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Dear TBZ Community,
This week we read Parshat Mishpatim, a Torah portion with one of the most concrete and direct blueprints for building a just society. After the thunder and revelation of Sinai, the Torah turns immediately to the details of how we are meant to live with one another.
Sefer HaChinuch (Book of Education) lists 53 commandments in this parasha, 23 positive and 30 negative. The vast majority are mitzvot bein adam lechavero, laws that govern how human beings treat one another. We are taught not to afflict any widow or orphan. We are commanded to lend to the poor and not press them when we know they cannot repay. Judges may not accept testimony unless both parties are present. Judges may not take bribes.
The Torah is not naïve about power. It understands that human beings, when given authority, can become blind to the vulnerability of others. So it builds into our sacred system guardrails for accountability, fairness, limits on exploitation. In this Torah portion we learn that holiness is not only in prayer or spirituality, but in policy; not only in belief, but in systemic structures and how we build fair and just societies.
And there is one verse in this Torah portion, a teaching that repeats 36 times in Torah: the obligation to welcome and care for the stranger, for the immigrant, and not to oppress the stranger.
In this week’s parasha, it appeals to the fact that our instinct may be to wrong the ger (stranger).
The Torah says:
וְגֵר לֹא־תוֹנֶה וְלֹא תִלְחָצֶנּוּ כִּי־גֵרִים הֱיִיתֶם בְּאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם
You shall not wrong or oppress a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt (Exodus 22:20).
Rabbeinu Bahya, a 13th-century Spanish commentator, explains the language of this verse. He notes that the Torah uses two verbs: lo toneh and lo tilchatzenu. The first, he says, refers to verbal oppression: diminishing someone with words, humiliating them, reminding them that they do not belong. The second refers to material exploitation: taking advantage of their vulnerability, robbing them, abusing their powerlessness.
He teaches that the word ger (stranger) is related to gargir, a single berry hanging alone at the edge of a branch. Isolated. Exposed. Easy to pluck.
The Torah, he says, understands human nature. People have a habit of belittling strangers, assuming that because someone has no family, no network, no protection, no status, no one will defend them. So the Torah warns us: Do not imagine that the stranger has no advocate. If no human stands up for them, God will.
And then Rabbeinu Bahya also reminds us: The Torah does not say, “You know what it is to be a stranger.” It says in Exodus 23:9, “You know the soul of the stranger” (atem yedatem et nefesh ha-ger). You know their inner world. You know what it feels like to have low self-esteem. To feel unprotected. To have nowhere to turn.
This week I was in Washington, DC, standing outside ICE headquarters with more than 500 Jews – including 140 rabbis, cantors, students, organizers, and leaders – representing Jewish communities and organizations from across the country. We gathered under the banner of Jewish values. We demanded an end to cruelty in our immigration system. We gathered because the Torah warns us: Do not imagine that the stranger has no advocate. If no human stands up for them, God will, and we are God’s manifestation in this world, we are God’s hands, and we have the capacity to bring God’s presence to this world.
My friend and colleague Rabbi Sarah Bassin, Director of Clergy and Congregations at HIAS, was one of the speakers. I wept through her words. I wept through the names she shared. I share her words here. Because each name is a person, a soul, and we cannot look away.
Our anger, at its core, is an expression of our grief. It is a cry into the abyss that separates our broken world and the one we long for. It is HARD, in the depths of our pain to move out of our rage. But Jewish tradition gives us a road map. In our most profound grief, when we feel too broken and enraged to face the world, we are reminded that this agony is not all there is. When we recite our mourner’s prayer, we declare – at the moment it feels impossible to believe – that there is a world aching for peace and justice and wholeness… and it needs us to rise from our grief to build it. Not with vengeance but with vision.
We stand in a world in which we have lost at least 43 souls this past year in the custody of or in encounters with immigration enforcement officials. 43 people who will never again hug their mother, tell their spouse I love you, or drop their child at school. This is a world that nobody wants. Not us. And at my deepest core, I believe that many of the people who report to that building… they do not want this either. We appeal to the humanity of the people who are ordered to carry out dehumanizing acts… believing that in THEIR deepest core, many of them feel pained by the chasm between keeping this country safe and what they are asked to do.
When we hear the name of someone who has died, Jewish tradition has us declare “Baruch dayan ha-emet.” Blessed is the judge of truth. It is not a declaration that this death is part of God’s plan. It is a declaration that despair is not an option. That our purpose endures. That the Source of justice and truth demands that we strive for a world that reflects justice and truth. When ICE compels its people to act as the ultimate judge and jury, without due process, with less and less accountability, our society loses touch with what the Highest Authority demands of us. When we want to give up, give in to our rage – our tradition compels us to channel our grief not into vengeance but vision. A vision of Truth. Justice. Accountability. Compassion.
As I share the 43 names of those who have died in custody or in encounters with immigration enforcement, I ask that when I declare “We remember them not with vengeance but with vision” you respond “Baruch dayan ha’emet.”
We remember them not with vengeance but with vision: BARUCH DAYAN HA’EMET
WE REMEMBER THEM NOT WITH VENGEANCE BUT WITH VISION: BARUCH DAYAN HA’EMET
WE REMEMBER THEM NOT WITH VENGEANCE BUT WITH VISION: BARUCH DAYAN HA’EMET
WE REMEMBER THEM NOT WITH VENGEANCE BUT WITH VISION: BARUCH DAYAN HA’EMET
WE REMEMBER THEM NOT WITH VENGEANCE BUT WITH VISION: BARUCH DAYAN HA’EMET
WE REMEMBER THEM NOT WITH VENGEANCE BUT WITH VISION: BARUCH DAYAN HA’EMET
Zichronom livracha. May their memories be a blessing as we rise in our grief to build a world of truth and justice. Baruch dayan ha’emet.
Standing there, reading those names aloud, was especially powerful and meaningful to me. Each name forced us to slow down. To remember that these are not numbers. I spent this morning googling the names and learning about who these people were.
During the protest I held the sign of one of those names: Lorenzo Antonio Batrez Vargas. He was 32 when he died in ICE custody.
At the demonstration, Rabbi Sharon Kleinbaum reminded us that this gathering brought together Jews from all corners – Jews who disagree on many things, even on issues that feel deeply important – yet here we were, standing together against cruelty, united by the Torah’s commandment to care for the ger, the stranger. She reminded us that each of us can do our part; not all of us can do the same thing, and we should not feel guilt for what we cannot or do not do, but we should feel responsibility for what we can do. “No one can do everything, but everyone can do something.” Her words resonated deeply with this week’s Shabbat Shekalim, the first of four special Shabbatot occurring before Passover, when each person was asked to bring their half-shekel to build the Mishkan. Each contribution – small, partial, unique – was necessary. In the same way, each act of compassion, each stand for justice, each voice raised in defense of the vulnerable is a vital part of building a world that reflects God’s presence.
May we honor their memories not with silence but with courage.
May we see the soul of the stranger, and in doing so, transform our communities.
May we rise from grief not into despair, but into justice, compassion, and vision.
May we never grow numb to cruelty, but always respond with the fullness of our humanity.
May we act boldly, guided by Torah, conscience, and the sacred obligation to protect those most vulnerable.
May we walk together, refusing to look away, building a world of truth, mercy, and accountability.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia