Parshas Mishpatim - Shekalim: After the Thunder
This past Sunday, something quiet but meaningful happened in our home. My son’s class had a Haschalas Gemara event. His first Masechta begins with something small and seemingly simple: Eilu Metziot — the second perek of Bava Metzia, the laws of lost objects.
You find something on the street. If it has identifying signs, you return it. If it doesn’t, you may keep it. Either way, the Torah assumes you are paying attention, that you don’t just walk past what lands in front of you.
And it happened in the week of Parshas Mishpatim.
Mishpatim comes immediately after Matan Torah. Not more thunder. Not more revelation. It begins with laws. Servants. Injury. Guardianship. Moral and social responsibility. With the quiet work of figuring out what Torah looks like once inspiration fades and life resumes.
That placement matters.
Mishpatim is not a break from Sinai. It is what Sinai becomes when it enters daily life.
Lost items appear there too, briefly. If you encounter your enemy’s ox or donkey wandering, you return it. You don’t ignore what crossed your path. The owner is obvious. The relationship may not be simple. The moment may be inconvenient. Responsibility still begins with noticing.
Then the Torah sharpens the picture.
If you see the donkey of someone you hate collapsed under its burden, you may not look away. You stop. You unload the burden. You help him lift and reposition it properly. You stay there until the animal can stand again.
You don’t gloat. You don’t analyze how his life choices got him there. You don’t let it take over your life and switch professions to become a donkey-loading trainer. You help him carry what is already his, and then you move on with your day.
It’s a shift from returning something lost to standing beside something heavy. From property to presence. From doing the right thing to staying long enough to share effort.
This is Torah after Sinai. Not the kind that lifts you above life, but the kind that meets you inside it. Mishpatim doesn’t ask how inspired you feel. It asks whether you notice what is struggling in front of you and whether you are willing to slow down and help carry it properly.
We often imagine growth as becoming lighter, freer, more elevated. But much of growth is choosing not to escape. It is staying when something is repetitive, unglamorous, and heavy. It is recognizing that not every burden is meant to be transcended. Some are meant to be carried — carefully, deliberately, together.
The Torah frames this obligation in the hardest way possible: even if it is your enemy. Even if it costs you time and energy. Do not look away.
The Torah speaks about someone you hate.
Real life is rarely that simple.
Most of the time, the weight belongs to someone you love.
Your spouse.
Your child.
Your friend.
Your own tired self.
Because sometimes the one collapsed under the weight is you.
Sometimes it looks like short answers when patience runs thin.
Sometimes it looks like distance where connection used to be easy.
Sometimes it looks like carrying too much without saying so.
Sometimes it looks like a heaviness you cannot quite name.
Later in the parsha, we are told: Midvar sheker tirchak — distance yourself from falsehood.
You are not allowed to pretend you didn’t see it.
You are not allowed to tell yourself it isn’t that heavy.
You are not allowed to convince yourself it will resolve on its own.
Not when it is inconvenient.
Not when it is exhausting.
Not when it is your own home.
If something is struggling in front of you, you stay long enough to understand what is actually heavy. You do not try to fix everything. You do not take over and exhaust yourself. But you do not withdraw either.
You stand there.
You listen.
You adjust what can be adjusted.
You make room for another set of hands — sometimes to help you lift, sometimes to show you how.
That is what Azov Ta’azov Imo looks like now.
And because Mishpatim stands immediately after Matan Torah, this is not a lesson we revisit once a year during its parsha and then shelve. This is what revelation looks like when it must endure.
At the end of the parsha, after all these laws are taught, the people respond: Na’aseh v’nishma — we will do and we will hear.
They say it not in the fire of Sinai, but after hearing the Mishpatim. After hearing about damages, burdens, responsibilities, and honesty. They commit to action before full understanding.
Revelation is not sustained by inspiration. It is sustained by honesty and action.
We will do.
Even when we are tired.
Even when we do not fully understand.
Even when it would be easier to look away.
Especially then.
Matan Torah was the moment of receiving.
Mishpatim is the discipline of living it.
Not once.
Not seasonally.
But week by week.
All year long.
Parshas Shekalim, which we read alongside Mishpatim, reinforces the same truth. No one brings a full coin. Each person gives only half a shekel.
Not because we are lacking. Because wholeness was never meant to be carried alone.
Half from you.
Half from someone else.
Together, something complete emerges.
That is how a Mishkan is built.
That is how something holy takes shape.
That is how burdens are lifted without breaking the one who carries them.
And then the parsha ends quietly.
Moshe goes back up the mountain. The cloud covers it. He waits. He enters. He remains there for forty days and forty nights.
After the thunder, there is patience.
After revelation, there is endurance.
After inspiration, there is the long discipline of noticing, and the courage to remain.
May we all have the steadiness to stand beside what is heavy.
May we act with honesty before full understanding.
And may our small, faithful efforts — week by week — draw us closer to His cloud, not farther from it.
Good Shabbos,
Berke
You find something on the street. If it has identifying signs, you return it. If it doesn’t, you may keep it. Either way, the Torah assumes you are paying attention, that you don’t just walk past what lands in front of you.
And it happened in the week of Parshas Mishpatim.
Mishpatim comes immediately after Matan Torah. Not more thunder. Not more revelation. It begins with laws. Servants. Injury. Guardianship. Moral and social responsibility. With the quiet work of figuring out what Torah looks like once inspiration fades and life resumes.
That placement matters.
Mishpatim is not a break from Sinai. It is what Sinai becomes when it enters daily life.
Lost items appear there too, briefly. If you encounter your enemy’s ox or donkey wandering, you return it. You don’t ignore what crossed your path. The owner is obvious. The relationship may not be simple. The moment may be inconvenient. Responsibility still begins with noticing.
Then the Torah sharpens the picture.
If you see the donkey of someone you hate collapsed under its burden, you may not look away. You stop. You unload the burden. You help him lift and reposition it properly. You stay there until the animal can stand again.
You don’t gloat. You don’t analyze how his life choices got him there. You don’t let it take over your life and switch professions to become a donkey-loading trainer. You help him carry what is already his, and then you move on with your day.
It’s a shift from returning something lost to standing beside something heavy. From property to presence. From doing the right thing to staying long enough to share effort.
This is Torah after Sinai. Not the kind that lifts you above life, but the kind that meets you inside it. Mishpatim doesn’t ask how inspired you feel. It asks whether you notice what is struggling in front of you and whether you are willing to slow down and help carry it properly.
We often imagine growth as becoming lighter, freer, more elevated. But much of growth is choosing not to escape. It is staying when something is repetitive, unglamorous, and heavy. It is recognizing that not every burden is meant to be transcended. Some are meant to be carried — carefully, deliberately, together.
The Torah frames this obligation in the hardest way possible: even if it is your enemy. Even if it costs you time and energy. Do not look away.
The Torah speaks about someone you hate.
Real life is rarely that simple.
Most of the time, the weight belongs to someone you love.
Your spouse.
Your child.
Your friend.
Your own tired self.
Because sometimes the one collapsed under the weight is you.
Sometimes it looks like short answers when patience runs thin.
Sometimes it looks like distance where connection used to be easy.
Sometimes it looks like carrying too much without saying so.
Sometimes it looks like a heaviness you cannot quite name.
Later in the parsha, we are told: Midvar sheker tirchak — distance yourself from falsehood.
You are not allowed to pretend you didn’t see it.
You are not allowed to tell yourself it isn’t that heavy.
You are not allowed to convince yourself it will resolve on its own.
Not when it is inconvenient.
Not when it is exhausting.
Not when it is your own home.
If something is struggling in front of you, you stay long enough to understand what is actually heavy. You do not try to fix everything. You do not take over and exhaust yourself. But you do not withdraw either.
You stand there.
You listen.
You adjust what can be adjusted.
You make room for another set of hands — sometimes to help you lift, sometimes to show you how.
That is what Azov Ta’azov Imo looks like now.
And because Mishpatim stands immediately after Matan Torah, this is not a lesson we revisit once a year during its parsha and then shelve. This is what revelation looks like when it must endure.
At the end of the parsha, after all these laws are taught, the people respond: Na’aseh v’nishma — we will do and we will hear.
They say it not in the fire of Sinai, but after hearing the Mishpatim. After hearing about damages, burdens, responsibilities, and honesty. They commit to action before full understanding.
Revelation is not sustained by inspiration. It is sustained by honesty and action.
We will do.
Even when we are tired.
Even when we do not fully understand.
Even when it would be easier to look away.
Especially then.
Matan Torah was the moment of receiving.
Mishpatim is the discipline of living it.
Not once.
Not seasonally.
But week by week.
All year long.
Parshas Shekalim, which we read alongside Mishpatim, reinforces the same truth. No one brings a full coin. Each person gives only half a shekel.
Not because we are lacking. Because wholeness was never meant to be carried alone.
Half from you.
Half from someone else.
Together, something complete emerges.
That is how a Mishkan is built.
That is how something holy takes shape.
That is how burdens are lifted without breaking the one who carries them.
And then the parsha ends quietly.
Moshe goes back up the mountain. The cloud covers it. He waits. He enters. He remains there for forty days and forty nights.
After the thunder, there is patience.
After revelation, there is endurance.
After inspiration, there is the long discipline of noticing, and the courage to remain.
May we all have the steadiness to stand beside what is heavy.
May we act with honesty before full understanding.
And may our small, faithful efforts — week by week — draw us closer to His cloud, not farther from it.
Good Shabbos,
Berke