But before we dismiss it, let’s consider the verse more closely—particularly since, as non-farmers, we might not understand it fully. Why not yoke the ox and the donkey together? Not because of diminished productivity (that is, the farmer’s lost earnings), but rather out of concern for the animals’ welfare. An ox and a donkey are of substantially unequal strengths. If they are yoked together, they will draw at different paces. They will be able to work for different amounts of time. One might be dragged along, exhausted. The unbalanced yoke might cut them. It isn’t humane to form a partnership of two such mismatched animals.
For which creature should we be primarily concerned? Is it the brawny ox, who can’t accomplish as much if tethered to the smaller donkey? Or for the donkey, who works extra hard just to keep up, who has to rush so as not to be strangled? The Jewish concern is primarily for the donkey, that is, the underdog.
The central narrative of the Jewish people is the Exodus: our slavery in Egypt, and our release into freedom and covenant. It is this story that makes us who we are. We re-tell it when we pray, between conclusion of V’ahavta (“I am Adonai your God, who led you out of Egypt to be your God…”) and Michamocha, our song of redemption. At Passover, we don’t just re-tell it—we experience it anew through culinary reenactment (“in every generation, each person is obligated to regard him or herself as though s/he had actually gone forth out of Egypt”). We do this not only so that we will value our freedom, but also to remember our slavery. We want the taste of maror, of bitterness, in our mouths so that we will know what misery feels like. Why? So that we will perpetually be on the side of the underdog, the powerless, the voiceless, the downtrodden … the donkey. That is what it means to be a Jew.
From an “irrelevant” statement about mismatched farm animals, we can discern the central principle of Judaism.
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