I begin in an unlikely place: the curious set of verses in this week’s parashah, Ki Tetzei, about filial favoritism:

If a man has two wives, one loved and the other unloved, and both the loved and the unloved have borne him sons, but the first-born is the son of the unloved one—on the day he distributes his property to his sons, he may not treat as first-born the son of the loved one in disregard of the son of the unloved one who is older. Instead, he must accept the first-born, the son of the unloved one, and allot to him a double portion of all he possesses; since he is the first fruit of his vigor, the birthright is his due. ()

Against the background of biblical inheritance practices, these verses seem to address a very specific issue: a man who favors the firstborn of one wife over the firstborn of another. It certainly may be that, according to these verses, when disposing of his assets a father had to preserve the double portion of the firstborn and the single portions of each other son. Alternatively, it may be that even though a father could not get around giving the firstborn a double portion due to a preference for one wife over another, he could reassign it due to a preference for one son over another. Elsewhere, such as in Genesis, despite the absence of explicit mention of the double portion, family feuds about who was the rightful firstborn – over the course of three generations – made their appearance. In each case a non-firstborn (to the father) prevailed. Abraham’s second born, Isaac, replaced Ishmael. Isaac’s second son, Jacob, superseded his older brother, Esau. And, among Jacob’s 12 sons, Joseph, was favored. Admittedly, the relationship of Deuteronomy’s laws to these narratives is a complex one and the stories may not be at all representative of what later became considered biblical law (in Deuteronomy). Still, it remains significant that the role of the firstborn son in Genesis, unique to his station as family leader (see below), was central and simultaneously transferable.

The verses in Genesis and Deuteronomy are best understood against the background of the ancient Near East, the social and economic contexts in which the verses were originally authored. Within those contexts there were two intertwined aspects to the firstborn, and these are faithfully portrayed in the Bible: receipt of the mantle of family leadership over the extended family (in all likelihood children, their spouses and offspring, and possibly unmarried siblings), and acquisition of a double inheritance portion (probably to pay for the care of his widowed mother and parental burial arrangements). The verses in Deuteronomy relate to the double inheritance; the Genesis stories, to the family leadership. In the ancient Near East, there was some flexibility in assigning the firstborn’s leadership role and its accompanying extra inheritance to a son other than the firstborn. A father could deem a son other than the firstborn more qualified to carry out the duties of the family leader.

In the Mishnah (the original body of Rabbinic oral law), although the biblical requirement of the double portion is noted, the firstborn’s role as family leader is generally not mentioned. Furthermore, flexibility regarding the allocation of the double portion is exhibited in the Mishnah as well. For example, “One who apportions his property (to his sons) by word of mouth, gave much to one and little to another or made the firstborn equal to them—his words remain valid” (). The line “made the firstborn equal to them,” explicitly assumes that the firstborn can indeed receive just one portion. (The line preceding it, “gave much to one and little to another,” implies that a son other than the firstborn can receive two portions.) In contrast to the biblical texts’ ambiguities, our Mishnah gives clear statements for allowing greater freedom for distribution of assets. In the absence of Rabbinic interpretation of the Torah to buttress the far-reaching implications of this Mishnah, can we assume that the text reflects its own presumed social and economic contexts, which differed from the contexts affecting the biblical texts?

Archeologists and ancient historians alike place the Rabbinic movement of the first centuries CE in Roman Palestine’s urban centers, with nuclear families (that is, parents and children) with private landholdings. If such assumptions about the relationship of Rabbinic texts to the social and economic contexts in which they are authored can be made then, yes, the laws of the Rabbis of the Mishnah exhibit an inherent flexibility in the assignment of the two portions of the firstborn because of the context in which they resided. Another contributing factor may include the absence in Greco-Roman culture of such a coveted role for the firstborn.

The study of Jewish legal history reveals the complex relationship between societal conditions and the development of law. In our case, that means the degree to which changing models of family structure may influence changes in the law. As Jews and as Americans we are experiencing rapid changes in the structure of the family that not only inform our social sensibilities but also affect our laws. New legal thinking and, perforce, laws, are the result of evolving family circumstances and, inevitably, lead to greater openness, rationality, and freedom in the law—something we should all welcome.

