Mishpatim

AllClass of 2026 Senior Sermons

וְאֵלֶּה הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים אֲשֶׁר תָּשִׂים לִפְנֵיהֶם

These are the rules that you shall place before them. (Exodus 21:1)

So begins this week’s parashah, Mishpatim. It is here that the Jewish legal tradition begins, where Torah (i.e. “Instruction”) becomes Nomos or Law.

Immediately after that opening sentence, the text continues with rules concerning masters and servants.  This commentary will be applying the theme of masters and servants to that of our relationship to law in the Jewish tradition, in ways that open alternative understandings of that relationship.

There is certainly good reason to take pride in our legal tradition.  It helped to crystallize a society, and later kept it together when sovereignty and a national center were lost. And one of the reasons it was able to do that was that it contains so many ennobling, uplifting exhortations and practices:

Be kind and extending to the person who is in need and borrows from you to subsist (22:24–26). Don’t even think of oppressing an orphan or a widow, for the merciful God will in turn call you to account for not being merciful (22:21–23). Do not automatically follow a majority bent on evil, just because they are the majority (23:2). Create moments that transcend mundane living and remind you of your spiritual core—Shabbat and pilgrim festivals, accompanied by various sacrifices of time and fortune (23:12–19).

These are rules and practices of which we could say, to borrow a line from our American culture, that they lead us to the formation of a more perfect union, a better society, a more compassionate and humane community. 

But Parashat Mishpatim contains other elements as well:

About a father selling his daughter into servitude, and into marriage as a child to someone she cannot refuse to be married to (21:7–11). About slaves from outside the Israelite community who could be beaten because they are described in our Torah as “the master’s property” (21:20–21). About the uprooting and destruction not only of idolatry but of the idolaters themselves (22:23–24). And about the execution of witches (22:17).

What are we to do with these less than ennobling and uplifting laws that live side by side with the sublime blueprint for a better, more humane society? It is an age-old question. Its answer will depend entirely on the view that we adopt about the true nature of what is written in our sacred scroll, and why that scroll, and others, are so sacred to us.

The great Hasidic preacher Simhah Bunim of Przysucha understood the opening line cited above (“that you shall place before them”) to mean that the laws precede us, i.e., they take precedence over us. In his view, they have a meaning and a validity that is independent of the moral assessments that we may be driven to make of them. We must recognize that and subjugate ourselves to them, for there is a truth and a wisdom here that precedes and transcends human wisdom. Submission is religious authenticity, and the law is our master.

This is, however, not the only way, and certainly not the best or most canonical way, to understand Torah and what makes its words sacred. The late David Hartman ��”l wrote these stark words in his last book,The God Who Hates Lies (2011):

Halakha should be engaged as an open-ended educational framework rather than a binding normative one.  Anyone repelled, perhaps, by those who seek to justify and sustain some of the tradition’s systematic immoralities – who smugly deny expression to any doubt or uncertainty, claiming a monopoly on absolute truth—is invited to join me on this pilgrimage.

Similarly, Barry Wimpfheimer (Narrating the Law, 2011) wrote about Jewish law that it ought to be seen as “a cultural discourse or language rather than a systemic code”. By seeing it that way, we get “a richer description of life within a Jewish legal culture,” and it becomes about “Jewish law as it might be lived, rather than how it is codified.”

This was the vision of Hartman and the many others who shared it: Torah should be seen as a means, and not as an imposed end. This is the alternative understanding of אֲשֶׁר תָּשִׂים לִפְנֵיהֶם. The laws are placed “before us” in the sense of being offered to us, where we are, and not from some eternally valid place beyond us, take it or leave it. It is, in this view, always on our table, in our surroundings, trying to speak and relate to who and where we are. It is hoping and expecting that we will use our minds, our hearts, our intuitions, our spiritual insights, to develop a culture of Jewish living that will modify the texts, but in doing so, fulfill what Torah is all about: creating that more perfect union, that better society, the more compassionate and humane community. It is a project in which the law is a servant to the people to whom it was given.

