Parashah Mishpatim 2026 — When Justice Is Negotiated in Silence

In 2026, no one forces you to be unjust. They make it comfortable. There are no whips. There are contracts. No shouting. There are small clauses. No executioners. There are platforms. Everything is legal. Everything is signed. Everything looks clean. And yet, something breaks without making a sound.

You accept conditions you do not read. You charge for work you know is not worth it. You share data you do not understand. You look at profiles as if they were merchandise. You reply with emojis where presence is needed. You swipe, discard, block. You do not hate. You do not insult. You do not strike. You simply disconnect. And that is where injustice begins — when you choose not to feel anything.

In 2026, the orphan does not sleep on the street. He sleeps in a room with Wi-Fi. The widow does not beg. She accepts precarious jobs through apps. The foreigner does not cross deserts. He crosses algorithms he does not understand. The poor do not beg. They compete with machines. And you see them every day, on your screen, on the underground, staring at your phone whilst someone asks you for help and you pretend not to hear. You know they exist. You know they suffer. You know the system squeezes them. And still, you keep scrolling.

Mishpatim 2026 does not ask whether you are cruel. It asks whether you are indifferent. It does not accuse you of violence. It accuses you of comfort. Because today injustice does not shout. It whispers: it is not your problem. It offers you speed, discounts, efficiency, convenience. In return, it asks for your silence. It asks you not to ask who loses when you win, not to look at who pays for your comfort, not to name the invisible.

Bribery no longer comes in envelopes. It comes in benefits, in likes, in status, in “opportunities”. You buy yourself with small advantages. And without noticing, your gaze is sold.

Time, too, is taken hostage. You work connected, rest connected, love connected, argue connected, as if switching off meant disappearing. You never stop — not because you cannot, but because you are afraid of being left out. The Shabbat of 2026 is not only lighting candles. It is switching off notifications. It is recovering the body, the breath, the silence. It is remembering that you are not a profile.

Then comes the covenant. Not on a mountain, but in an everyday decision: not forwarding a lie, not exploiting an intern, not using an unfair advantage, paying what is right even when no one is watching, saying no even if you lose. That is na‘aseh ve-nishma today — acting without applause, choosing without reward, placing integrity before meaning.

Mishpatim 2026 teaches that justice is no longer defended with speeches. It is defended with habits: with how you buy, how you hire, how you consume, how you speak, how you stop when you could keep going. Not being perfect. Being responsible. Not being pure. Being awake. Not saving the world. Not betraying it.

The question is not whether you are spiritual. It is whether your life leaves fewer wounded behind, whether your success does not trample, whether your comfort does not steal, whether your silence does not kill.

Because in 2026, Sinai does not burn in the sky. It burns in every small decision you make when no one is watching.

And sometimes you know it. And still you choose badly. And you begin again.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)