This piece was origninally published in 2015

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

The situation could not be more different among Orthodox communities, where modesty is strongly—sometimes even obsessively—emphasized. In many religious circles, tzniut (the Hebrew word for modesty) is understood as a pivotal religious duty, a form of feminine achievement, and a path toward self-fulfillment. However, all of this is historically unprecedented, and my own research examines how a vague socioreligious norm ascended to the top of the pyramid of Orthodox Jewish observance.

Yet must progressive Jews entirely forsake the idea of tzniut? I think not. The concept, as derived from traditional Jewish sources, still offers valuable lessons for the modern, egalitarian, and inclusive society in which we live. Below, I suggest three such insights where a broader vision of Jewish modesty informs how human beings interact with the Divine. On one foot: it requires spatial, mental, and self-preparation.

One of the conceptual cornerstones of Jewish thought about modest conduct is found in this week’s parashah: “Since your God ה’ moves about in your camp to protect you and to deliver your enemies to you, let your camp be holy; let [God] not find anything unseemly among you and turn away from you” (Deut. 23:15).

This verse links the Divine presence within human society to the concept of holiness, which is contingent upon the absence of any “indecency.” Yet the key Hebrew term ervah has been interpreted in various ways by the Sages of the Talmud.

A first approach is found in early rabbinic sources (the Mishnah and the Tosefta, both compiled around 200 CE), which prohibit reciting the shema or any blessing when in the presence of ervah. Here we encounter the concept as referring to an objective, anatomical reality: nakedness, understood as actual genitalia (male or female).

This paradigm where nakedness and holiness are incompatible has antecedents in the Bible, where priests were prohibited from publicly displaying their sexual organs. Instead, they were enjoined to wear linen breeches to cover their nudity when “they approach the altar to officiate in the sanctuary” (Exod. 28:42–43), namely when performing a holy activity.

In this ancient paradigm, the interaction between the divine and the human necessitates the purification of space. There is a geography of the Sacred at play here, governed by its own principles: individuals can elevate themselves toward the Divine only within a suitable place that is free from reminders of the animalistic aspects of their nature.

A few centuries later, the amoraim (scholars of the period from about 200 to 500 CE) introduced an alternative vision of ervah, radically reinterpreting the term as referring metaphorically to sexual arousal. Reflecting a broader Talmudic tendency to subjectify concepts that were objective in earlier texts, these later sages redefined nakedness as a psychological notion encompassing all parts of the female body that a male might find sexually arousing.

In this second approach, the rabbis focus on the mind of the male reciter, who is forbidden to utter a prayer when his senses are assailed by a source of sexual stimulation. This represents a second level of preparedness, this time mental/internal rather than spatial/external, to the encounter between the Divine and the human.

Rabbinic literature, as we know, was written by men and for men, and it reflects a heterosexual male perspective. Its vision of subjective ervah likely crystallizes a profound male anxiety over the wildness of sexual desire. Still, one thirteenth-century rabbinic scholar, Elazar of Worms, posited that both men and women are equally susceptible to heterosexual stimuli and applied the same norms regardless of gender.

The third (and, so far, last) transformation of the concept of ervah emerged in the mid-twentieth century, when the entire complex of subjects associated with tzniut became understood by some authors to represent an expression of human dignity.

Dignity: the concept is actually modern and secular. According to Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor, the contemporary notion of dignity must be distinguished from the premodern value of honor. “Honor” is possessed by only the elite; for instance, one is honored with the Légion d’honneur in France. If everyone is distinguished, it is no longer an honor.

“Dignity,” however, is used in a universalist, egalitarian sense. In this spirit, the preamble to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) asserts the “recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family.” The idea here is that this dignity is shared by everyone.

Another critical point is that the universality of dignity was intensified, toward the end of the eighteenth century, by the development of an understanding of identity that emphasized authenticity. “Authenticity” implies connecting with something that is not God (per the Torah) or the Good (Plato) but rather our own selves that lie deep within (Rousseau, Herder).

Within this recent framework, modesty dress codes, including the idea of ervah, ought to be understood as expressions of self-respect and as acknowledgments of an authentic, universal, and rigorously inalienable human dignity.

