Do not rejoice when your enemy falls…

“Do not rejoice when your enemy falls…”
Pesach Seventh Day 2025 – Muswell Hill Synagogue, Rabbi Michael Rosenfeld

As we gather here on the seventh day of Pesach, we find ourselves in the long shadow of October 7th — 560 days later — still navigating the grief, fear, and uncertainty that ripple through our communities. For many of us, the war in Israel, Gaza, and across the region continues to shape our daily lives — emotionally, spiritually, and communally.

While I don’t want to speak directly about the conflict, I do want to zoom out and reflect on a recurring theme — one that echoes both in our tradition and in our times: How should we respond when our enemies fall?

Our tradition holds multiple, sometimes contradictory truths. Today, I want to explore three responses to the downfall of enemies: Divine restraint, human impulse, and the ethical ideal. I’d like to show you that ultimately it will come down to intention and the motivation behind reaction.

1. Divine Restraint

Today, as we celebrate the seventh day of Pesach and recall the Israelites’ miraculous escape through the sea, we also confront this question. The Egyptians were in hot pursuit, the sea was before them — and the result was both liberation and loss of human life.

A powerful Midrash, found in the Gemara in Sanhedrin and elsewhere, presents a striking image: וּמִי חָדֵי קוּדְשָׁא בְּרִיךְ הוּא בְּמַפַּלְתָּן שֶׁל רְשָׁעִים?… מַעֲשֵׂה יָדַי טוֹבְעִין בַּיָּם וְאַתֶּם אוֹמְרִים שִׁירָה לְפָנַי?

At the moment when the Israelites crossed safely and the Egyptians drowned, the ministering angels wished to sing songs of praise before God.
But God said to them: “My handiwork is drowning in the sea — and you wish to sing before Me?”

This image has far-reaching halachic and philosophical implications. The Shulchan Aruch, among others, invokes this midrash to explain why we recite only half Hallel during the final days of Pesach — even though they recall a miraculous moment of deliverance. There is joy in liberation, but restraint in the face of another’s suffering — even the enemy’s.

But the Midrash doesn’t stop there. A second voice, Rabbi Yosei bar Ḥanina, offers a subtle distinction:

“He [God] does not rejoice, but causes others to rejoice.”

הוּא אֵינוֹ שָׂשׂ, אֲבָל אֲחֵרִים מֵשִׂיש

It’s a powerful tension: on the one hand, a divine standard of compassion and restraint; on the other, an allowance for human beings to feel joy in their moment of salvation. The angels — removed from human vulnerability — are silenced. But human beings, who have just escaped generations of slavery and faced annihilation, are permitted their song.

So we ask: Are we meant to aspire to the divine standard, or is it understood that humans and heaven operate by different rules?

2. Human Impulse

This brings us to the second frame: the human impulse.

In German, there’s a word for it which entered English: schadenfreude — joy at another’s misfortune. It’s an emotion that’s easy to recognize and hard to admit.

But it’s not just literary, but biological too. A 2011 Princeton University psychological study examined the neural responses of sports fans watching their rival teams suffer defeats. The study revealed increased brain activity in reward centers when rivals lost — and decreased activity when their own teams failed.
(Us versus Them: Social Identity Shapes Neural Responses to Intergroup Competition and Harm, Psychological Science, 2011.)

This reminds us: tribal instincts aren’t just ideological — they’re biological. Our brains are hardwired to celebrate “us” and resist “them.” But Torah pushes us to choose restraint over reflex, even when our biology pulls us toward something more reactive.

Interestingly, this human reality parallels that second voice in the Midrash: God may not rejoice, but humans — vulnerable, relieved, emotionally fraught — do. Even Judaism, in its realism, allows space for that.

3. The Ethical Ideal

Our third lens comes from Pirkei Avot, in the voice of Shmuel HaKatan quoting Provers (4:19):

“Do not rejoice when your enemy falls; do not let your heart exult when he stumbles — lest the Lord see it and be displeased, and turn His wrath away from him.”

שְׁמוּאֵל הַקָּטָן אוֹמֵר, (משלי כד) בִּנְפֹל אוֹיִבְךָ אַל תִּשְׂמָח וּבִכָּשְׁלוֹ אַל יָגֵל לִבֶּךָ, פֶּן יִרְאֶה ה’ וְרַע בְּעֵינָיו וְהֵשִׁיב מֵעָלָיו אַפּוֹ:

This isn’t just a quote from Mishlei — Rambam and Bartenura comment that Shmuel HaKatan lived by this verse. He is remembered not just for quoting it, but for embodying it and rebuking others when they fell short of its teaching.

Rav Kook noticed that Shmuel Hakatan was only mentioned in one other place in Rabbinic Literature.  The same Shmuel HaKatan is credited with composing the Birkat HaMinim — the 19th blessing of the Amidah, directed against heretics. Originally formulated to exclude early Jewish Christians, Hellenised Jews and others perceived as threats to Jewish communal integrity, the prayer asks for the downfall of those who endanger or divide the people. It is not a prayer of reconciliation, but of exclusion and condemnation.

At first glance, this seems like a contradiction.

But when we pause, we notice something deeper: exclusion is not the same as rejoicing in someone’s fall. These are two different moral categories.

Birkat HaMinim may reflect a sober and difficult act of boundary-setting, rooted in a moment of perceived existential threat. Shmuel HaKatan’s warning in Avot, on the other hand, is about the inner posture we hold even toward those we must resist: one of humility, not triumph; restraint, not revenge.

So perhaps this is not hypocrisy but complexity. Shmuel could uphold the need to protect his community without taking joy in the downfall of others. He may have helped draw the lines — but he never claimed moral glee in doing so.

This tension — between the ethical ideal and the necessity of boundaries — is never resolved. The rabbis leave it to sit, deliberately, within our tradition. And in doing so, they teach us something profound: that a full spiritual life must hold both compassion and courage; both moral ideals and communal realities. That faithfulness sometimes means living with the discomfort of conflicting truths.

A Song Amid Uncertainty

Avivah Zornberg, in her book The Particulars of Rapture, picks up on this tension in her commentary on the Song at the Sea. Based on Rashi and others (Torah Temima), she notes that the Israelites sang not after they had safely crossed, but while still walking on the seabed, surrounded by towering walls of water.

This transforms the Shirat HaYam from a simple moment of victory into a complex expression of faith amid danger. It is praise offered not in safety, but in uncertainty. Their joy is not in the downfall of the Egyptians — it is in the presence of God, the hope of freedom, and the audacity of trust in an unknown future.

So Where Does That Leave Us?

Our tradition honours divine restraint and ethical idealism — yet it also makes room for human emotion. This pushes me in the direction that perhaps the key is intention and motivation propelling the response.

Is our joy rooted in relief, in gratitude, in justice — or in vengeance and gloating?

I believe we can celebrate our liberation without celebrating the destruction of others. We can hold our gratitude without hardening our hearts. This is not about suppressing human feelings, but about being honest about them, and choosing carefully how we express them.

May we, this Pesach, navigate these tensions with honesty and humility. And may our celebrations be rooted not in another’s fall, but in our own liberation and in the hope for a more compassionate world.