In our present-day communities, where we finish the Torah every year, the section of Leviticus that includes the curses naturally falls before Shavuot. Parashat Ki Tavo in Deuteronomy—where Moshe again offers the blessings and curses to the Israelites before they enter into the Land—also naturally falls before Rosh Hashanah in the calendar.

However, for the Jews of the Land of Israel, who in ancient times completed the Torah in three years, Ezra’s decree must have been quite jarring. Presumably, these communities would have had to take out a second Torah scroll and read the curses in addition to the parashah of the week on the Sabbaths before Rosh Hashanah and Shavuot.

At any rate, Ezra’s mandate presents us with a question: Why did Ezra believe it was critical that the Jewish people read the blessings and curses before Rosh Hashanah? Asked differently, in what ways might hearing this section of the Torah be important for our spiritual work during this season?

On the most visceral level, reading the blessings and curses at a time when we are focused on imagining new and nobler versions of ourselves and our communities highlights the stark consequences of our choices. If we make good choices, good things will happen. If we make poor choices—well, less good things await us. Our behavior and choices really do have consequences in the world. Using the liturgy to confront the darkness that is promised if we do not choose well may keep us on the right path. I think there is something to this, but I believe there is a richer and more meaningful connection between the blessings and curses and Rosh Hashanah.

The Talmud—in the name of Abaye—suggests a more optimistic answer to our question: “So that the year may end along with its curses.” As we finish the year, we read all of the curses—putting them behind us, as if to say, so should our troubles be behind us. Then we can begin the new year with a clean slate, fresh for our new ways of being in the world, without any negative baggage. Indeed, this is a lovely framing for the end of one year and the beginning of another. But I still believe there is more behind Ezra’s insistence on reading the blessings and curses in public as our communities move into Rosh Hashanah.

A curious geonic (7–10th century) tradition referenced by Maimonides provides deeper insight into Ezra’s decree. Most often, when we read the blessings and curses of Deuteronomy we experience them as promises of reward for loyalty to the Covenant and threats of violent consequences for rejecting God. However, Maimonides shares a tradition that conceptualizes the blessings and curses in a completely novel way.

Maimonides suggests that hearing the blessings and curses in Parashat Ki Tavo, which come when the Israelites are about to enter into the Land of Israel before the original conquest, constituted the fulfillment of an actual mitzvah! (Kelal shelishi in Sefer Hamitzvot) This is a startling assertion, transforming the blessings and curses from a series of promises and threats to the level of commandment. But what was this mitzvah?

In a very provocative remark, the Talmud suggests that prior to entering into the Land of Israel, the nation as a whole was held accountable only for the public misdeeds of individuals. If a person sinned in private, only the individual who misbehaved was held accountable. But as the nation prepared to cross the Jordan River, something changed. From that moment onward, the entire community of Israel became culpable for even the private misdeeds of other people ()! We are commanded to recognize our interconnectedness. Blessings would be earned and experienced by the group. Communal calamity would be the price for individual destructive decisions. Thus when the Israelites stood at Mount Gerizim and Mount Eval, they heard the blessings that await those who listen to God’s commandments and the punishments promised to those who disobey—but they also heard a message that transcended all of these specifics. The entire nation was asked to understand itself as radically interconnected and to appreciate the imperative that emerges from this realization.

The mitzvah embedded in these verses of the promises and curses, then, is the mitzvah of arevut: seeing the profound interconnectedness of the Jewish people. Each Jew is the “guarantor” (arev) of every other Jew. That is, each Jew is fundamentally responsible for all other Jews. Through the blessings and curses of Parashat Ki Tavo, the Torah is saying, we are in this project of living together.

Areveut—feeling and acting on a sense of responsibility for those around us—in Judaism does not fall under the category of altruism. Helping someone else is not an act of kindness. It is bound up in a fundamental responsibility that we must all feel toward others. Just as I am responsible for my own ethical life, I am responsible for that of others as well. If my neighbor falls and fails, it is my pain and my failure too. And if I receive blessing, it is not simply because I as an individual have earned it; the group also shares responsibility for my success.

I like to think that these ideas stand behind the reasons for Ezra’s decree to read the blessings and curses before Rosh Hashanah. At a time when many of us are focused on our own individual growth and betterment, we are reminded of the profound interconnectedness of all our communities and lives. I can’t be a better person if I ignore the state of the individuals in my community. This is the mitzvah of arevut that I personally need to hear as I move into this holiday season.

