Parashat Mishpatim - Rabbi David Baum
When we were in Israel this summer, we visited Israel's Library of Congress. As you walk into the library, chairs are set up for every hostage taken on 10/7, with their favorite book on the seat. When hostages are rescued or released, they come back to return their favorite books.
The picture here shows four-year-old Ariel Bibas's favorite book, "My Mother and Me." They even have a book for his little brother Kfir, who was 9 months old when he last heard the words of his favorite book.
Now we know that these books, and their mother Shiri's favorite book, will not be returned in a moving but joyful ceremony, but rather, in mourning.
The Bibas family, Yarden, Shiri, Ariel and Kfir, have been on the forefronts of the minds of Israelis and Jews and non-Jews around the world. Now we know the fate of the family taken hostage on 10/7: the father of the family, Yarden, who was released on February 1st, is the only remaining survivor from the family. Another hostage's body, Oded Lifshitz, who was 83 at the time of his abduction, was returned yesterday as well. All four were taken alive from their homes in Kibbutz Nir Oz during the Hamas-led invasion and massacre in southern Israel.
Sometimes it seems like the Torah is there for us, especially in these moments of horror and grief. In this week's parashah, Mishpatim, we read the following commandment:
שמות כ״א:ט״ז
וְגֹנֵ֨ב אִ֧ישׁ וּמְכָר֛וֹ וְנִמְצָ֥א בְיָד֖וֹ מ֥וֹת יוּמָֽת׃ {ס
Exodus 21:16
One who kidnaps another party—whether having sold or still holding the victim—shall be put to death.
We see that the punishment for kidnapping, even if the kidnapped victim still lives, is the death penalty. As we read the many laws in this week's parashah which contain many of the laws of how to create and maintain a just society, we know that the death penalty was not given out arbitrarily. Rabbeinu Bahya, a Medieval commentator, wrote the following comment:
“If someone kidnaps a man (person) and sells him, etc.” Rabbi Saadyah Gaon explains the reason this verse has been inserted between the one dealing with striking father or mother, and the one dealing with cursing father or mother. He writes that seeing most people who have been kidnapped and sold into slavery were minors at the time they were snatched, if or when such a person returns to his home town after many years he or she does not recognize his parents. He may therefore have occasion to strike or curse someone and will do so not knowing that the person whom they strike or curse is actually his father or mother. The cause of such a sin occurring is the kidnapper. This makes the kidnapper morally guilty of the crime committed by his victim and, at least theoretically, of the death penalty.”
Rabbenu Bayha’s comment highlights the horrors of this crime and its long-term consequences, which we may not have thought of. In this case, Rabbenu Bahya refers to the kidnapped person’s loss of physical freedom, but they also lose their sense of identity and family. In this case, Bahya refers to a child taken captive, who sins after they are freed by cursing his parents. In Bahya’s view, the kidnapper is morally responsible not only for the initial act but for every consequence that follows—the trauma, the broken identities, the severed connections.
It’s a chilling reminder that evil doesn’t stop at the act itself; it echoes forward in time, creating layers of pain and loss.
The Torah sees this pain. It doesn’t sanitize it or gloss over it. It acknowledges the deep, often hidden, consequences of violence and holds the perpetrator accountable for more than just the surface crime. This, I believe, is part of the Torah’s power—it is a witness to human suffering. It doesn’t look away. It holds space for horror, for loss, and for grief, and yes, for justice. And in doing so, it teaches us to do the same.
When I look at picture I took of the empty chairs at Israel’s Library of Congress this summer, when we read the names of the kidnapped and murdered, we are participating in that act of witnessing. And in the Jewish tradition, witnessing is never passive—it compels action, memory, and response.
The Torah doesn’t just leave us in the darkness. It offers us a path forward. It demands that we create a world where such horrors are not possible. And it teaches us that even in the face of unimaginable grief, we are not alone.
In the wake of the Bibas family’s tragedy, and the many others who still remain captive or lost, we turn to the Torah not for easy answers, but for the strength to carry the weight of this grief. The Torah is not just law—it is also love, memory, and, most importantly, hope.
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