust in what unfolds. Each of us must learn to balance the noise of our Schopenhauer-esq striving with silence that allows us to listen to the underlying message.  

The mystics teach that every exile contains the seeds of redemption; breaking these binds is necessary for the emergence of something greater.  Beshalach is not just a story of the past; it is the structure of our own unfolding, an invitation to step forward, to release, and most importantly, to listen. 

May we have the courage of Nachshon, the humility to trust in the unseen, and the wisdom to hear the silence before the song. 

Shabbat Shalom.