Is all this apologetic? Perhaps. Nevertheless, what is often more significant is not the accuracy or beauty of a rabbinic interpretation, but rather its intuition: the three dimensions of connection (spatial, mental, and identity) with the Divine that Jewish tradition has particularly examined through the lens of the concept of modesty.

In contemporary times, these three dimensions may manifest in various ways: by seeking a tranquil space within a bustling urban setting; by temporarily disengaging from social media and its myriad distractions; by attuning oneself to the messages of one’s own body; and so forth. Yet this reflection began, in the Jewish tradition, when an antique biblical verse prescribed to remove all “indecencies” to encounter God.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

In 1861, as a great conflagration spread across our nation, the Bostonian abolitionist and women’s rights advocate Samuel Joseph May published a slender tract entitledThe Fugitive Slave Act and Its Victims, an impassioned polemic against the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850. This federal law, born of the Missouri Compromise of the same year, required all federal, state, and local authorities, including those in free states, to return fugitive slaves to their masters, while also criminalizing any attempt to aid and abet a slave seeking to escape bondage. May, a Unitarian pastor, thought it fitting—and rightly so—to grace the tract’s title page with the King James translation of Deuteronomy 23:16–17, which I cite here using the JPS translation: “You shall not turn over to his master a slave who seeks refuge with you from his master. He shall live with you in any place that he may choose among the settlements in your midst, wherever he pleases; you must not ill-treat him.”

May presumably read these verses as a condemnation of the institution of slavery as a whole. However, the fact that slaves are to be freed only in a particular instance implies a general recognition of a right to own slaves (though, according to Leviticus, Israelites were limited to only enslaving non-Israelites, as discussed below).

To what circumstance are these verses referring? There is general agreement among rabbinic, medieval, and modern commentators that the verses refer to a slave who has fled from a neighboring kingdom and is seeking refuge in Israelite territory.

There is textual evidence to support this claim, particularly in verse 17. Both the content and the language of this verse are reminiscent of statements found elsewhere in Deuteronomy concerning theger, a sojourner who seeks to settle among the people of Israel, and the ill treatment of�����������is explicitly proscribed elsewhere in the Torah. The point, then, is that this refugee is given the status of a freeman, and he is to enjoy all the rights and protections afforded to theger.

What would be the rationale behind granting such slaves asylum? Indeed, contemporary scholars find this law particularly striking because it breaks with the consensus of Israel’s neighbors. Contemporaneous Near Eastern codes often refer to extradition treaties requiring rulers to return each other’s fugitive slaves. Against this background one might see the prohibition against rendition as an assertion of political sovereignty, but it seems unlikely that this would be its sole or even major motivation.

Rabbinic tradition explains that the Torah’s concern is to prevent gentile slaves from returning to their place of origin and again serving their gentile masters: once they are in Eretz Yisrael and have the opportunity to serve the God of Israel, one is forbidden to return them to the idolatrous practices of their native land. According to one view in the Talmud, even a slave serving a Jewish master in the Diaspora who flees to Eretz Yisrael is to be granted asylum so that he not be returned to a land filled with idolatry (BT Gittin 45a). 

The medieval Spanish commentator Nahmanides offers an intriguing interpretation. Noting that the previous verses delineate the requirements of ritual and hygienic purity in Israelite military camps, he suggests that the slaves in question are fleeing across battle lines and seeking refuge with the Israelite army. The prohibition is therefore motivated by a concern that if returned to their masters slaves would share crucial intelligence based on their observations during their stay in the Israelite camp.

I am inclined to agree with Philo, the first century Jewish exegete and philosopher, that the Torah’s concern is neither jurisdictional nor spiritual nor strategic but rather moral and ethical (On the Virtues, 124). The escaped slaves standing before us have risked life and limb to flee their homeland and find protection in ours. Only the sting of the master’s lash would have been reason enough to face the dangers and uncertainties of the journey. In granting these slaves asylum the Torah declares here, as it does elsewhere (see Exod. 21, 20–21; 26–27), that while slavery is countenanced, harsh and abusive treatment of slaves is not.