This commentary was originally published in 2017.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

At the core of Parashat Ki Tavo, are the dramatic curses and blessings. Most notable, in this respect, is the phraseology of the opening curse, which reads, “cursed be anyone who makes a sculptured or molten image, abhorred by the Lord, a craftsman’s handiwork, and sets it up in secret” (). Not surprisingly, this curse reminds us of the Torah’s fervor in its condemnation of idolatry — which is found in particular, at the beginning of the “Ten Utterances.” As Ouaknin points out however, “there are no idols, only idolaters.” More than the fear of immutable idols, is the Torah’s fear of immutable people. Elul and Rosh Hashanah give us the annual opportunity to shatter the idolatrous images we have adopted over the course of the past year. We have become hardened and the challenge is to break the mold — to become more human and to become more ourselves.

It is for this reason, I believe, that we are granted the gift of multiple calls of the shofar. Tekiah means that which is rooted; shevarim means that which is broken; and teruah refers to an image of shaking. As we enter the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, we are as the tekiah call of the shofar — fixed and rooted, hardened by our routines. Elul presents us with the challenge of becoming shevarim, of examining and critiquing ourselves so that we can break ourselves, indeed, be able to shake ourselves out of a spiritual malaise. And, we close with a tekiah gedolah, a great, long sound representing the rebirth of the self. By the end of Yom Kippur, with the help of God, we have managed to build ourselves up again, to a new and passionate whole.

Perhaps, this is the meaning of Rashi’s commentary on . The verse states, “The Lord your God commands you this day to observe these laws and rules; observe them faithfully with all your heart and soul.” Rashi, the prolific medieval commentator writes, “the meaning of this verse is that every day should be fresh in your eyes as if the Torah were commanded to you on this day.” To approach Judaism with a fresh set of eyes and renewed sense of purpose is ultimately the goal of this period of repentance. May we each strive for such renewal and emerge from the heightened sanctity of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur — each of us as a tekiah gedolah.

This commentary was originally published in 2004.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee and Harold (��”l) Hassenfeld.

Our teacher then turned his attention to the notion that the characteristic joys of Shabbat and Yom Tov arise from how we differentiate holy days from ordinary weekdays. At that point a fellow student (a bit of a wag) inquired, “Rabbi, you study Torah all week and you study Torah on Shabbat, so what’s the difference?” The rabbi replied without missing a beat, “Ah, on Shabbat I enjoy&�Բ�����;����!”

In our amusement at the rabbi’s response, we failed to recognize his intentional allusion to a passage in the midrash Pesikta Rabbati, ch. 23:

R. Berekiah taught in the name of R. Hiyya: Shabbat was given only for enjoyment. R. Haggai taught in the name of R. Shemuel bar Nahman: Shabbat was given only for Torah study. But there is no difference. What R. Berekiah said … applies to scholars who exhaust themselves studying Torah all week and enjoy themselves on Shabbat. What R. Haggai said … applies to working people who are busy with their work all week and occupy themselves with Torah on ^[2]

Our rabbi evidently was having it both ways—learning all the time but with unalloyed pleasure on Shabbat. The upshot: one way or another, we are supposed to find enjoyment in the opportunities that Shabbat and Yom Tov provide for us to deviate from our daily routine.

In fact, it is a mitzvah that we enjoy those occasions, a mitzvah that manifests the Torah’s remarkable tendency to legislate feelings and emotions. For example, we are charged negatively not to covet, not to bear grudges, and not to harbor feelings of enmity towards our fellows. We also are instructed positively: to love God, our neighbors, and perhaps even ourselves. Legislation of this sort makes sense if one considers thoughts and feelings to be precursors to actions, especially if God’s omniscience takes in our thoughts as well as our deeds. In attributing this knowledge to God, the Torah seeks to encourage right action and discourage its opposite.^[3]

In Deuteronomy, the Torah commands us no fewer than eight times to “rejoice” in the fulfillment of religious obligations.^[4] Two of those occurrences are in this week’s parashah. The first comes after bringing first fruits to the sanctuary and thanking God for the harvest:

And you shall enjoy all the goodness (vesamahta bekhol hatov) that Adonai your God has bestowed upon you and your household, together with the Levite and the stranger in your midst.  

(26:11)

The second, after constructing a shrine and an altar on Mt. Ebal to commemorate the entry into the Land of Israel:

You shall sacrifice there offerings of well-being and eat them, rejoicing (vesamahta) before Adonai your God.

