Israel’s enslavement in Egypt constitutes the archetype of oppression. The strong exploit the weak, denying them freedom with no recourse to justice. Oppression violates the fundamental human dignity that flows from our having been created in God’s image. The oppressor turns a blind eye to the divine spark in each of us. As a result, God stands with the oppressed: “You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. You shall not ill-treat any widow or orphan. If you do mistreat them, I will heed their outcry as soon as they cry out to Me, and My anger shall blaze forth . . .” (Exodus 22:20-23). When we struggle against oppression to build a just world, we join hands with God.

As suggested in my previous response, Judaism’s stand against oppression flows from two essential sources, one universalistic, the other a function of our particular history. Let’s first consider the universalistic source, the teaching that all human beings are created in the image of God. An ancient commentary on the Book of Leviticus recounts an argument between two great sages about which verse in the Five Books of Moses contains its most essential teaching. Rabbi Akiva argued for Leviticus 19:18: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Ben Azzai cited a verse from Genesis: “This is the record of Adam’s line. When God created man, He made him in the image of God, male and female, He created them” (Genesis 5:1).* Akiva suggests that your regard for yourself should be the benchmark for how you treat others. Alas, if your self-regard is low, you might not treat others very well. Ben Azzai removes this element of subjectivity. Because God created all human beings in the divine image, you must treat them with dignity. Irving Greenberg, a contemporary Jewish theologian, describes three intrinsic elements of human dignity that flow from the fact that God created us in the divine image: infinite value, fundamental equality and ultimate uniqueness.

All of society — economics, politics, culture — must be organized to respect and uphold these three fundamental qualities. Since the world is not yet structured to sustain these dignities, we must perfect the world. We must also establish a process to move societal conditions and individual behavior toward ever-greater respect for these dignities. This is the guiding principle of the halakhah [Jewish law] and the ultimate goal behind all mitzvot [religious commandments] and religious behaviors.*

A world in which all people were treated as images of God would be free of oppression. It is our responsibility to bring this about through the work of tikkun olam, repairing the world. A Talmudic concept that refers to actions taken for the sake of improving society, tikkun olam has become the rallying cry of many contemporary Jewish non-profit organizations committed to the struggle for social justice and is a critical theme in many Jewish educational settings for youngsters as well as adults.

The second source of Judaism’s stand against oppression comes from the story of the Exodus itself. Commentators over the ages have sought reasons to explain Israel’s oppression in Egypt. What had the people done to deserve such suffering? Common explanations invoke punishment for various sins: Abraham’s questioning of God’s promise that he would inherit the land; Joseph’s brothers leaving him to die in a pit in the wilderness; or the Israelites adopting various Egyptian customs. Others see the ordeal in Egypt as an educational experience intended to leave the Israelites with such distaste for oppression that they would never inflict it on others. Thus many of the Bible’s injunctions to treat the stranger or the downtrodden fairly invoke the experience of slavery in Egypt. In addition to the admonition not to oppress the stranger cited above (Exodus 22:20-23), consider these examples:

“Six days you shall labor and do all your work, the seventh day is a sabbath of the Lord your God; you shall not do any work — you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your ox or your ass, or any of your cattle, or the stranger in your settlements, so that your male and female slave may rest as you do. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt and the Lord your God freed you from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm . . .”

—Deuteronomy 5:13-15

“If a fellow Hebrew, man or woman, is sold to you, he shall serve you six years, and in the seventh year you shall set him free. When you set him free, do not let him go empty-handed: Furnish him out of the flock, threshing floor, and vat, with which the Lord your God has blessed you. Bear in mind that you were slaves in the land of Egypt and the Lord your God redeemed you; therefore I enjoin this commandment upon you today.”
—Deuteronomy 15:12-15

The collective memory of slavery in Egypt — and by extension, oppression in other times and places — should serve as the basis for building a just society. As God liberated the Israelites from Egypt long ago, we today should act as images of God and free human beings from the bonds of oppression.

In any religion there’s a danger of worshiping the outer forms and forgetting their real purpose, of mistaking the means for the end. This can lead to oppressing others in the name of one’s faith. For example, in Judaism this problem arises among certain ultra-Orthodox groups who feel that in many areas of religious life women should not be equal to men. Women cannot be ordained as rabbis, counted in the quorum required for prayer, etc. Ultra-Orthodox groups have opposed the right of women to pray aloud at the Western Wall in Jerusalem, often said to be Judaism’s holiest site. In October 2012, Israeli police arrested a woman at the Western Wall for wearing a prayer shawl and chanting the Shema, Judaism’s affirmation of the oneness of God.* Likewise, according to traditional religious laws governing divorce, a husband must grant his wife a divorce. If the man refuses, he is free to re-marry, but his wife is not. In the State of Israel, where ultra-Orthodox groups generally have control over this sphere of life, many women have been left in limbo, unable to re-marry. The influence of ultra-Orthodox political parties in Israel also accounts for many areas of religious discrimination against the country’s Reform, Reconstructionist and Conservative Jews.

During most of last two millennia Jews held little political power over others and their capacity to act as oppressors was limited. Jews were more often oppressed than oppressors. With the creation of the State of Israel, Jews have returned to the stage of political power and with that, face all the challenges and pitfalls of wielding power. For example, Israel’s victory in the 1967 Six Day War unleashed pent up urges among some to retain control over territories promised to Abraham by God in the Book of Genesis. For those holding such positions, compromising the dignity of Palestinians is of small consequence. Yigal Amir, the assassin of Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin, justified his action with a talmudic concept that gives one the right to take the life of someone who is threatening one’s own life. Amir, influenced by a number of extremist rabbis at the time, argued that Rabin’s willingness to cede land to the Palestinians in exchange for peace violated God’s grant of the land to Abraham, thereby endangering Israel’s survival and justifying the assassination.

The quest for personal piety and the fulfilment of religious conviction can lead to all manner of harm toward others. For that reason, it’s important for Jews to take to take a hard look at the text from the prophets we read on the morning of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, a day of fasting often thought of by Jews as the holiest day of the year. It’s a day of introspection when we take a reckoning of our deeds over the past year. We read Isaiah around what would be lunch time, just when we might be inclined to pat ourselves on the back for our piety. Here’s what Isaiah says:

“Why, when we fasted, did You [God] not see? When we starved our bodies, did You pay no heed?” Because on your fast day you see to your business and oppress all your laborers! Because you fast in strife and contention, and you strike with a wicked fist! Your fasting today is not such as to make your voice heard on high. Is such the fast I desire, a day for men to starve their bodies? Is it bowing the head like a bulrush and lying in sackcloth and ashes? Do you call that a fast, a day when the Lord is favorable? No, this is the fast I desire: To unlock fetters of wickedness, and untie the cords of the yoke to let the oppressed go free; to break off every yoke. It is to share your bread with the hungry, and to take the wretched poor into your home; when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to ignore your own kin.” (Isaiah 58:3-7)

You can think of the inner Pharaoh as a part of yourself that leads you to try to dominate others, to see yourself as master of the universe. As Mary Boys suggests, the heart of the struggle to overcome this all-too-human proclivity lies in recognizing that God is God and you’re not. Prayer and participation in a Jewish community go a long way to keep that essential truth in focus.

In the story of the Exodus, Pharaoh’s arrogance and ruthlessness lie in his failure to acknowledge God. When Moses confronts him with God’s order to let the Israelites go, “. . . Pharaoh said, ‘Who is the Lord that I should heed Him and let Israel go? I do not know the Lord nor will I let Israel go’” (Exodus 5:2). Centuries later the prophet Ezekiel delivers God’s condemnation of a later Egyptian king whose grandiosity matched that of his predecessor: “I [God] am going to deal with you, O Pharaoh king of Egypt, mighty monster, sprawling in your channels, who said, ‘My Nile is my own; I made it for myself’” (Ezekiel 29:3). Stories such as these warn of the fall that inevitably awaits those grandiose souls who dominate others and see themselves as masters of the universe.

Many Jewish rituals serve to undermine our tendencies toward grandiosity. Matzah, the unleavened bread we eat at the Passover Seder, has often been said to symbolize simplicity and modesty. It is not puffed up. As one Hassidic master taught, matzah represents a point of purity to which we annually return to cleanse ourselves of the haughtiness that rises within us over the course of the year. On the Day of Atonement, observant Jews fast, refrain from bathing and wear a white robe that evokes a burial shroud. The day simulates death and sharpens the will to make amends. The liturgy includes repeated confessionals of the sins we have committed against others. Five days later, Jews celebrate the festival of Sukkot, Tabernacles, and build a flimsy structure called a sukkah. Observant Jews will eat as many meals as possible in their sukkah and, weather permitting, will sleep in it, as well. The sukkah’s frailty reminds us of that everything we build is ultimately temporary, as is life itself.