It must be noted that according to Leviticus only non-Israelites may be purchased as slaves (Lev. 25, 44–46). Israelites, on the other hand, may be subjected to servitude, but never to enslavement. They may not be treated as chattel to be owned in perpetuity, nor may they be forced to perform harsh labor. “For [the people of Israel] are My servants, whom I freed from the land of Egypt; they are not to be sold as slaves. You shall not rule over [a fellow Israelite] with crushing labor; you shall fear your God” (Lev. 25: 42–43).

This distinction is troubling; it condemns the institution of slavery but yet allows the enslavement of the “other.” And I can imagine a 19th-century Southern preacher declaiming the verses in Leviticus allowing the enslavement of those “from among the nations surrounding you” and assuring his congregation that the enslavement of black men, women, and children was fully in accord with—perhaps even an expression of—God’s will.

But Torah is not frozen in time. Beginning with Exodus, the biblical saga encompasses Israel’s journey from enslavement and degradation to dignity, autonomy, and a life of justice and compassion through service to God. But this saga is, and is only meant to be, the beginning of an ongoing quest. The Five Books of Moses are the Word but not the last word. For May, reading Deuteronomy in 1861, Deuteronomy’s prohibition was a declaration that no human being could ever claim full dominion over another; the ultimate fulfillment of that ideal, he believed, could come only by abolishing slavery altogether.

One might conclude that with the abolishment of slavery—if by slavery one means legal ownership of one human being by another in perpetuity—the ideal embodied in this verse, at least as May read it, has been realized. But it’s a funny thing about biblical verses—they come back to haunt us.

Refugees are at our southern border, many of whom are seeking political asylum and/or protection from physical harm. I am neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet, so I will not claim to know God’s will in this matter. But as a people who feel obliged to hear the voice of Torah, whether as commandment, guidance, or inspiration, these verses demand our attention in this pivotal moment. There may be among those seeking entry opportunists and even criminals. But let’s be honest. Large numbers of our fellow human beings have traveled as many as two thousand miles risking danger, injury, and death. What kind of person makes such a trip? Only the desperate, fleeing an evil fate far more certain than the calamities that the journey may bring. These are the runaway slaves of today, arriving penniless and powerless, seeking compassion and protection like the refugees of old. If we do not recognize their humanity, if we ignore their pleas, have we not shut our ears to the Torah’s voice as well?

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

A woman must not put on man’s apparel, nor shall a man wear woman’s clothing; for whoever does these things is abhorrent to your God.

(Deut. 22:5)

These declarations seem painfully simple. That’s the way I experienced them as a trans child sneaking up to the attic to try to find some relief from gender dysphoria by putting on my sister’s outgrown clothing. This verse seemed to assure me that God abhorred trans people like me who cross-dressed (wore clothes of the gender opposite the one we were assigned on the basis of our physical sex) in order to express and feel like our true selves.

But now I see that this verse—indeed, the Torah—doesn’t address or recognize what we now call “gender identity,” the subjective sense by which individuals identify ourselves as—feel we really are—male, female, or something else. Just as the Torah identifies as a Levite priest any male born into the tribe of Levi, regardless of whether an individual identifies as a priest, is interested in priestly duties, or even believes in God, this verse identifies people as men and women on the basis of the bodies and gender roles they were born into, without regard to whether individuals identify with those assignments.

But we cannot make sense of what this verse prohibits just by referring to biology. “Man’s apparel” and “women’s clothing” are not a matter of physical sex; they refer to what we now call “gender expression,” the personally and culturally determined ways that individuals signify and others identify maleness or femaleness. What is considered man’s apparel and women’s clothing vary greatly in different times, places, ethnic groups, and social contexts. Cross-dressing at a Purim party means something different than cross-dressing as part of gender transition, and both mean something different from cross-dressing as part of a drag performance. Moreover, even among non-trans people, the meaning of gender expression varies personally: clothes that express one person’s sense of being a man or being a woman may not express another’s. For example, there are men who feel uncomfortable and inauthentic wearing suits, and women (I have a friend like this) who, when they wear formal dresses, don’t recognize themselves in the mirror.

Because this verse does not address either the individual or the social circumstances that determine what gender expression, and thus men’s and women’s apparel, mean, it is hard for even non-transgender people to know how to dress in order to avoid the abhorrence of God.