(27:7, JPS translation with modifications)

Those two passages are followed by a third that is strange and discomfiting, warning us that we will endure terrible calamities should we fail to serve God “in joy and gladness”:

Because you would not serve Adonai your God in joy and gladness (be-simhah u-vetuv levav) over the abundance of everything, you shall have to serve—in hunger and thirst, naked and lacking everything—the enemies whom Adonai will let loose against you. He will put an iron yoke upon your neck until He has wiped you out.

(28:47-48)

Bahya b. Asher comments, “The joy in the performance of the mitzvah is a mitzvah in its own right.” He continues, “Aside from the reward for [fulfilling] the mitzvah there is reward for the joy; therefore, one who observes the commandment is punished for not performing it joyfully. And thus one must observe the mitzvot with joy and with complete concentration.” The spirit in which one performs mitzvot matters profoundly: perfunctory and joyless performance is not only insufficient; it justifies punishment.

The manifestation of “joy” necessarily entails more than just putting on a happy face. The manner in which biblically mandated joy finds expression is taken up in the Talmud. In a discussion of the music that accompanied Temple sacrifices, Rabbi Yehudah asks in the name of Rabbi Shemuel, “Where do we learn from the Torah the principle that song is obligatory?” Rabbi Mattenah responds by quoting  and asking rhetorically, “What is service ‘in joy and gladness’?” He answers his own question: “You should say that it refers to song, or you might say to words of Torah, as it is written [in ], ‘The precepts of Adonai are just, rejoicing the heart’” ().

A lovely answer: serving God with joy means accompanying the performance of the mitzvot with both song and study. This text thus adds a third component to the joyous observance of mitzvot: to Torah study and a good meal (or vice versa), we add music. Indeed, what could be more pleasurable than fine food accompanied by words of Torah and heartfelt song?

As I noted previously, the first of the two positive commands to rejoice in Ki Tavo comes immediately after the Torah describes the ritual for presenting the first fruits of the harvest at the sanctuary. At the conclusion of the ritual, the text states (), “And you shall enjoy all the goodness that Adonai your God has bestowed upon you and your household….”

In the immediate context of the verse, the phrase “all the goodness” refers to the bounty of the harvest, but there are many other good things for which we ought to be grateful. Midrash Tannaim elaborates: “‘You shall enjoy’ refers to all kinds of enjoyment [that is, not only to the pleasure of a good meal at harvest-time] …‘with all the goodness’ refers to the song.” So there is another nod to music as a source of joy. As Malbim explains, “Just as in service of the Creator joy is aroused by songs and praises, so also joy in ‘all the goodness’ should be through song.”

As for the joy of Torah study, we learn from the commentary of Hayyim ibn Attar, the Or Ha-hayyim:

The term “all the goodness” alludes to the Torah, as the sages said [in ], “‘good’ means nothing but Torah,” for if people were to feel the sweet delight of the Torah’s goodness, they would pursue it madly, considering all the silver and gold in the world to be worthless, for the Torah contains all the good things in the world.

I have forgotten much of what I learned in my youth, but my teacher’s rejoinder, “On Shabbat I enjoy it,” has stuck with me all these years, and the anecdote never fails to elicit a smile. In this week’s parashah, the Torah commands us to express our gratitude to God with “joy and gladness,” ardently pursuing Torah and delighting in the beauty of song as we partake of the bounty that God has so graciously bestowed. In the words of the Psalmist, “Serve Adonai with joy; enter into God’s presence with song” ().

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee and Harold (��”l) Hassenfeld.

[1] “Festival rejoicing is a mitzvah” (simhat yom tov mitzvah). The parallel in the Jerusalem Talmud, /78a (Venice ed. 15a), discusses “Sabbaths and Festivals” (shabbatot veyamim tovim).

[2] The substance of the passage eventually finds its way into halakhic discourse. See Joseph Caro, Beit Yosef on Tur ; Moses Isserles, gloss to .  is a summary of the halakhic sources.

[3] Thus Saadia Gaon, in his Book of Doctrines and Beliefs (Emunot Vede’ot), IV.4: “God foreknows the final outcome of human activity as it turns out after conception, planning, and delay, as Scripture says, ‘God knows people’s thoughts’ (), and ‘I know what plans they are devising even now’ ().”  See also Bahya ibn Paquda, Duties of the Heart (Hovot Halevavot), IV.3

[4] 12:7; 12:12; 12:18; 14:26; 16:11; 16:14; 26:11; 27:7.

Second, we are commanded to bring our first fruits to the Jerusalem Temple once we have settled the land. And then we are commanded to offer them to the priest in acknowledgement of God’s beneficence.

