February 9, 2026|כ"ב שבט ה' אלפים תשפ"ו The Dignity of Sinai: Why the Ten Commandments Begin with Self-Respect By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

Did you ever wonder what it takes to become one of the Ten Commandments? Out of 613 mitzvot — an entire universe of Divine instruction — only ten are engraved in stone, thundered at Sinai, and presented as the public face of Torah. Why these ten? Are they more important than the others? If we were handed the Torah and told to choose ten mitzvot that would represent everything we stand for, would we choose this list?

Rav Saadia Gaon famously suggests that the Aseret HaDibrot are not ten isolated commandments — they are roots. Each one is a foundational principle from which entire categories of mitzvot branch out. Fulfill these ten properly, and you have touched all 613. But that claim is puzzling. The Gemara in Makkot describes how later prophets and leaders distilled the mitzvot into guiding principles — David into eleven, Yeshayahu into six, Micha into three — yet it never mentions that God Himself already did this at Sinai with ten. If the Aseret HaDibrot are a summary, they must be doing something deeper than simply reducing a list.

Rabbi David Fohrman offers a striking insight. We usually divide the commandments into two halves: duties to God and duties to other people. But that neat split collapses when we reach the fifth commandment — honoring parents. Is that between man and God, or man and man? Rabbi Fohrman suggests a different framework. The first five commandments govern our relationship with our creators — God and the human beings who gave us life. The second five govern our relationship with our peers.

He then pairs them: 1 with 6, 2 with 7, 3 with 8, 4 with 9, 5 with 10. Each pair expresses a single moral theme in two arenas. Don’t murder parallels acknowledging God — don’t erase another being, human or Divine. Idolatry and adultery both forbid betrayal of relationship. Taking God’s Name in vain and kidnapping both violate the essence of another. Shabbat and truthful testimony safeguard reality and reputation. And the final pair — honoring parents and not coveting — turns inward. It speaks about self-respect.

Coveting is not just wanting someone else’s stuff. It is wanting someone else’s house, someone else’s spouse, someone else’s life. It is dissatisfaction with the self that God gave you. And when we fail to honor our parents, we subtly reject our own origins — the story that shaped us. We fail to appreciate who we are and where we come from. The fifth and tenth commandments are telling us: do not erase yourself. Respect your roots. Respect the person you are.

Seen this way, the Aseret HaDibrot are a manifesto of dignity. Don’t violate another person’s body. Don’t violate sacred relationships. Don’t violate possessions. Don’t violate reputation. And at the center of it all: don’t violate yourself. Because the ability to respect others flows from the ability to respect oneself. Hillel’s famous teaching — don’t do to others what you wouldn’t want done to you — only works if you believe your own life has value. If I don’t respect myself, why would I respect you?

Sinai teaches this message not only in content, but in experience. The people push to come as close as possible to God, to hear directly, to dissolve the distance. But the encounter overwhelms them. They retreat in terror and ask Moshe to mediate. According to the Midrash, they hear “shamor” and “zachor” in a single utterance — a form of speech beyond human capacity. The lesson is profound: spiritual maturity requires respecting limits. Self-respect includes accepting that we are human. We are not meant to disappear into God. We are meant to receive tools and wisdom from Him — and then live, choose, and build with them.

At Sinai, God models the role of a true teacher. A teacher does not smother the student. A teacher creates space. The goal is not dependence, but empowerment. God gives content, gives structure, gives vision — and then steps back enough for human beings to take ownership of their spiritual lives.

And that may be the deepest message of the Ten Commandments. They are not only laws; they are a call to responsibility. To say: my spiritual life is mine. Not my parents’. Not my community’s. Not my school’s. Mine. Kibbud av va’em is not just gratitude to the past; it is the foundation for confidence in the present. When I honor where I come from, I gain the strength to become who I am meant to be.

The Aseret HaDibrot teach that a life of holiness begins with dignity — dignity for others, dignity for God, and dignity for oneself. When we respect the Divine image within us, we unlock the capacity to build meaningful relationships, to serve God with authenticity, and to take courageous ownership of our growth.

Sinai was not the moment we lost ourselves in God. It was the moment God handed us the tools to find ourselves.

And the question the Ten Commandments continue to ask each of us is simple and demanding: Do you believe your life is worthy of the responsibility God placed in your hands?

This idea speaks directly to something very real in our world. There’s a famous song that almost every yeshiva boy knows: “I need a rebbe.” And you’re starting to hear that sentiment in some girls’ schools as well. The longing for a rebbe is deeply beautiful. A rebbe lifts a student when he’s down, reassures him that he’s not alone, teaches Torah, and opens doors to a larger spiritual world.

But Sinai teaches us how to understand that relationship properly.

A rebbe is meant to awaken the self, not replace it. If dependence becomes a crutch, the relationship runs against the very model God created at Sinai. God stepped back so that human beings could step forward. The ultimate teacher does not produce students who disappear into him; he produces people strong enough to stand on their own and continue growing.

And for those who feel they don’t have a rebbe, the message is the same. We cannot outsource responsibility and say that the solution to our spiritual lives lies somewhere outside of us — in a rabbi, a school, a community, or a system. Those supports are precious, but they are not substitutes for the work only we can do.

Self-respect means recognizing the spiritual power Hashem placed inside each of us. It means refusing to live passively. It means taking the tools we are given — teachers, Torah, family, tradition — and using them to build something that is ours. When a person lives that way, every influence becomes fuel for growth rather than an escape from responsibility.

That is the ownership Sinai demands of us: to seek guidance, to treasure mentors, but never to forget that our spiritual lives ultimately sit in our own hands.