That is presumably why Rashi and other commentators recognized that interpretation is needed to determine exactly what clothing choices the law prohibits and God abhors. These interpretations fill in the blanks that make the verse unclear, its insistence on speaking only in terms of bodies and clothes without regard to the aspects of humanity that turn bits of cloth into meaningful gender expression: our subjectivity, our individual self-identification, and what we choose to communicate about ourselves in terms of gender; and the cultural and social codes and contexts that govern what clothing should be worn by what bodies in which situations, the gender implications of each piece of clothing, and the expectations and opportunities assigned to different genders.

Rashi fills in these blanks by reading the verse not as a prohibition against cross-dressing itself, but against cross-dressing into order to commit fraud—specifically, fraud for the purposes of engaging in forbidden sexual activity:

“A woman must not put on man’s apparel”—so that she looks like a man, in order to consort with men, for this can only be for the purpose of adultery (unchastity).

This interpretation implies the social context that gives meaning to gender expression, that turns pieces of clothing into a communication about gender that is meaningful to others. To Rashi, “man’s apparel” means any clothing that would lead others to see a woman as a man and give her access to male homosocial spaces and intimacy that would be forbidden to her if her clothing marked her as a woman.

Rashi’s reading also restores the subjectivity the plain text leaves out. The cross-dressing woman in his gloss clearly identifies herself as a woman because she knows she is dressing in a way that deceives others about who she is. She is driven by heterosexual desire for extramarital sex, and cross-dresses with the intention of passing as someone she knows she isn’t in order to have sexual access to men who would otherwise be inaccessible to her.

By restoring social context and subjectivity, Rashi is able to read the verse in a way that specifies what it prohibits: cross-dressing in order to misrepresent the gender with which one identifies, an act Rashi sees as inevitably (“for this can only be”) linked to what he considers a much more serious crime: committing adultery.To Rashi, what God abhors is not cross-dressing. It is the perversion of gender expression from a system for communicating who we are to a means of misrepresenting oneself in order to deceive and betray others.

To Rashi, then, I do not violate this law when I wear what I and my society consider women’s clothing in order to express my female gender identification, that is, to express my authentic sense of who I am. It is more accurate to say that I was violating it (in a non-sexual sense) before my gender transition, when I presented myself as a man despite privately identifying as a woman, using male clothing in order to present myself as someone I knew I wasn’t.

Of course, neither Rashi’s gloss nor the peshat of this verse address gender transition or trans or nonbinary identities. But if Rashi is right—if the law prohibits cross-dressing only when done in order to misrepresent who we know themselves to be and deceive others about who we really are—then not only does God not abhor cross-dressing for the purposes of gender transition or other sincere gender self-expression. Indeed, God should applaud it, because our clothing tells others who we really are.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Conflict is inevitable (after all, it’s “when you go to war,” not if). In fact, Judaism values argumentation. The Talmud reads like a ping-pong match of conflicting opinions. One noteworthy dispute between Hillel and Shammai lasted three years, until a heavenly voice proclaimed that both sides represent the words of a living God (). As is the case in Ki Tetzei, there are different categories of conflict. Hillel and Shammai’s arguments, tradition tells us, were “for the sake of heaven” and these arguments are bound “to endure.” Arguments not “for the sake of heaven” will end badly.

How do we know when an argument is or is not for the sake of heaven? The distinction between the two seems to have to do with intention: Does one seek to gain an understanding of God’s will that leads to communal growth, or is one only seeking personal power? If this is the case, then acceptability of a disagreement hinges on what we know about the other party’s motivation. This is problematic.  

A plethora of psychological research shows that we tend to hold biases that are self-serving and work against cutting others the same slack we cut ourselves. When someone else does something foolish or objectionable, we tend to read that as a sign of who that person is (and will continue to be). When we do the same foolish or objectionable thing, we excuse ourselves by seeing it as a momentary lapse. You trip because you’re a klutz; I trip because the sidewalk was uneven. We divide the world up into what psychologist Joshua Greene refers to as “moral tribes,” with us being in constant opposition to them.

