A Taste of Freedom

When reading Mishpatim, one discovers that the Torah’s laws are less about rules than about shaping how we treat one another—and ourselves. Law after law, case after case, it insists that how we behave toward others is inseparable from how we understand ourselves. Holiness is no longer abstract; it is measured in conduct, restraint, and responsibility.

Being created in the image of Hashem is one thing; thinking and behaving in ways that reflect that image is another. Mishpatim bridges the gap between them. It teaches that the purpose of life does not lie only in lofty ideals or moments of revelation, but in the disciplined, often unremarkable choices we make in our interactions with those around us. Belief is realized in behavior.

Strikingly, the parasha opens not with ritual law or sacred space, but with the laws governing slavery, beginning with the Jewish slave. The Torah turns immediately to the most unequal of human relationships and asks a radical question: What does dignity look like when power is uneven? How does a society shaped by revelation ensure that even its most vulnerable members are treated not as property, but as people?

That this is where Mishpatim begins is no accident. It is a declaration that justice is tested at the margins, and that freedom—true freedom—must be cultivated long before it is formally granted.

If dignity is the measure by which Mishpatim tests justice, then the Torah’s treatment of the slave is nothing short of radical. Chazal teach that a Jewish slave must eat the same food as the master, sleep on the same quality bedding, and be afforded the same basic comforts. This is not generosity; it is a legal obligation. The Torah refuses to allow a hierarchy of worth to take root within the home.

In an ancient world where slavery was defined by deprivation, the Torah insists on sameness—not sameness of status, but sameness of humanity. The slave may lack freedom, but not dignity. By mandating equal living conditions, the Torah protects the inner life of the slave while disciplining the master, preventing power from dulling moral sensitivity. As the sages famously put it:

One who acquires a Jewish slave acquires a master for himself

Sforno notes that these laws are transitional—they prevent the “slave-mentality” from calcifying into a permanent state of being.

Even this carefully regulated hierarchy is suspended once a week. When Shabbat arrives, the distinction between master and slave dissolves into sacred time. The slave rests not as a concession, but as a command. Labor ceases equally for all, because before Hashem there are no owners and no owned—only human beings bearing His image.

Shabbat becomes more than rest; it becomes education. One day each week, the slave experiences the rhythm of freedom: time that belongs to oneself, a body no longer at the service of another, a soul restored. Freedom is tasted regularly enough to feel familiar and imaginable. A person who has never rested as a free being cannot suddenly live as one.

When the seventh year arrives and the slave is released, it is not a leap into the unknown:

If you buy a Hebrew slave, he shall serve six years, and in the seventh he shall go free without payment
כִּי תִקְנֶה עֶבֶד עִבְרִי שֵׁשׁ שָׁנִים יַעֲבֹד וּבַשְּׁבִעִת יֵצֵא לַחָפְשִׁי חִנָּם
(Exodus 21:2)

It is the culmination of a long process. Years of dignified treatment and weekly Shabbat rest have already shaped an inner life capable of autonomy. The Torah does not merely end slavery; it prepares the slave for freedom—psychologically, spiritually, and practically—so that liberation is not only granted, but sustained.

Mishpatim teaches that freedom is not bestowed in a moment. It is cultivated patiently, one act of dignity, one day of rest at a time.

What emerges from Mishpatim is not a legal system alone, but a vision of moral maturity. The Torah’s concern extends beyond those who depend on us, work for us, or stand beneath us in some hierarchy. It ultimately asks how we relate to every human being—and, just as critically, how we relate to ourselves.

In a world that prizes autonomy but often neglects responsibility, the Torah reminds us that freedom without respect is hollow. Though we no longer speak in the language of masters and slaves, power dynamics remain—in workplaces, families, institutions, and even in how we allow ourselves to be treated. Mishpatim insists that freedom is lived honorably only when exercised with restraint, empathy, and care.

Weekly Shabbat rest, and the eventual release in the seventh year, quietly teach that respect must be lived to be internalized. One cannot live freely while thinking like a servant, nor can one lead ethically while thinking like a master. Respect—given and received—shapes the inner life long before it shapes society.

Perhaps this is the deeper wisdom of Mishpatim: freedom is not sustained by laws alone, but by what those laws train us to feel and perceive. By granting the slave rest, dignity, and eventual release, the Torah shows that freedom must first be tasted before it can be truly respected. One day a week, one act of restraint at a time, the inner life learns to recognize the humanity of others—and our own. This is what it means to live freely without becoming careless, with power exercised wisely and without abuse. A taste of freedom, the Torah insists, is how a society learns to honor it—and everyone within it.

שבת שלום
שמואל