The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.
Mishpatim
Exodus 21:1-24:18
If you watch the news, you have likely seen the same heartbreaking images again and again: a coastal town flattened by a hurricane or a Midwestern community torn apart by a tornado.
You watch families sift through the wreckage of their homes, salvaging photographs, a child’s toy or a piece of furniture that somehow survived. And then, astonishingly, they rebuild. In the same place. Only for disaster to strike again a few years later.
Almost inevitably, someone watching from a safe distance asks the question that seems so obvious: Why don’t they move?
The answer is rarely economic alone. It is deeper, more human and more revealing.
That place is home.
It is where memories live, where identities were formed, where people know who they are and how the world works. Leaving would not merely mean changing an address. It would mean stepping into emotionally unknown territory. And for human beings, the unfamiliar can feel more frightening than danger itself.
Something strikingly similar happened at the dawn of Jewish history.
After centuries of slavery, God took the Israelites out of Egypt with miracles, drama and Divine power. The plagues, the splitting of the sea, the collapse of Pharaoh’s empire — all of it should have marked the beginning of joy and gratitude.
Yet almost immediately, the complaints began: It is too hot. We are tired. We are hungry. The water is bitter.
Again and again, the same refrain emerged: We should go back to Egypt.
It is one of the great psychological puzzles of the Bible. Why would a people who had tasted freedom want to return to oppression?
The answer is profound. Egypt was not just a place. It was a mindset. It was the only emotional world they had ever known. Their parents had been slaves. Their grandparents had been slaves. Freedom, responsibility and uncertainty felt frightening. Slavery, for all its cruelty, was familiar. It had rules. It had predictability. It felt, paradoxically, like home.
So when life became difficult, they instinctively wanted to return — not because Egypt was good, but because it was known.
We are quick to judge them. We shake our heads at their lack of faith. But if we are honest, we do the same thing — just in quieter, more respectable ways.
Each of us has an emotional home.
An emotional home is the inner place we return to when life gets stressful, confusing or painful. For some people, that home is optimism, trust and gratitude. For others, it may be worry, anger, resentment or sadness. It’s not necessarily where we want to live, but it’s where we’re used to living. We know the furniture. We know the lighting. We know exactly where everything is. And because it’s familiar, it feels safe — even when it isn’t good for us.
Here’s how you can see it in real life.
Imagine you’re meeting someone you care about for dinner. You arrive on time. They don’t. Ten minutes pass. Then 20. Then 30. You’re sitting there, scanning the room, checking your phone.
What happens inside you?
Some people immediately feel anger: They don’t respect me. I’m not important. This always happens.
Others feel worry: Maybe something went wrong. I hope they’re OK.
Same situation. Same facts. Completely different emotional experiences.
Why?
Because each person returned to their emotional home. One lives in a world where disappointment turns quickly into resentment. The other lives in a world where uncertainty awakens concern. The external event didn’t change. The inner world did.
Notice what happens next. When the late arrival finally walks in, the angry person makes the evening tense and uncomfortable. The worried person turns caring and compassionate. One dinner. Two entirely different realities.
This is the deeper lesson of the Exodus as it appears in this week’s portion.
God did not take the Jewish people out of Egypt only to change their circumstances. He took them out to change their inner lives, to help them stop seeing themselves as victims of history and to begin seeing themselves as agents of destiny. That transition is far harder than crossing a sea.
That’s why, embedded in the story, God commands the people to remember the Exodus and to mark it in the future. Not as nostalgia and not as ritual alone, but as emotional education. Don’t forget where you came from — and don’t rush back there emotionally when life gets hard. Egypt will always call to you. Not because it was good, but because it’s familiar.
The Torah is warning us: Freedom is not lost only through chains. It is lost when we retreat into old emotional patterns that once protected us but now imprison us.
The quality of our lives, in the end, is shaped less by what happens to us and more by where we live emotionally. If we live in fear, the world feels threatening. If we live in resentment, life feels unfair. If we live in gratitude, the world opens. If we live in trust, life becomes meaningful.
This week’s Torah portion is asking a quiet but radical question: Where is your emotional home? And just as importantly: Is it time to move?
Leaving Egypt was the beginning. Learning how not to go back is the work of a lifetime.