When we do so, we recite a fixed liturgy, reinforced, no doubt, by hearing the many Israelites ahead of us in the line reciting the exact same words as the priest prompts them. “Repeat after me . . .” he says.

“Arami oved avi—My ancestor was a wandering Aramean.”

(Deut. 26:5)

This verse and its sentiment should be familiar, for the “Arami oved avi—My father was a wandering Aramean” passage from our Torah reading is the very heart of the Passover Haggadah. On seder night in Jewish homes, we intone these verses to remind us that God took us out of Egypt with a strong hand and an outstretched arm.

I am convinced that we recite these verses from Deuteronomy on seder night—rather than the story in the book of Exodus—because our sages thought that having heard and then recited these verses while standing in a long line at the Jerusalem Temple, most Jews would know them by heart and be able to recite them come Passover.

Of course, this worked only for the generation or two following the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 CE, who actually experienced standing in the line and hearing the liturgy. Further, it requires all who recite it on Passover (even now) to conveniently ignore the part of our portion that stipulates that these verses be recited with the priest (“repeat after me  . . .”) upon bringing first fruits.

First fruits?! But don’t we bring first fruits for the holiday of Shavuot and not Passover? Well, yes. But our sages wisely recycled this liturgy and pressed it into service on seder night because people knew it by heart. (This happened before there was a Maxwell House Haggadah for everyone at the table.)

“Arami oved avi—My ancestor was a wandering Aramean” (Deut. 26:5). One of my students correctly and accurately translated the verse, “My ancestor was a Syrian refugee.”

It is in this translation that we each should have a shock of recognition. Yes, we Jews were once refugees—and not all that long ago, either. And, once again there are again Syrian refugees. And, to be sure, there are Ukrainian refugees. Indeed, one of our wonderful new rabbis, ordained just this last May, is a Ukrainian refugee. Part of her rabbinate is working to help the Ukrainians fend off the Russian invasion.

Perhaps we can learn that the mitzvah, the call to action of this verse in this week’s Torah reading, is: my ancestor was a refugee—and so, I am obligated to help other refugees.

We Jews, secure in our own land, recognize through reciting the vicissitudes of our own history that being a refugee requires action on behalf of others. Further, we must be grateful for the land in which we now live, be it here in the US or in Israel. Just like Russian refugee Irving Berlin wrote, “God bless America” from “the mountains to the prairies to the oceans white with foam,” this week’s portion has us singing of our “land flowing with milk and honey” (Deut. 31:20).

Which brings me to the third part of the Torah reading that I find interesting. The Torah portion commands us, “You shall rejoice in all of the good that the Lord your God has given to you and to your family” (Deut. 26:11). Ki Tavo is chock full of the blessings that God gave the Jewish people during our wanderings in the wilderness and those anticipated for our settlement of the Land. When we get there and gather first fruits on Shavuot, we remember that we were once refugees and we now thank God for the abundance we have. And when we celebrate Passover, we remember that we were refugees and again thank God for the abundance.

But thanksgiving must lead to action on behalf of others. If not, our gratitude to God seems hollow, maybe even selfish. But when recognition of God’s blessings leads us to reach beyond ourselves: to our Jewish community and to those outside of the Jewish community—to all who are hungry and in need, to all who are immigrants who need a hand up, to all who today stand where we once stood—then our blessings can bring reward beyond measure.

As the great twentieth-century biblical commentator Israel Beilin wrote, in what I’m sure must have been his commentary about our portion Ki Tavo:

If you’re worried and you can’t sleep
Just count your blessings instead of sheep
And you’ll fall asleep counting your blessings

I suspect that Ki Tavo was Beilin’s bar mitzvah portion. Of course, we remember him by his stage name, Irving Berlin, whom I quoted earlier.

It is up to each of us to avoid the curses, to tamp down the dissention and hatred that besets us individuals and as a nation. When we count and embrace the blessings that God has bestowed upon us and then act upon them, we can fulfill the promise of our Torah reading (Deut. 26:19): “You will be a holy people to God.”

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Parashat Ki Tavo opens with Moses addressing B’nei Yisrael: “The Lord your God commands you this day to observe these laws and rules; observe them faithfully with all your heart and soul. You have affirmed this day that the Lord is your God, that you will walk in His ways, that you will observe His laws and commandments and rules, and that you will obey Him” (). During my years at 91�첥, one of the themes that always captivated me was the mystical understanding of the concept of time in the Torah. That is why my attention was immediately drawn to this quote. The specific timeframe “this day” occurs twice here and is repeated multiple times in the parashah. What does “this day” mean? Or rather, when is “this day”?

One interpretation is that Moses was referring to the specific day when he delivered his final speech captured in the book of Deuteronomy. The final book of the Torah opens with “these are the words that Moses addressed to all Israel on the other side of the Jordan” (), and then the entire speech of Moses is revealed to us. We can immediately understand that “this day” is referring to the day when Moses charged the people of Israel, saying, “Observe all the instructions that I enjoin upon you this day” (). 

This understanding makes perfect sense in the context of the book of Deuteronomy. But could it be true that the laws and rules were enjoined upon the people of Israel only on the day of Moses’s final speech? 

During the annual reading of the Torah cycle, we learn about the wonders and miracles that happened to B’nei Yisrael in the desert after they left Egypt, and we know that during the revelation on Mount Sinai, described in the book of Exodus, we already accepted the commandments of God: “All the people answered as one, saying ‘All that the Lord has spoken we will do’” ().

A similar question emerges further on when we read, “Hear, O Israel! Today you have become the people of the Lordyour God” (). Didn’t we learn that God already affirmed at Mount Sinai that the people of Israel are His treasured people, “a kingdom of the priest and a holy nation” ()?

These questions didn’t pass unnoticed by our sages, who held the keys to many secrets of the Torah. Rashi in his commentary writes, “The Lord your God commands you this day to observe these laws and rules. They should always seem as new to you as on the day you were first commanded to observe them.” This short commentary brilliantly shifts the direction and meaning of the verse. “This day” is not when Moses delivered his speech—it is “this day” that is happening right now. And it is not addressed to the people of Israel who witnessed the speech, but to you—the reader. God is your God, who commands you, today, to observe the laws and rules written in the Torah. It is today, right now, while reading the verses from the Torah, you become one of the people of the Lord your God.

Why is it important that commandments should always seem as new? Rabbi Yehuda Leib Alter of Ger (1847–1905, Poland) teaches us that when we read the Torah or pray or perform mitzvot out of habit, this weakens our ability to see God in this world. He compares habits with the darkness that covers up the inner light, the presence of God in each thing. However, it is within human power to renew our connection to God. “It is within the power of a human to light up the darkness. God commands you find this day, the revelation of light”. He continues, “One should always be prepared to receive and listen closely to the words of God. The voice of that is in everything since each was created by God’s utterance and has the power of divine speech hidden within it. This is the hidden light that we are told to find” (Sefat Emet, Commentary to Ki Tavo 2:3).

Now we can understand the verse “the Lord your God commands you this day to observe these laws and rules” as follows: we exist constantly in the presence of God, who each day renews the world, the work of Creation. It was not once in the past but “this day”—today—that the laws and rules are enjoined upon us. Each time we accept in our hearts and souls the commandments of God, not out of habit but sincerely, as if they are new to us, we can hear the words of God telling us, “Hear, O Israel! Today you have become the people of the Lord your God.”

The idea of constant renewal of our covenant with God not only can inspire us and infuse our daily activities with a sacred meaning but also underscores our active participation in this renewal. God is not the only one renewing creation “this day” and every single day; we are doing so as well. By consciously affirming that God is our God and accepting the commandments, we cause God to affirm our covenant. As it says: “You have affirmed this day that the Lord is your God, that you will walk in His ways, that you will observe His laws and commandments and rules, and that you will obey Him. And the Lord has affirmed this day that you are, as He promised you, His treasured people who shall observe all His commandments”().

How precious this text becomes when we can understand and feel that the Torah is talking to every single one of us directly “this day.” Our existence and our conscious choices matter in this world. We are able to renew our covenant and reveal the light of God hidden in everything. Today you become the people of the Lord your God because today you showed that you indeed desire to hold fast to the Holy One.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

A few weeks ago, my fiancée and I re-watched the Disney/Pixar movie Inside Out, where anthropomorphized emotions work together and compete to control the feelings and actions of an 11-year-old named Riley. One of the primary lessons is that unchecked “Joy” cannot by itself bring true happiness or properly prepare us for handling life’s more difficult moments. Sadness, Anger, Fear, and Disgust all play a role in making us who we are, and we ignore those emotions at our own risk. As someone who strongly identifies with Amy Poehler’s peppy and unrelentingly optimistic “Joy” character, this message is both sobering and powerful.

However, after re-watching the movie in 2020, I was forced to wonder if our collective pendulum has swung too far in the opposite direction. The last six months of uncertainty and fear have been so devastating that even as a naturally jubilant person I am hesitant to speak out on behalf of joy. The challenges we face today are both so great and so evident that we can recite them by rote—every article, sermon, and conversation is framed by a litany of disasters. I have noticed that even when feelings of joy do come, they are often accompanied by guilt. But it is not in spite of everything happening around us that I speak of joy this week; it is because of it.

