Parashat Mishpatim: After the Thunder, Responsibility

There are moments in life that lift us up and transform us from within: a prayer that moves us to tears, a song that awakens deep memories, a spiritual experience that restores clarity and purpose. In those moments, the soul seems to open and the world falls into place—if only for a second. But the real question is not what we feel during those intense experiences… it is what we do when they pass. What remains after the echo fades? What changes when we return to the rhythm of everyday life? 

Parashat Mishpatim places us precisely in that uncomfortable and profoundly human space: the day after Sinai.

We come from a majestic scene, one of the most powerful in all of Torah—thunder and lightning, a voice that pierces through time, an entire people standing face to face with transcendence. One might expect the narrative to continue with sublime visions and ever-greater spiritual heights. Yet something unexpected happens: the Torah descends abruptly into the everyday. Laws begin—about damages, responsibility, labor relations, compensation, social justice. Concrete norms that organize ordinary life.

Far from being a spiritual fall, this descent is the central teaching. Spirituality does not live only in extraordinary moments. Holiness is tested in the way we relate to others, especially to the most vulnerable. The first law that appears is not about lofty rituals or mystical practices, but about a Hebrew servant and the obligation to protect human dignity. This is no coincidence. The Torah begins where humanity is most likely to fracture: in the spaces of inequality and fragility.

After revelation, the Torah does not seek to prolong the ecstasy but to build a livable world. The emotion of a single moment is not enough; an ethical structure is needed so that the Divine Presence can dwell among people. Revelation was the beginning of the relationship. Everyday justice is what sustains it. Holiness ceases to be an isolated experience and becomes a way of living.

This reshapes what we mean by spirituality. It is not measured by the intensity of religious emotion or the height of a mystical moment, but by our ability to transform daily behavior. The question is no longer how deeply we felt, but how we act when no one is watching. In a difficult conversation, in the response we choose to give—or the reaction we choose to restrain—when something unsettles us; in a complex professional decision; in the way we treat someone who depends on us—there our fidelity to Sinai is revealed.

Within this context emerges one of the most emblematic expressions of our tradition: Naasé venishmá—“we will do and we will listen.” The people accept commitment first and understanding afterward. This is not a rejection of thought; it is a profound affirmation that ethical life cannot wait for absolute certainty. We act responsibly even when the road ahead is not entirely clear.

For centuries, the tradition reflected on this phrase. Some taught that action is greater because it turns ideas into reality; others argued that learning is essential because it leads to right action. Yet all agreed on one thing: Judaism does not end with thought or emotion. It is realized through doing. Commitment precedes full explanation, because life demands response even before theory is complete.

But the second half of the phrase—“we will listen”—opens an equally deep dimension. Action may be collective, a shared response to the covenant. Listening, however, is personal. Each human being receives the Divine voice through their own story, their wounds and dreams. Unity does not require uniformity; every soul finds its own way to understand and live the message.

The tefillin that many of us place on ourselves almost every morning also reflect this duality: the head tefillin contain four separate compartments, each with its own parchment; the arm tefillin hold the same texts written on a single parchment within one compartment. We may think differently, reason differently, and make decisions differently—but in action, we must stand as one people.

This balance between shared action and individual listening is especially relevant in our time. We live in an era saturated with words, opinions, and endless commentary that often breed confusion and despair. Faced with the complexity of the world, many feel that nothing can be done, that action is futile, or that ethics are fragile illusions. Parashat Mishpatim offers a demanding response: precisely when reality grows harsh, that is when the authenticity of Sinai is tested. Fidelity to the covenant is revealed when we choose not to abandon justice—even when it seems the world has forgotten it.

Our task is not merely to remember who we are, but to demonstrate it through how we live. Every daily decision can become a space where the Divine Presence finds entry. A Hasidic teaching expresses this simply: the sacred does not reveal itself only in extraordinary moments; it enters the world whenever someone acts with compassion, protects another’s dignity, or chooses truth over convenience. It is not the heavens that need to open—it is the human heart.

Today’s world confronts us with deep ethical challenges. Social tensions, collective wounds, polarization, and uncertainty can push us toward fear or indifference. In this landscape, the parashah reminds us that Jewish identity is not sustained solely by memories of past spiritual experiences, but by actively building a more just present. The truest honor to Sinai is not merely that we once stood there, but that we bring it to life every day through our actions.

That is why the people’s response—“we will do and we will listen”—still resonates so powerfully. We will do: as a refusal to be paralyzed by cynicism or despair. We will do: as an act of resistance against voices that seek to dehumanize others. We will do: as a commitment to life, to human dignity, and to shared responsibility. And we will listen: because each person must find their own path toward understanding, their own way of hearing the voice that calls to conscience.

Perhaps now more than ever we must return to that balance between action and listening. To choose actions that rebuild relationships, restore trust, and help us stand again even when the horizon appears dark. For true spirituality is not measured by the intensity of words, but by the ability to kindle small lights in times of uncertainty.

Parashat Mishpatim teaches that revelation does not end when the thunder fades. It begins wherever ethics become practice, wherever justice becomes behavior, wherever care for another human being becomes a daily responsibility. Perhaps the deepest way to honor the voice that once echoed from the mountain is to allow our entire lives to become an echo of that voice.

May we learn to transform every ordinary moment into an opportunity for awareness. May we learn to see—especially—those who struggle to rise again. May we choose action when fear invites passivity. And may Sinai never remain a distant memory, but a living presence that guides our decisions, our relationships, and our commitment to the world.

Shabbat Shalom Umeboraj.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier