There’s something about Mishpatim that feels almost startlingly modern.

In Mishpatim (Exodus 21–24), given right after the thunder and fire of Sinai, Torah shifts from grand revelation to nitty-gritty human responsibility. Suddenly it’s not just “Don’t murder” — it’s “What happens if your ox gores someone?” Not just lofty ideals, but how to treat workers, how to handle damages, how to protect the vulnerable.

What strikes me every time I read Mishpatim is how deeply it centers human dignity. The portion commands care for the stranger, the widow, and the orphan — not once, but repeatedly. In a world like ours, where immigration debates, economic gaps, and social divisions feel so raw and loud, that repetition feels urgent. The Torah seems to know how easily society forgets the vulnerable when convenience or fear takes over.

I’m especially moved by the verse reminding us not to oppress the stranger “for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” That line lands differently in every generation. Today, it challenges me to remember my own moments of feeling like an outsider — new job, new community, unfamiliar space — and to let that memory soften me instead of harden me. Empathy isn’t optional in Mishpatim; it’s commanded.

Another theme that resonates now is accountability. Mishpatim assumes our actions ripple outward. If we dig a pit and someone falls in, we’re responsible. In modern terms, that feels like a call to think about the unintended consequences of what we build — whether that’s technology, policies, or even the words we post online. We can’t shrug and say, “I didn’t mean for harm.” The Torah asks more of us.

What I love most is that Mishpatim insists holiness lives in the everyday. Justice isn’t just for courtrooms; it’s for kitchens, sidewalks, workplaces. It’s in how fairly we pay someone, how honestly we speak, how gently we treat someone with less power.

Reading Mishpatim this year, I feel both challenged and steadied. Challenged — because it asks for integrity when it’s inconvenient. Steadied — because it reminds me that building a just society isn’t abstract. It starts small. It starts with me.

And maybe that’s the quiet power of Mishpatim: revelation isn’t only at the mountaintop. It’s in how we treat each other on ordinary days.