Particularly today, with so much cruelty and immorality evident in our society and in too many of its actors, we need the courage to challenge those inhumanities with the powerful voice of this more humane view of what Torah is, of what all law should be. This parashah is not to be taken as a paradigm of a legal system that demands the subjugation of our minds and hearts. It was placed before us in order to launch a legal culture that each succeeding generation must take responsibility for, lest indefensible understandings of it succeed in thwarting the sacred and humane goals of its Author.

Last week 91�첥, The Rabbinical Assembly, United Synagogue Youth, United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism, Camp Ramah, the Jewish Youth Climate Movement Powered by Adamah, and Congregation Adas Israel in Washington, DC, launched Ruchot, the first ever advocacy and lobbying training for Conservative Movement teens. We gathered as an erev rav (mixed multitude) of 36 teens from 11 states (and one Canadian), 7 rabbinical students, 6 rabbis, three youth director staff, and an Israeli shaliah. &�Բ�����;

We celebrated Shabbat together; learned how to advocate in meetings with senators, members of congress, and their staff; learned about the specific issues of climate change, immigration, and reproductive rights with Dayenu, Bend the Arc, and National Council of Jewish Women; and went to Capitol Hill and had 28 meetings with legislative leaders on these issues. 

Students wrote and delivered speeches asking their legislators to support the  and the , undo the reversal of the sensitive sites protection for religious institutions (in an attempt to prevent ICE from disrupting religious services and communities), protect the Environmental Protection Agency funding and staff from enormous cuts, and support clean energy tax credits. 

The teens mined their own stories to share with the elected officials about why the issues mattered to them. Their stories were personal and included an individual need for hormone contraception to address menstrual pain, flooding and fires in their home communities that jeopardized their health and their homes, and fear that people in their communities will be forced from their schools and religious institutions, despite having been raised in this country. They were particularly asking for religious institutions to be places that could actually welcome people who are poor and marginalized, as religious institutions are intended to be. 

And they brought Torah. They shared specific teachings that helped them root their requests in Jewish tradition. &�Բ�����;

They asked the elected officials to take their stories and religious values seriously and remember them as they vote and work to protect democracy. 

Both Parashat Yitro and Mishpatim offer us frames that inspire the kind of learning we did on Ruchot. &�Բ�����;

In Yitro, Moshe’s father-in-law, Yitro, sees him convening all the Israelites who have disputes with one another. Moshe sits from dawn until late at night adjudicating, keeping everyone standing in line until they can be seen. Yitro tells Moshe that concentrating the right to judge and act in one person is unfair to him and to every single person seeking a judgement.  He needs to seek out well established, God-fearing people of integrity who aren’t chasing money: 

אַתָּ֣ה תֶֽחֱזֶ֣ה מִכָּל־הָ֠עָ֠ם אַנְשֵׁי־חַ֜יִל יִרְאֵ֧י אֱלֹהִ֛ים אַנְשֵׁ֥י אֱמֶ֖ת שׂ֣נְאֵי בָ֑צַע וְשַׂמְתָּ֣ עֲלֵהֶ֗ם שָׂרֵ֤י אֲלָפִים֙ שָׂרֵ֣י מֵא֔וֹת שָׂרֵ֥י חֲמִשִּׁ֖ים וְשָׂרֵ֥י עֲשָׂרֹֽת

You must discern, from among all the people, people who are well-established, God-fearing, people of integrity, who “hate” money. Appoint these individuals over the people as leaders of thousands, leaders of hundreds, leaders of fifties, and leaders of tens. (Exod. 18:21) 

Similarly, lobbying and advocating are not one-person activities. They are activities of the people. Elected officials represent the people of their districts. So, the people of their districts must be the people who lobby them. Yitro’s advice is a reminder that we must spread out responsibility, training anyone willing to learn how to lobby. And we must do our best to ensure that the people we train have integrity and keep refining themselves to be God-fearing people of honor who are not motivated by money. We hope the elected officials will be too! We need to do whatever it takes to help us put aside ego and personal gain, to prioritize the greater good.  We don’t win awards for being the best individual lobbyist or advocate. We make progress by creating the context for the greatest number of people to bring their stories, values, and priorities to their elected officials. 

Parashat Mishpatim includes the famous response by the Israelites to God’s commandments that 

  וַיִּקַּח֙ סֵ֣פֶר הַבְּרִ֔ית וַיִּקְרָ֖א בְּאָזְנֵ֣י הָעָ֑ם וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ כֹּ֛ל אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּ֥ר ה’ נַעֲשֶׂ֥ה וְנִשְׁמָֽע׃ 

And he [Moses] took the book of the covenant, and read in the hearing of the people; and they said: “All that God has spoken will we do, and obey.” (Exod. 24:7) 

Much has been made by the commentators about the Jewish response to act and then understand. I thought of this orientation frequently during Ruchot. Lobbying and advocating are a constant dance of acting and learning. One can never know everything there is to know on a subject or policy. And time doesn’t stop while you are lobbying. In an ideal encounter you go to lobby, and not only do you offer your perspective and request for your elected official to represent you, but you also ask why they are planning to vote how they plan to vote, or co-sponsor the legislation they plan to co-sponsor, or defend a policy they plan to defend. You are learning. They are learning. &�Բ�����;

Our theory in creating Ruchot is that to be a Jewish person in the world requires us to act upon our values. Judaism is not silent on climate, immigration, reproductive rights, or any other issue of the day. The Torah in most cases doesn’t say exactly what should be done, but it does offer us values and orientations to the world as well as definitions about who falls within our communal responsibilities that can guide our response. We are building muscles. By taking teens to learn to lobby and then practicing, they are doing and learning. They are speaking from their hearts, listening to the reactions of the elected officials, and creating muscle memory so they can stay engaged for the rest of their lives. 

We learn in Midrash Tanhuma, Mishpatim Siman 2 that “If a human being does nothing [lit. sits like a terumah grain in the corner of the house] and says, ‘What do the affairs of society have to do with me? Why should I trouble myself with the people’s voices? Let my soul dwell in peace!’ this destroys the world.” 

 &�Բ�����;‎וְאֵלֶּה הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים. זֶה שֶׁאָמַר הַכָּתוּב: מֶלֶךְ בְּמִשְׁפָּט יַעֲמִיד אֶרֶץ, וְאִישׁ תְּרוּמוֹת יֶהֶרְסֶנָּה (משלי כט, ד). מַלְכָּהּ שֶׁל תּוֹרָה, בְּמִשְׁפָּט שֶׁהוּא עוֹשֶׂה, מַעֲמִיד אֶת הָאָרֶץ. וְאִישׁ תְּרוּמוֹת יֶהֶרְסֶנָּה. אִם מֵשִׁים אָדָם עַצְמוֹ כַּתְּרוּמָה הַזּוֹ שֶׁמֻּשְׁלֶכֶת בְּזָוִית הַבַּית וְאוֹמֵר מַה לִּי בְּטֹרַח הַצִּבּוּר, מַה לִּי בְּדִינֵיהֶם, מַה לִּי לִשְׁמֹעַ קוֹלָם, שָׁלוֹם עָלַיִךְ נַפְשִׁי, הֲרֵי זֶה מַחֲרִיב אֶת הָעוֹלָם. הֱוֵי וְאִישׁ תְּרוּמוֹת יֶהֶרְסֶנָּה. 

