The juxtaposition is jarring. Parashat Mishpatim opens with the words “וְאֵלֶּה הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים אֲשֶׁר תָּשִׂים לִפְנֵיהֶם” – “And these are the laws that you shall set before them” (Exodus 21:1). Immediately following the revelation at Sinai, the Torah doesn’t continue with lofty theological principles or mystical visions. Instead, it presents a detailed legal code addressing theft, assault, property damage, and interpersonal violence.
The message is unmistakable: a covenant with God demands a society governed by law, where crimes have consequences and victims receive justice.
The American Jewish Committee’s Ted Deutsch’s searing op-ed forces us to confront an uncomfortable truth: we are living in a moment when crimes against Jews are met not with the swift accountability that Mishpatim demands, but with what he calls “muted response” and an acceptance “that anti-Jewish hatred is the norm.”
When 91% of American Jews feel less safe after violent antisemitic attacks, when 73% have experienced antisemitism online in the last year, when families hide Stars of David and skip synagogue – we are witnessing not just hatred, but the collapse of the legal and social order that Mishpatim insists upon.
Parashat Mishpatim is unrelenting in its insistence on accountability. The portion details specific consequences for specific crimes:
“וְכִי־יִזִּד אִישׁ עַל־רֵעֵהוּ לְהָרְגוֹ בְעָרְמָה מֵעִם מִזְבְּחִי תִּקָּחֶנּוּ לָמוּת” – “If a man schemes against his fellow and kills him treacherously, you shall take him from My very altar to be put to death” (Exodus 21:14). Even someone seeking sanctuary at God’s altar receives no protection if they have committed premeditated murder.
“מַכֵּה אָבִיו וְאִמּוֹ מוֹת יוּמָת” – “One who strikes his father or his mother shall surely be put to death” (Exodus 21:15).
“וּמַכֵּה נֶפֶשׁ בְּהֵמָה יְשַׁלְּמֶנָּה נֶפֶשׁ תַּחַת נָפֶשׁ” – “One who kills an animal shall make restitution for it: life for life” (Exodus 21:33, see also Leviticus 24:18).
The Torah recognizes gradations of culpability – distinguishing between intentional and accidental harm, between monetary and capital crimes – but it never suggests that hatred or violence should be tolerated, normalized, or met with a shrug. The very structure of Mishpatim, with its case-by-case specificity, teaches that abstract condemnations are insufficient. Real justice requires concrete legal mechanisms, active enforcement, and actual consequences for perpetrators.
As Deutsch writes: “Fortifying against hate crimes cannot be confused with fortifying against hate.” Armed guards and metal detectors are defensive measures, necessary but insufficient. What Mishpatim demands is offense – the active pursuit and prosecution of those who commit crimes, the dismantling of systems that enable hatred, the refusal to accept antisemitism as an unfortunate but unchangeable reality.
The AJC report reveals a chilling disconnect: while 73% of American Jews experienced antisemitism in the last year, less than half of all Americans – just 45% – reported personally seeing or hearing any antisemitic incidents. Among those who don’t know any Jews? Only 32%.
This gap isn’t just about perception. It reflects what happens when society fails to treat crimes against Jews with the seriousness that Mishpatim demands. When the arson attack on Governor Josh Shapiro’s home during Passover, the murders of Sarah Milgrim and Yaron Lischinsky in Washington D.C., and the firebombing in Boulder that killed 82-year-old Karen Diamond don’t penetrate the national consciousness – when these aren’t treated as attacks on the fabric of democracy itself – we have abandoned the legal framework that the Torah commands us to “set before them.”
The passivity Deutsch describes – the sense that anti-Jewish hatred is simply “the norm” – is precisely what Mishpatim comes to dismantle. A Jewish legal system doesn’t accept that some people will inevitably be victimized. It insists on mechanisms of redress, restitution, and accountability.
Yet even as we demand justice and accountability, Parashat Mishpatim contains one of the Torah’s most striking ethical challenges:
“כִּי תִפְגַּע שׁוֹר אֹיִבְךָ אוֹ חֲמֹרוֹ תֹּעֶה הָשֵׁב תְּשִׁיבֶנּוּ לוֹ. כִּי־תִרְאֶה חֲמוֹר שֹׂנַאֲךָ רֹבֵץ תַּחַת מַשָּׂאוֹ וְחָדַלְתָּ מֵעֲזֹב לוֹ עָזֹב תַּעֲזֹב עִמּוֹ”
“When you encounter your enemy’s ox or donkey wandering, you must return it to him. When you see the donkey of your enemy crouching under its burden, you shall not refrain from helping him; you must surely help along with him” (Exodus 23:4-5).
Notice what the Torah doesn’t say. It doesn’t say “those you mistakenly think are your enemies” or “people who aren’t really your enemies.” It says “אֹיִבְךָ” – your enemy. “שֹׂנַאֲךָ” – one who hates you. The Torah acknowledges, unflinchingly, that we have enemies. That there are people who wish us harm.
But it then makes an audacious demand: even as we recognize enmity, we cannot abandon our commitment to compassion, to building a functional society, to seeing the humanity even in those who oppose us. The Talmud (Bava Metzia 32b) explains that the mitzvah to help your enemy’s animal takes precedence over helping your friend’s animal, specifically “כְּדֵי לִכְפּוֹת אֶת יִצְרוֹ” – “in order to subdue your evil inclination.” The harder path – the path of compassion for enemies – is precisely the one we must choose.
This is the dual message of Passover, which Mishpatim anticipates. Yes, Pharaoh and his army were drowned in the sea – justice was meted out to tyrants and oppressors. The Haggadah doesn’t shy away from celebrating the downfall of those who sought our destruction. And yet, the Midrash (Sanhedrin 39b) teaches that when the angels wanted to sing at the splitting of the sea, God rebuked them: “מַעֲשֵׂה יָדַי טוֹבְעִים בַּיָּם וְאַתֶּם אוֹמְרִים שִׁירָה” – “The work of My hands is drowning in the sea, and you want to sing songs?” Even in the moment of our liberation, we must temper celebration with awareness of human suffering.
And later, the Torah commands:
“לֹא־תְתַעֵב מִצְרִי כִּי־גֵר הָיִיתָ בְאַרְצוֹ” – “You shall not abhor an Egyptian, for you were a stranger in his land” (Deuteronomy 23:8).
This verse is breathtaking in its moral audacity. The Egyptians enslaved us for generations, drowned our baby boys, worked our ancestors to death. And yet, the Torah prohibits holding an eternal grudge. Why? “כִּי־גֵר הָיִיתָ בְאַרְצוֹ” – because you were a stranger there. Because they gave us refuge when we needed it, before the enslavement began. Because even enemies can change. Because we must remain capable of distinguishing between systems of oppression and individual human beings. Because a society built on eternal hatred cannot survive.
Rashi, citing the Sifrei, explains that an Egyptian convert may marry into the congregation after three generations – faster integration than for Ammonites or Moabites, who are prohibited entirely. The very people who oppressed us most severely are offered a path to reconciliation that our more distant enemies are not. We will hold out hope that there can be some reckoning that helps return us all to the work of decent society building.
Ted Deutsch is exactly right when he writes: “I am not advocating for special attention or treatment for my community. I’m calling for, rather, the same care, awareness and collective outrage we would rightly see if these daily assaults were being made against members of any other religious or ethnic group in the United States.”
This is Mishpatim’s demand: equal protection under law. Active enforcement. Real consequences. We need offense, not just defense.
But we also need the wisdom of the enemy’s donkey. We need to play offense by:
And we need the defense of the enemy’s donkey by:
“וְאֵלֶּה הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים אֲשֶׁר תָּשִׂים לִפְנֵיהֶם” – “And these are the laws that you shall set before them.”
The Hebrew “תָּשִׂים” – “you shall set” – comes from the root שׂ.י.מ, which means to place, to establish, to make firm. Rashi, citing the Talmud (Eruvin 54b), teaches that we must present the laws “כְּשֻׁלְחָן הֶעָרוּךְ וּמוּכָן לֶאֱכֹל לִפְנֵי הָאָדָם” – “like a table set and ready to eat before a person.” Not vague principles, but concrete, actionable, enforceable law.
In this moment of rising antisemitism, we need this clarity. We need perpetrators prosecuted. We need a society that doesn’t accept Jewish suffering as background noise.
And we need to remember that the same portion that demands justice for victims also demands compassion for enemies’ animals. Not because these values contradict, but because they complete each other. Justice without compassion becomes vengeance. Compassion without justice becomes enablement.
As Deutsch asks: “Are we willing to fight for our diverse and democratic America?”
The answer must be yes – with the full force of Mishpatim’s vision. Yes to accountability. Yes to enforcement. Yes to Jewish pride and public practice. Yes to building the society our Torah envisions, even as we fight those who would tear it down.
We have enemies. The Torah doesn’t ask us to pretend otherwise. But it does ask us to build a society where law protects the vulnerable, where justice is pursued actively, and where even in the presence of enmity, we never abandon our commitment to being compassionate, constructive members of the communities we inhabit.
Purim comes before Passover. As we know from the Megillah, the law must provide for a strong, viable offense for the Jewish People, which is a defensive move because of hate thrust against us. Mix in the redemption God promises, as we recall being redeemed from Egypt, along with the call to compassion when we see God’s creatures being thrust into the sea. But tyrants must be overcome and the fight for justice taken up. Live Jewishly and proudly. Build the world you wish to see. And never, ever accept that hatred against us is simply “the norm.”
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Bolton