Twice in this week’s parashah, Ki Tavo, we are commanded to be joyful: we are instructed to be joyful in our bringing of the first fruits along with the Levite and the Stranger (Deut. 26:11) and we are to also be joyful after offering up—and eating—sacrifices of well-being (Deut. 27:7).

These instances of joy are tied to specific actions, and the Sages of the Talmud use these verses to establish that joy is experienced when singing (BT Arakhin 11a) or when eating meat and drinking wine (BT Pesahim 109a).

Joy appears for a third time in our parashah in the midst of the tokhehah, a long collection of curses meant for those who do not obey God’s command:

תַּחַת אֲשֶׁר לֹא־עָבַדְתָּ אֶת־ה’ אֱלֹקֶיךָ בְּשִׂמְחָה וּבְטוּב לֵבָב מֵרֹ֖ב כֹּֽל׃ וְעָבַדְתָּ אֶת־אֹיְבֶ֗יךָ אֲשֶׁר יְשַׁלְּחֶנּוּ ה’ בָּךְ בְּרָעָב וּבְצָמָא וּבְעֵירֹם וּבְחֹסֶר כֹּל וְנָתַן עֹל בַּרְזֶל עַל־צַוָּארֶךָ עַד הִשְׁמִידוֹ אֹתָךְ׃

Because you would not serve your God in joy and gladness over the abundance of everything, you shall have to serve—in hunger and thirst, naked and lacking everything—the enemies whom God will let loose against you. God will put an iron yoke upon your neck until God has wiped you out. (Deut. 28:47)

Here the expectation of joy is not tied to a specific action or a specific time. We are warned that if we fail to be exuberant when serving God, calamity will befall us. Tucked into the middle of one of the most difficult passages in the Torah is a huge and timely blessing, the necessity of joy in our daily lives.

The lesson here, just like in Inside Out, is that one emotion cannot be compartmentalized and only experienced when we feel it is warranted. Even as we grieve for friends and loved ones lost to COVID-19, fight for justice for BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color) Americans, and work to save our environment from those who would destroy it, there must be room for joy in our lives as well.

Yehudah Amichai appreciated the impossibility of compartmentalizing and separating our joy from our pain. In his poem “A Man in His Life,” Amichai writes:

”קהלת לא צדק כשאמר כך.
אדם צריך לשנוא ולאהוב בבת אחת,
באותן עיניים לבכות ובאותן עיניים לצחוק.“

“Kohelet was wrong about this [that there is a time for every purpose].
A human must hate and love at the same moment,
To cry and laugh with the same eyes.”

As a staggering 40 percent of US adults surveyed by the CDC in June reported struggling with mental health or substance abuse, it is critical that we tap into Judaism’s directives for infusing our lives with joy. We must utilize the tools at our disposal to allow our crying eyes a chance to laugh.

Thankfully, we are entering a time of year when our tradition places an added emphasis on joy and happiness. In the next month we will celebrate Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot—respectively, the birthday of the world, a day of forgiveness and renewal, and the holiday when we are supposed to be אך שמח, entirely happy.

While it is true that these holidays ask us to tie our joy to the calendar, our tradition also recognizes that one cannot set a timer and say “this will be my joyful moment.” These holidays ask something of us that is more difficult: we must actively set the stage for joy and allow ourselves to revel in it if and when it arrives. We cannot force joy, but we can beckon it.

Our Sages prescribe certain things to help bring joy: eating meat, drinking wine, singing songs, and Torah study were all ways various rabbis brought joy into their lives. During the coming holidays we traditionally dress in white, eat meals with guests, engage in small construction projects, and experience long periods of prayer and quiet contemplation. Hopefully one of those practices sounds compelling to you and has the potential to spark your joy.

Beckoning to joy can also require assistance. For those struggling with their mental health or with substance abuse, setting the stage for joy can include a call to a mental health professional.

In Inside Out, Joy has to learn to step back and make space for Sadness, Anger, Disgust, and Fear. As the latter emotions take hold of our national psyche, let us remember the words of Psalm 30: “One may lie down weeping at nightfall; but joy comes in the morning.” Let us collectively embrace the radical Jewish call to set a spot at the table for Joy, and to welcome her with open arms.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

In the third aliyah of Ki Tavo, Moses begins his second retrospective discourse (of five in Deuteronomy) with the word hayom (today; Deut. 26:16). It is said for emphasis, to impress on the wandering tribes that the commandments they receive this day will be in full effect when they enter the Land.