Now these are the ordinances (Exod. 21:1). The Torah teaches elsewhere: The king by justice establishes the land, but the person who sets themself apart (terumah) overthrows it (Prov. 29:4). The Torah’s king rules through justice and therefore causes the earth to endure, but the person who sets themself apart (terumah) overthrows it. This implies that if a person acts as though they were a terumah (the portion separated, or set aside, for the priests) by secluding themself in the corner of their home and declaring: “What concern are the problems of the community to me? What does their judgment mean to me? Why should I listen to them? I will do well (without them),” that person helps to destroy the world. Therefore the saying, the person of separation (terumah) overthrows it. 

 We have started building scaffolding for teens, rabbinical students, clergy, and staff of Ruchot to remember that the affairs of society have everything to do with each of us.  We did and we listened. The work now is to keep on doing it and like Moshe, inspired by Yitro, to keep refining our souls and seeking out new people to teach how to advocate and then join together with them to do it. 

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

Mishpatim

All the Class of 2024 Senior Sermons

The smoke hasn’t yet cleared from the mountain. God’s holy and un-behold-able Presence is still descended upon the peak, but we’re not privy to it, thank God. We’d certainly die if we beheld the Presence up close or heard the Voice. God speaks to Moshe. He is our eyes, our ears, and our interpreter, thank God. We heard the first bit—the first ten. They were un-unhearable. But what now? Ten Commandments does not a society make.

In Parashat Mishpatim, the Ten Commandments are immediately followed by a more thoroughgoing account of the Israelite legal code. God, through Their intermediary Moshe, reveals some of the particularly sticky, tricky, and challenging cases of civil law. Mishpatim begins to answer the questions “What happens when human beings are slammed together in community? What happens when they disagree, make mistakes, and cause incidental or intentional harm? What happens when they kill each other?”

The parashah addresses the whole gamut of communal regulations: slave law, death penalty, murder and manslaughter, civil family law, and a detailed spectrum of damages and restitution. It is here we receive the following (in)famous injunction towards equality before the law:

וְאִם־אָסוֹן יִהְיֶה וְנָתַתָּה נֶפֶשׁ תַּחַת נָפֶשׁ׃ עַיִן תַּחַת עַיִן שֵׁן תַּחַת שֵׁן יָד תַּחַת יָד רֶגֶל תַּחַת רָגֶל׃

And if there is harm done, you should give life for life. Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.

(Exod. 21:23–24)

It’s one of the most recognizable lines in the whole Tanakh, and it’s a compelling section for a number of reasons: Is it meant to be taken literally? Does this principle lead to interminable cycles of revenge? Are these laws to be applied uniformly to kings and courtiers, rich and poor? Prof. Nehama Leibowitz remarks that in roughly contemporaneous Babylonian legal codes, a system of damages and restitution existed that allowed the wealthy to buy their way out of punishment for harm done. Thus, argues contemporary translator and commentator Everett Fox in his footnote on these verses, the Toraitic legal code was meant to set Israel apart: “In Israel this could not be done, and thus we are dealing not with ‘strict justice’ but with strict fairness.’” In other words, while financial compensation for injury may represent a just outcome to an unfortunate situation, the fact that not everyone would be able to afford financial restitution means that, to keep things fair, everyone must be held to the standard of physical restitution in the form of mirrored injury.

There is something morbidly compelling about this read, that the wealthy and powerful are held to account the same way anyone else would be. But beyond the politics of socio-economic status, I think this passage gets at a deeply human instinct: when someone hurts us, we want to hurt them in just the same way. On its face, the Torah seems to be giving us permission to act on this instinct.

But is that the justice that God wants? Saadiah Gaon (882–942 CE)  recognized a difficulty, and the commentator Ibn Ezra (1089–1167) paraphrases him well:

אמר רב סעדיה לא נוכל לפרש זה הפסוק כמשמעו. כי אם אדם הכה עין חבירו וסרה שלישית אור עיניו איך יתכן שיוכה מכה כזאת בלי תוספת ומגרעת. אולי יחשיך אור עינו כולו ויותר קשה

Rabbi Saadiah says that we cannot interpret this verse according to its simple meaning. For if a person struck their fellow’s eye and destroyed one third of their vision, how could such a blow be struck [retaliated upon the offender] that is no more and no less? Perhaps their [the original culprit’s] vision will be more destroyed!