Our self-serving biases are of particular concern given that our evolutionary, neuro-developmental journey has left us with an instinctive reaction to perceived threats: We fight or we flee. Conflict escalation can be seen as a cycle in which those involved mutually provoke one another’s fighting and/or fleeing. Many of our disagreements these days take place in cyberspace, and the internet provides anonymity and algorithms that act as catalysts to fighting and fleeing. Anonymity allows us to dehumanize our opponents by avoiding real connections. We become disinhibited and feel less accountable. Algorithms feed us information that confirms our own position, allowing us to flee from engaging with those with whom we disagree.  

This brings us back to enemies. Another strand of interpretation of the use of the plural in this parashah posits that when we fight, we always face two types of enemies, one external and the other internal. The parashah opens with laws governing the treatment of captives of war. The commentator Shlomo Ephraim Luntschitz (aka the Keli Yakar) explains that the second enemy here is the yetzer hara, the inclination for evil. Having vanquished a physical enemy, the victor must combat lust or desires for vengeance, and observe the prohibitions described.

By now it is a cliché to say that we live in contentious times, where shrill shouting has taken the place of dialogue and debate. There is a growing tendency to approach those with whom we disagree as if they were Amalek, worthy of utter contempt and annihilation. The cycle of fight or flight and our cognitive biases create a self-fulfilling prophecy. Look at the terrible behavior of my enemies . . . what horrible people they are. When I behave similarly? That’s only because I was reacting to them. It’s unending; our “evil inclination” results in more shouting, calling-out, or canceling, not substantive progress.

We can fight the yetzer hara of conflict escalation by developing our ability to self-regulate our emotions. We can learn to recognize the bodily sensations of an impending fight or flight response and take action (for example, by deep breathing, or positive self-talk) to stay engaged. We can question our own biases and assumptions about “the other” and consider our goals and the best ways to achieve them. After all, our tradition is clear that Amalek is the exception; self-regulation is the rule.

Dr. Judith Plaskow explains the contradiction between “remembering” and “blotting out the memory of” some enemies: “We cannot forget the commandments to exclude the Ammonites or blot out the memory of Amalek because their presence in the Torah reminds us of how easy it is to respond to vengeance with more vengeance, or injustice with more injustice.” As we approach the New Year, we’ll need to develop the capacity to stop that cycle. That work starts with ourselves.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).    

What if you were a slave and had been able to escape? Would you have expected to find people who would help protect you or people who would turn you in?

If you had been the person to encounter a slave who had fled, would you have protected them and become complicit in their escape, or followed local laws and returned them to their master?

This is among the topics that Ki Tetzei invites us to consider—but with clear direction.

In Deuteronomy 23:16-17 we learn: “Don’t deliver a slave to his master if he seeks refuge with you. Rather allow him to reside among you, wherever he chooses within any of your cities where it is good for him. You shall not oppress him.”

This summer, as our country is reckoning with race and the 400-year legacy of slavery, I have been thinking a lot about Frederick Douglass. On September 3, 1838, Douglass, with significant help from his soon-to-be wife, Anna Murray-Douglass, escaped from slavery, traveling north by train and steamship.

He became active as an abolitionist and preacher. Yet his freedom did not translate into love of country. In 1847 he wrote, “I have no love for America, as such; I have no patriotism. I have no country. What country have I? The institutions of this country do not recognize me as a man” (“Country, Conscience and the Anti-Slavery Cause: An Address Delivered in New York City,” May 11, 1847). He had taken bold action to assert his own human dignity. But patriotism is more than an individual act of pride for one’s country. It requires you to see yourself as part of the nation’s project, and America at that time would not grant Douglass the full human experience of choosing to live as he wanted, and particularly, where he wanted.

Jewish text and tradition regularly challenge us and raise questions for today. But on the topics of the slave’s transition to freedom and how to treat poor people, our texts offer a usable framework that doesn’t require us to stretch. They inspire us towards righteousness.

Not only do we learn to protect a slave who has escaped and to offer refuge, we also learn about prioritizing the dignity of those in our debt. We are told that when we go to collect the debt we should wait outside, aiming to prevent the debtor from feeling any shame about their home—a feeling to which many of us can relate now when Zoom meetings show off our homes to everyone.