In the next two verses, Moses uses a unique formulation of the verb א.מ.ר/ a-m-r (“to say” or “to speak”). He says this unusual word about both the Israelite people and about God:

“Et Adonai ���’e��������ٲ� �󲹲�dz�” (“You have spoken God today”; Deut. 26:17).
“�ձ�’A��DzԲ��� ���’e���������� hayom” (“And Adonai spoke you today”; Deut. 26:18).

This is ������’e������, a form of this verb found only in Ki Tavo. It is a transitive form, which wouldn’t be so odd, except as applied to a verb like “to say” or “to speak.” What does it mean “to say” or “to speak” a person? What does it mean “to say” or “to speak” God? These verses are usually translated as: “You have declared/promised this day that the Lord is your God.” “And the Lord has declared/promised this day that you are . . . his people.”

These translations are interpretations. They express Moses’s belief in the mutuality of the declared faith between the Israelite people and God, or his assertion of a mutual promise of enduring commitment of the people and God to one another.

But on a hunch that there may be poetry in a literal translation of ������’e������ or even a poetic theology, we can ask, “What might it mean for one biblical character to ‘speak’ another, whether God is ‘speaking’ us, or we are ‘speaking’ God?”

An early morning prayer gives us a clue. Barukh she’amar vehayah ha’olam means “Blessed is the One who spoke and the world became.” It praises God who created the world through speech in Genesis. When God speaks, whole worlds come into being: God speaks them into being. God’s speech is actually transitive at Creation, creating yesh me’ayin (something from nothing).

What could it mean, then, when people speak God in Ki Tavo? And what did it mean when a later poet used ������’e������ at the end of his poem for Yom Kippur: ki anu ����’a������ekha ve’atah ����’a������enu (“We are Your ����’a������ [what-was-spoken], and You are our ����’a������ [the One Who-spoke-us]”)? I wonder whether the poet who wrote the Yom Kippur prayer might have been thinking of a deed and words of ethical importance in Ki Tavo that immediately precedes Moses’s second discourse.

In Deuteronomy 26:12–15, we read about ma’aser ani, the tithe of produce that future Israelite farmers will set aside for the poor in the third and sixth years of the agricultural tithing cycle, which will be established in the new land. Every farmer will be required to make a declaration to God upon tithing the ma’aser ani, which begins:

I have cleared out the consecrated portion from my house; and I have given it to the Levite, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow, just as You commanded me; I have neither transgressed nor neglected any of Your commandments. (Deut. 26:13)

The farmer will further declare, in verse 14, that he has not transgressed laws against ritual impurity or idolatrous worship of the dead; and he will assert that he has fulfilled God’s commandment.

Rashi imagines what the farmer is thinking at the moment of tithing for the poor: samahti vesimahti bo (I was happy and I made others happy in it). As a vintner in Southern France, Rashi knew the joy of a successful harvest and the joy of giving a portion of it to the poor.

As the declaration continues, the farmer petitions God:

Look down from your heavenly abode, from heaven, and bless Your people Israel and the soil You have given us, a land flowing with milk and honey, as You swore to our fathers. (Deut. 26:15)

The Keli Yakar, Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim ben Aaron Luntschitz notices the word hashkifah (look down). He says the Bible typically uses this word to describe God looking at us critically. The only exception is when God notices people giving gifts to the poor:

God looks at us in recognition of the positive value of human compassion when a person transforms cruelty in himself to compassion. So too, the Holy Blessed One transforms His anger to compassion.

Keli Yakar believed that we are noticed by God when we transform our attitude toward needy people from anger to compassion. Our actions can even transform God. Rashi expressed the joy that such action produces in the giver and the recipient of the poor tithe.

Perhaps the strange verb ������’e������ teaches that God and the farmer speak each other into palpable efficacy in this world. God speaks us into the world through continuing creation, revelation, and redemption. We speak God into the world by vowing to care for others who need our help and by actually helping them.

Hayom (today) we can reenact the spirit of the farmer’s quietly great ethical moment by making it our regular practice to care for the poor, whether in the Promised Land or wherever we live. Then we will be Your people, and You will be our God, in a real and compelling way.

This commentary was originally published in 5775.
The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l)

—Deuteronomy 26:3b, 5b–10a, the declaration that accompanies the bringing of the first fruits (transl. Everett Fox)

Peace be with you, friend! My name is Micah; I hail from Anav. And you? Shemaryahu, from Jericho, you say; a Benjaminite, then. Well, if you don’t mind sharing the road with a Judahite let’s walk together.