(Ibn Ezra on Exodus 21:24, d”h עין)

Rav Saadiah Gaon is arguing something critical here: there is a transcendent equality that God may command us to get as close to as possible. But there are moments where we simply cannot inflict and uphold divine justice as human beings. We cannot be sure that our retaliation will not represent a problematic escalation of damage or violence, so we must be creative in finding another method of restitution. Saadiah’s conclusion reflects those reached by the vast majority of interpreters from the rabbinic period to today:

.ראוי להיותו עינו תחת עינו אם לא יתן כפרו

It would be appropriate to [literally] give an eye for an eye if they do not pay [money] for it.

(ibid)

Saadiah has returned us to the question of financial restitution for injury, but he does not see it as the privilege of the wealthy. Rather, because it is untenable to sustain a society where justice is achieved through mutual mutilation, everyone is held to the standard of financial compensation for injury. Thus, Saadiah reads the Torah as advocating against perpetual punishment; the Torah is an etz hayim, a tree of life, and cannot possibly expect literal, bodily restitution for harm done. The possibility of continued violence is no solution. Instead, restitution must be made by other means: monetary reparations, mediation, diplomacy.

This diplomacy is on full display later in the parashah where we read:

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 their donkey wandering astray, you must return it to them. If you see the donkey of one who hates you lying down under its burden, reject [the inclination] to abandon it to them, but help them unburden it.

(Exod. 23:4–5)

Parashat Mishpatim recognizes that the hustle and bustle of humanity can lead to disagreement, challenge, anger, and violence. But I believe the place it’s trying to get us to, the world it is trying to envision, is a just one: a world where people on all levels of society are held to account for their misdeeds, but not in a way that sustains violence. Parashat Mishpatim accepts that ours is a world where enemies, violence, and bloodshed exist. But the text also depicts a civilization where we recognize a human kinship with our enemies, where we remain in community with those who hate us, and where we seek to end cycles of violence through reparations, humility, and diplomacy. In so doing, we get as close as we can to divine justice.

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

“When you encounter your enemy’s ox or ass wandering, you must take it back.”

(Exod. 23:4)

There is no obligation in the common law to retrieve someone’s lost property and return it. So why does the Torah make a point of establishing such a requirement? Why does the Torah specify that the owner of the lost animal is the finder’s enemy, and what is the scope of the finder’s responsibilities?

The Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael connects Exodus 23:4 with the lost property law of Deuteronomy 22:1–3, which adds more details about what to do upon finding lost property and relates not only to animals but to other inanimate, movable objects. According to Deuteronomy, the finder should not ignore the lost property, but rather return it to its owner (who is called “your brother” rather than “your enemy”). But what if the owner lives far away, or if the finder does not know who owns the property? In that case, the finder must bring the property home and wait for its owner to come and claim it (“until your brother seeks it”; Deut. 32:2). The Mekhilta de-Rabbi Ishmael elaborates upon these words, “until your brother seeks it” (עַד דְּרֹשׁ אָחִיךָ אֹתוֹ), with three statements:

Until your brother seeks: Until you seek out your brother.

Until your brother seeks: Until the public crier has gone around [announcing the discovery of the lost property].

Until your brother seeks it: You must investigate whether “your brother” is a deceiver or not a deceiver.

The most obvious interpretation of the words “until your brother seeks it” would take “your brother” as the subject of the action signified by “seeks,” so that the person doing the seeking is “your brother,” i.e., the owner. In this plain-sense reading of the text, the finder should keep the lost property in their home until the owner comes to seek it. The �ѱ��󾱱��ٲ�’s first statement, however, instead reads “your brother” as the object of seeking, and understands the finder as the subject: “until you (the finder) seek out your brother.” This reading becomes difficult when one tries to include the next word—“it”— – in the translation, but the Mekhilta brackets that word for the purpose of this particular derash. Instead, the Mekhilta makes a point, insisting that the finder actively seek out the owner. What is the scope of this requirement? The Mekhilta elaborates further in its second and third comments: the finder must arrange for a public proclamation about the property, and once someone comes and alleges to be the owner, the finder is obligated to verify that that person is truly the owner and not a fraud. These obligations, which the Mekhilta states rather concisely, receive ample elaboration in the Mishnah and Tosefta, and even more in the Talmud, addressing details such as where, when, and how a finder ought to fulfill the obligation of public proclamation, and under what circumstances a person is considered a “deceiver.” 

When compared to the Mekhilta and other rabbinic literature, the Torah’s laws of lost property place a relatively small burden of responsibility on the finder. According to Deuteronomy, the finder should either return the property directly, or hold onto it until the owner comes. The law in Parashat Mishpatim is even more succinct and specific: The finder must return their enemy’s lost property, with no further elaboration. There is no mention whatsoever in the Torah of public proclamation, nor does the Torah demand that the finder assess the credentials of a person claiming to be the owner. Rabbinic law gives the finder a good deal of work to do, well beyond what the Torah appears to envision. And beyond this, rabbinic law addresses a whole host of other questions that the Torah does not entertain: What kind of property should be returned? Can the finder ever keep the property? How long does the obligation to return lost property apply?

In order to arrive at a workable system for dealing with lost property, it is clear that one must look to halakhah, and not only at the law of the Torah. What, then, is the point of the Torah’s law here, if it is so incomprehensive with regard to details of how one might carry out its obligations in practice?

The very brevity of the lost property laws in the Torah, which the detailed character of our rabbinic sources throws into relief, may help us focus our attention on what the Torah does emphasize. Exodus 23:4 establishes a requirement to return property, specifically the property of one’s enemy (which one might be inclined not to return), amid a series of laws relating to the theme of justice; Deuteronomy states twice within three verses that one may not ignore the lost property, capping off the law with the statement that “you must not remain indifferent” (לֹא תוּכַל לְהִתְעַלֵּם; Deut. 22:3). This, ultimately, is the Torah’s warning and plea: Even when it’s hard, whether because the owner of lost property is the finder’s enemy (as in Exodus) or because the owner lives far away (as in Deuteronomy), there is a right thing to do, and we are charged to do it.  

It is easy to ignore lost property; after all, no one would ever know. But the Torah and Jewish law require a finder to go out of their way, even if it is difficult or inconvenient, and even if no one would ever know the difference. This is perhaps the crux of the Torah’s lost property law: though it would be easy to do nothing, we must not remain indifferent.

Shabbat shalom.

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

While Brecht directed his own plays, the process he describes typically happens through collaboration between playwright and director. I’ve had the privilege of experiencing this firsthand: for over a decade before starting my path to the rabbinate, I was a professional theatre director, with a special love for new plays. My job was to advocate for both the playwright and the audience-to-be, guiding the work toward a final form that was both coherent and meaningful. The play is ultimately the playwright’s vision, but a director helps make that vision manifest.

The metaphor of a playwright and director crafting a new play together can be applied to our parashah. The playscript God is developing is the set of mishpatim (rules), expanding on the Ten Commandments. God begins developing the “script” in a speech to Moses in Exodus 21:1: “And these are the rules that you shall set before them . . . ”

In this formulation, God is undoubtedly the architect of the text, but Moses has an important role, too. Moses must “set” or “place” (תשים) the forthcoming rules in a way that will enable the people to understand them. The Mekhilta d’Rabbi Yishmael compares Moses’s task to preparing a banquet table for a guest. The verse and the midrash suggest a creative collaboration: God as playwright, with Moses as God’s director.

Several chapters (and many rules) later, it is time for Moses to “workshop” the script with the audience—the Israelites. Exodus 24:3 illustrates what might be called the first preview performance of God’s new play:

Moses went and told the people all of the words of God, and all of the rules; and all of the people answered in a single voice, saying, “All of the things that God has spoken, we will do (נעשה)!”

Not bad for a first workshop reading! But Moses could sense from the audience reaction that something was still missing in the delivery. The people responded positively, but they had not experienced deep personal change of the nature that Brecht described.

And that’s when Moses steps up as God’s director. Moses sees that God’s words alone aren’t enough, so he supports God’s vision by creating a theatrical environment that will lift God’s text up even higher:

Moses then wrote down all of God’s words. Early in the morning, he set up an altar at the foot of the mountain, with twelve pillars for the twelve tribes of Israel. He designated some young men among the Israelites, and they offered burnt offerings and sacrificed bulls as offerings of well-being to God. Moses took one part of the blood and put it in basins, and the other part of the blood he dashed against the altar.

(Exod. 24:4–6)

In other words, Moses A) makes notes on God’s script; B) oversees the design and decoration of a set; and C) casts some young Israelites as the proverbial spear-carriers to round out the dramatic effect.

These theatrical elements are not intended to cast illusions or play tricks on the audience. On the contrary, good theatre reflects vital truths about the world. We retain some of these very elements in our synagogue worship today. Consider the Torah service, which blends text, music, movement, audience response, and even a dramatic entrance for the central player when the Sefer Torah emerges from the aron. Staging our Torah reading in this way heightens our awareness that what we are about to hear is not simply a text, it is a way of life.

His staging prepared, Moses is now ready to bring the audience back in for a second showing. This time, the performance includes theatrical elements that bring it much closer to its final form. And Moses does not simply repeat the text that he heard from God; he recites the scripted version. The production now even has a title, Sefer Habrit (The Book of the Covenant).

And sure enough, this time, the people’s response signifies a new way of thinking and behaving. After this reading, the people again respond that they will do the things that God prescribes (נעשה), the same expression they used the first time. But this time, the people also exclaim that they understand them (ונשמע) (Exod. 24:7). The added verb shows us that God’s goal as playwright is realized, and Moses’s directorial mission is accomplished.

Brecht expressed a hope that his theatre would offer “a new lease on life.”[1] This is exactly what God hopes the mitzvot will provide for the Israelites, after generations of soul-crushing slavery in Egypt. But God can’t do it alone. It turns out that God’s work, like theatre, is collaborative. Without Moses’s contributions as “director,” God’s play might have been well-written, but it would not have given its audience the clarity of purpose that only great theatre—and Torah—can offer.

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

[1] Willet, John, ed. Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic

The brief special reading for Shekalim (Exod. 30:11–16) sets forth the obligation that was imposed on the recently freed Israelite slaves to contribute one-half of a shekel to the Mishkan (Sanctuary) that was going to be built. But the reason we re-read this passage annually is not so much because of the biblical passage from Exodus (in which there is no suggestion that this was meant to be a repeated levy), but rather is owing to the opening words of the Mishnaic tractate entitled Shekalim:

“On Rosh Hodesh Adar they make a public announcement about the shekels.” (M. Shekalim 1:1)

That is, in the same way that we often get bills telling us that payment is due in 30 days, so it was in the time of the Second Temple: the fiscal year of the Temple began on Rosh Hodesh Nisan, and so a month earlier, the beginning of Adar, notice would go out that the half–shekel—the per capita tax that supported the public sacrifices—was about to come due.

Although in the Torah the shekel was a unit of weight, by the time of the Mishnah, there had already been hundreds of years during which coins were struck with images, which were often those of the realms’ rulers. And thus begins our story of minted coins.

One of the most famous passages referring to images of rulers on coins occurs in the Gospels Matthew, Mark, and Luke. In those narratives, it is said that some adversaries tried to trap Jesus, by asking him whether it was proper, in Jewish religious law, to pay the tax imposed by the Roman government. If he said “No,” there would be grounds for informing on him to the Romans, while if he said “Yes,” he would lose all authority among his fellow Jews, all of whom hated that tax. But he evaded the trap by pointing out that, since the emperor’s image was on the coin used to pay the tax, the coin might as well go to its ultimate owner (“render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s”). But crucially, he then added: “and to God the things that are God’s,” thus avoiding the trap.

But what was the meaning of that last phrase? I owe the following insight to the late 91�첥 professor Fritz Rothschild. He pointed to an oft-quoted mishnah in the fourth chapter of Tractate Sanhedrin, in which God’s supernatural power is proven in this way: “When a person stamps coins with a single seal (Hebrew: hotam, and remember this word!), they all appear identical to one another. But the supreme King of kings of kings, the Blessed Holy One, stamped all people with the seal that was given to Adam, and not one of them is similar to another” (M. Sanhedrin 4:5). What this mishnah testifies to is that in late antiquity, there was a Jewish cultural meme that we are, metaphorically, God’s coins, stamped with the image of the divine. And thus, Jesus appears to have assumed that his listeners were aware of that metaphor, and would understand that while the emperor could claim possession of his (literal) coin, only God could claim the ultimate allegiance of God’s human servants.

So when the Torah enigmatically described the payment of the half-shekel weight as “expiation for your persons” (Exod. 30:15–16), it seems that later tradition understood the physical coin given to the Temple to be a metonym (a surrogate) for the human giving it, an act that signified devotion to the One whose Temple it was, and whose image was stamped on each person.

Coins, of course, can get tarnished, and the image on it blurred. And this leads us, finally, to a beautiful teaching of the early Hasidic preacher Ze’ev Wolf of Zhitomir, found in his work Or Hameir.

He draws our attention to a later mishnah in Tractate Shekalim (5:4), which is no longer dealing with the shekel but with other financial transactions in the Temple. Pilgrims bringing sacrifices to the altar would need to purchase flour and wine to accompany the animals being offered. In order to avoid having monetary dealings go through a single person, procuring those sacrificial adjuncts was a two-step process. The money would be given to a man named Yohanan, who would give the purchaser a stamp (the word hotam again), which would then be taken to Ahiyah, who would redeem that stamp with the flour and wine needed. At the end of the day, Yohanan and Ahiyah would go through a reconciliation, making sure that the number of stamps and the amount of money matched. But what, the following mishnah asks, would happen if someone lost his hotam? The text says that “we wait until evening comes,” and if there was indeed excess money, it would be certain that the person who had lost his stamp was truthful and he would be made whole again.

You can now see where Ze’ev Wolf was going. What if we lose our stamp? That is, what if the divine image imprinted on us “coins” gets so tarnished that it is, effectively, lost? Is there any hope, any way to be restored to wholeness? For this teacher, the seemingly defunct details of Temple transactions involving figures long since deceased were vibrantly alive as a message of penitence and hopeful restoration. If a person loses their stamp, we wait for them, suspending judgment until the end of the day. If we have lost our way, there is always hope of its being found again. What is the “end of the day”? Ze’ev Wolf tells us that if it is not the end of a single day, it might be the end of the week, or the month, or the year. However long it takes, the outstanding hotam can be restored. And it must be, for we alone are God’s currency in the world.

It is not just individuals whose stamp can be misplaced. So many in our nation have felt that America was progressively losing its hotam in the years just past. (Especially since it is said that God’s hotam is truth.) And that is no doubt why there is now such a broad feeling that perhaps the promised “end of the day” has arrived, and that there is hope for retrieving the lost stamp. But the one who lost the stamp must go looking for it, and show up at the reconciliation. May we all be part of a widespread will among all citizens to return to wholeness, and to become a truthful and compassionate society once again, God’s currency in the world.

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