If they’ve given us a coat as collateral for a loan, we are to return it to them each night, in case they rely on it for warmth. We are to pay laborers on the day they do the work, not letting them languish and suffer as they await funds that are rightfully theirs. We don’t collect all of our produce from the fields but leave some for anonymous hungry people who can wander in to retrieve it. And we use weights and measurements that are just because anyone who is perpetuating injustice is an abomination to God. On these matters of justice, our instructions are clear.

Yet despite the Torah’s clarity, I’m struck by the ways upholding these laws would not have been simple. Going back to our first example, I contemplate how a Jew would have made sense of the 1850 Fugitive Slave Act, which required slaves to be returned to their owners, regardless of whether you lived in a slave or free state. It even required the government to take responsibility for finding, returning, and trying escaped slaves.

What would you have done if you encountered a slave who had escaped? As a Jew, your master story reminded you daily you’d been enslaved and freed—but, as a Jew, you also had a religious principle that we follow the law of the land, a law requiring you to return the slave. And what if you worked for the government and were doubly bound to seek out fugitives and return them?

If you decided not to return the slave, how would you honor the second part of the obligation, to allow the now freed person to live wherever they wanted and to not oppress them?

In the US, we are living through a period of reckoning with who we are as a nation, where we’ve come from, and where we are headed and that means coping in a deep historical, ethical, and spiritual way with the issue of slavery.

In 1865 the 13th Amendment officially abolished slavery, but in the years that followed Black Americans really did not have the freedom to which the Torah aspires. They were limited by laws, policies, and practices that determined where they could live, if they could get credit to buy a home, and if they would feel welcomed; new regulations were regularly established to constrict their rights

This July 4th, many listened to Frederick Douglass’s speech, “What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?”, in which Douglass explains that it is not a day that symbolizes freedom for Black people who were enslaved and did not receive independence in 1776. How, he asks, should Black Americans engage with this day, the day of another people? It is important to realize that we are not yet done with this question of how and where a person who was formerly a slave can live in this country. The ethical quandary about returning a slave who had escaped is not limited to the past. Each July 4th—and every day in between—each of us makes choices that either advance or impede equity for all people, regardless of race.

This summer we mourned the loss of Congressman John Lewis, the great civil rights leader who worked tirelessly to ensure that inheritors of the legacy of slavery could live wherever they wanted and not be oppressed. As we each contend with how we will personally do our part to ensure that all people can live where they want, free from oppression, we would do well to remind ourselves of Congressman Lewis’s famous agitation to go out and make trouble, “good trouble, necessary trouble.” Without it, we will never fulfill the second part of the Torah’s obligation to ensure that people with a familial history of slavery are able to choose where they live and live freely in all aspects of their lives.

We may like to believe about ourselves that of course we would have protected the slave who had escaped. But we must also ask ourselves—what are we doing today? Because however we are personally grappling with and addressing racial injustice today is probably a lot like how we would have reacted then.

May we be blessed to make good and necessary trouble that will allow us to tell our children and grandchildren that in this time of reckoning we helped ensure that freedom from oppression for all people is real.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

One is silence—whether refusing to speak out or act in the face of injustice, or more generally, engaging in denial and self-deception about one’s inner and outer reality. Therefore, central to “building up the highway” is the commitment to speak truth (“For the sake of Zion I will not be silent, for the sake of Jerusalem I will not be still . . . I have set watchmen who shall never be silent”).

The other roadblock is destructive anger. Indeed, the prophet imagines God reflecting on God’s own anger and the damage it caused, serving as a role model for human beings in doing the same. This combination of emotional maturity (regulating anger appropriately) with a commitment to speak truth and act on it, coupled with reclaiming a sense of joy and delight, seems to constitute the “royal highway” to a renewed self and society.

Food for thought:

• When have you been angry in a destructive way, in a way you now regret?
• How can you make amends and repair what you damaged?
• When have you remained silent when you should have spoken or acted?
• Are there things you need to say or do now?
• Is it possible to speak truth and address injustice without indulging in anger that is destructive?
• What role do joy and delight have in finding that balance?

Listen to the haftarah brought to life as it is declaimed in English by renowned actor Ronald Guttman by .

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