Psycho-Spiritual Insights: Exploring Parasha and Psychology

Parshat Mishpatim follows immediately after the revelation of Har Sinai. Bnei Yisrael has just emerged from centuries of brutal slavery. If there were ever a moment to justify anger, this would be it. A nation freshly scarred by oppression is finally free. Revenge would feel understandable. Yet instead of commanding revenge or memorializing victimhood, Hashem provides us system rooted in moral restraint. Among the many Mishpatim appears a command repeated again and again throughout the Torah: “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the soul of the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Shemot 22:20). The Gemara in Bava Metzia 59b teaches that the Torah warns against oppressing the ger - stranger no fewer than 36 times, some say 46. When the Torah repeats, its not by accident, its warning us. The Torah is teaching us something profound about human nature: those who have suffered are at risk of allowing their pain to distort their power.

French social theorist Pascal Bruckner, in The Temptation of Innocence, highlights an observation of Sigmund Freud about the psychology of victimhood. Freud noted that individuals who experienced significant suffering in childhood sometimes come to believe that they are exempt from the sacrifices required of others. Having endured injustice, they feel entitled to compensation. The internal logic is subtle but powerful: I was hurt; therefore I am owed; therefore the same rules do not apply to me. While it is true that most abused children do not become abusers, research consistently shows that many abusers were once victims themselves. Trauma, when left unprocessed, can be transmitted. Victimhood can become identity, and identity can become justification.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks often pointed out that this pattern appears at the very beginning of human history. When Hashem confronts Adam after eating from the Tree of Knowledge, Adam does not deny the act. Instead, he shifts responsibility: “The woman You gave me, she gave me from the tree.” Since the beginning of time, the culprits have changed, but the instinct remains. It is the system. The politicians. The media. Our parents. Our genes. The others. If we’re honest, there’s something comforting about seeing ourselves as the victim. It means we don’t have to look inward. It wasn’t us. It was them. Thankfully, the Torah refuses to let us think that.

The Maharal explains that the stranger is inherently socially vulnerable, and those who were once vulnerable themselves may be uniquely tempted to rationalize subtle forms of aggression once they gain power. Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch writes that Jewish memory is not meant to generate grievance but responsibility. Egypt becomes the foundational ethical narrative of our nation. Unlike many national identities built on conquest or triumph, Jewish identity begins with “We were slaves.” That narrative could have produced a culture of revenge or resentment but instead, it produces laws protecting the weak, sensitivity to power imbalances, and middot to aspire for. The Netziv explains that the phrase “you know the soul of the stranger” acknowledges that emotional memory lingers. Trauma does not simply disappear. The Torah does not deny that reality; it directs it. Emotional memory must be channeled outward toward compassion rather than inward toward bitterness. In modern terms, the Torah is teaching trauma integration, not trauma transmission.

The structure of the Torah itself reinforces this insight. First comes leaving Mitsrayim, the narrative of victimhood. Then Har Sinai, the Torah. Then Mishpatim, the detailed laws regulating power. The Torah does not rush from slavery to life. It inserts law in between. Unregulated power in the hands of former victims is dangerous. Freedom without responsibility risks becoming another form of oppression. The Chasam Sofer notes that the ultimate redemption from Egypt was not the splitting of the sea but standing at Har Sinai. Freedom from oppression is incomplete until one accepts responsibility.  Psychologically, this reframing is transformative. Suffering can either shrink a person into defensiveness or expand a person into empathy. When we feel wronged, the natural impulse is to protect ourselves by hardening. The Torah asks us to do the opposite. It asks us to let our pain sensitize us to others. That is not easy. To open oneself to the pain of others is to revisit one’s own wounds. Yet that is precisely the spiritual work of freedom.

Here are three tips for avoiding victimhood:

1. Transform Pain into Perspective

When you feel wronged, pause before reacting. Ask: Is this pain closing my heart or opening it? The Torah demands that memory expand our moral imagination, not narrow it.

2. Resist Entitlement Narratives

In moments of frustration, we often think, after what I’ve been through, I deserve this. Challenge that voice. Suffering explains behavior; it does not excuse it. Responsibility is the mark of freedom.

3. Protect the Vulnerable, Especially When You Have Power

The Torah’s warnings come precisely when we are strong. When you hold influence, in family, workplace, or community, be especially vigilant. Former vulnerability does not immunize against becoming an oppressor. It makes vigilance more necessary.

Parshat Mishpatim teaches that redemption is not measured by how much power we gain, but by how we use it once we have it. Egypt could have made us bitter. Har Sinai made us responsible. Our national memory is not a weapon; it is a moral compass. Psychology warns us that those who suffer may come to believe that life owes them something. The Torah answers differently. Life does not owe us. It entrusts us. We were strangers. That memory is not a weapon. It is our responsibility. May we merit to transform our pain into purpose, our memory into morality, and our freedom into a force that protects every stranger whose soul we understand, because we remember our own.