I can tell from the contents of your basket that you’re a date grower, and who in Jericho isn’t? On the other hand, almost anyone living in Anav is bound to have a vineyard, and I’m no exception; hence my burden, a cask of wine. My vineyard’s not a large one. Still, my grapes are the finest and my wine is always in demand. Pardon me if that sounds like a boast, but I’m only telling you what’s true.

You don’t have to be a prophet to discern that the both of us are on the way to the Temple to bring our first fruits. I’m not free of faults, I’ll admit, but I never fail to make this pilgrimage.

And of course, it’s the same every year—placing our offering in front of the priest and reciting the declaration. I don’t know it by heart—few do, though maybe you are more learned than I—so the priest will recite the words and I’ll repeat them after him.

The year before last I got to thinking: What do the words mean? Don’t get me wrong—though I’m neither scribe nor scholar, I understand the words. What I mean is: Why the long speech? Why not just bring the offering, place it before the priest, and head back home? This past year I decided to listen carefully to the words of the declaration, and it changed how I regard this whole first fruits business—because I’ve got to tell you, part of me has always felt that it was just an excuse for the priests to take yet another cut of the fruits—so to speak—of our labor.

Do you remember how the declaration begins? “I’ve entered the Land that we were promised by God,” or words to that effect—I can’t repeat it word for word, mind you. Then there’s something about our ancestor having been a wandering Aramean—Abraham, I think, or maybe Jacob; I would have asked the priest to set me straight, but there was a long line behind me. In any case, Jacob went down to Egypt to be with his son Joseph; that’s how the trouble started, as I’m sure you know.

The declaration continues: When we first settled in Egypt we were just a clan, but of course everyone had many children—my wife and I have six, God bless them—and in a few generations, we were more like a nation than a family. I guess that made the Egyptians uneasy, a large group descended from immigrants. As happens too often, fear turned into hostility, and before we knew it we were slaves. And we’re not talking serving dinner and running errands; it was back-breaking labor, building cities for the pharaohs.

It took Him some time, but eventually God began paying attention to our desperate situation, and after bringing plagues upon the Egyptians the pharaoh relented and we left Egypt. (By the way, I’m adding that part about the plagues and the pharaoh. None of that is in the declaration, which keeps things short—unlike me, I’m afraid.) Finally—here’s where the historical review ends—our God brought us to Canaan, which is described as a land of milk and honey—and luscious grapes, one might add.

Only after all this do you announce that you’ve brought the first fruits. Good thing you’re allowed to put down the basket before making the speech!

I can see that you are losing interest, so let me get to my main point. Going over the declaration in my mind, it occurred to me that all my life I’ve thought of my plot of land as mine by right. I inherited it from my father as he did from his; for how many generations it has belonged to my family, no one knows. But the declaration reminded me that at some point in the distant past, ancestors of mine, who had lived for years as nomads in the wilderness, arrived in Canaan. What a sense of wonder must have overcome them upon seeing, after all those years in the wilderness, a land full of trees and fields, vineyards, olive groves, sheep and cattle! Oh, and date palms.

Matters were not so simple, however. After our people entered Canaan, there was the long struggle to take possession of the Land we had been promised. At some point, though, my ancestors were able to build a home and plant a vineyard. What joy and gratitude they must have felt after the first harvest! And wouldn’t they have thanked our God for taking their grandparents out of Egypt and making it possible for them to live a simple, peaceful life in a place they could call their own?

Here’s my real point. When my ancestors came to the Land and settled it, they were preparing the way for their children and their children’s children and so on—for me. So you could say that when they entered the Land, I entered with them. When they settled here, I settled with them. And it all began with the miracle of our God taking us out of Egypt. The miracles performed for my ancestors when they left Egypt were performed for me as well.

And all of this is in the declaration: I will be saying that I—I myself—have reached the land of Canaan—באתי; and that’s because our God brought us to the land—ויביאנו; and as a result, I’m now able to bring the first fruits—הנה הבאתי.

It’s no small thing that I can grow my grapes and produce my wine, enjoy the life my wife and I have made together, and watch our children grow. It’s not a bad thing to remember this once in a while, to remember Who made it all possible, and to be thankful.

I’ve talked long enough. Are you stopping here for the night or do you plan to push on until sunset? You’re continuing your journey? Well, you’re young and I’m not; I need some rest. God bless you and safe travels, my friend! And who knows?  Maybe we’ll meet again in Jerusalem; if not this year, then next.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).