When You Arrive—Remember Where You Came From!

When You Arrive—Remember Where You Came From!
D’var Torah on Parashat Ki Tavo, Deuteronomy 26:1—29:8
by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

For my brother, Ariel, on the anniversary of his bar mitzvah 51 years ago

The climax of every Jewish wedding is the smashing of the glass. The months of preparation and organization, the thousands of details, the tension that rises alarmingly in direct relation to the number of days and hours before the wedding, all become transformed at that instant. All eyes turn to the ground, to the glass covered in thin white cloth and the shoe that is about to come down on it. The rejoicing begins immediately, as everybody cries out “Mazal tov,” the musicians break into a joyful tune, and the newlyweds exchange their first kiss as a married couple.

In some communities, it isn’t a glass that’s broken, but rather an expensive dish. The idea, however, is the same. The custom is there to remind us of several things, but above all else, of the many tragedies in our past, both long ago and more recent: Of the destroyed Temple in Jerusalem… of the many other destructions that followed… of the people and communities left behind in the smoke and ashes of the Holocaust… of the miracle of our survival despite all that.

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, contains one of the earliest and oldest rituals of Judaism. Set at the time of the first harvest, the portion instructs us to bring the first fruits “of the ground, which you will bring from your land which the Lord your God is giving you” (Deut. 26:2). Like all our celebrations, however, this joyful moment too, while filled with joy and gratitude for the gifts of food, land and security, is already mixed with sadness. For at the very moment in which they handed the gift baskets over to the priests at the Temple in Jerusalem, the people were instructed to repeat a familiar history: “My father was a fugitive Aramean…”

If these words sound familiar, it is because they also form the basis for the narrative we recite at the joyful celebration of the Passover Seder, the Haggadah, a recitation that reminds us of exile, slavery and genocide before we were redeemed by God’s hand.

Jacob, later renamed Israel, is the refugee the passage refers to. First fleeing from his murderous twin brother, Esau, then from his Aramean father-in-law, Laban, and his sons—some of the first anti-Semites ever recorded—Jacob’s story epitomizes Jewish history. At a young age he has to leave home and become a wanderer. Starting a family and building a fortune in his adopted homeland does not assure him of safety and security, and he has to flee again. Returning home, he loses his beloved wife; then a son. The family will only be reunited years later—in yet another foreign land. Though his remains will be buried in Israel, Jacob will never see the Land of his ancestors again.

Cut to 1946.

I can only imagine the pride, the joy, the disbelief and the amazement with which my brother, Ariel, was greeted when he was born. Barely a year after the end of the Holocaust, my mother—a Holocaust refugee herself—and my father, who had by then received a letter describing in detail the murder of his entire family at the hands of the Nazis—began a new life together in the Land of Israel. The world still called it “Palestine,” but my parents and their whole generation of survivors knew better. For them it was always Eretz Yisrael, the Land of Israel. My parents named their first born son Ariel, a Biblical name which the prophets Isaiah and Ezekiel associated with Jerusalem and the Temple. I am sure that my father, who was very well versed in Bible, knew by heart Isaiah chapter 29 and its predictions of the sadness and destruction that would befall Jerusalem—but also of the ultimate glorious and joyful triumph of survival that were sure to follow.

It must have been planned, or at least fore-ordained, that thirteen years later, my brother’s bar mitzvah haftarah, also from the book of Isaiah, chapter 60, would speak of the magnificent and splendid light that would bathe Jerusalem and all Israel in those triumphant future days.

My brother, Ariel, is one of the miraculous generation that represents the amazing survival and rebirth of our people following the Destruction, the Shoah.

This Shabbat marks the 51st anniversary of my brother’s bar mitzvah. More than half a century later, I can still remember the words and melody with which he chanted the verses of his haftarah: Kumi, ‘ori, ki vah ‘orech—“Arise, shine for thy light has come.” It is these very words that begin this week’s haftarah, the Scriptural reading that always follows parashat Ki Tavo. To me, this haftarah symbolizes our return to our homeland, the pride, the joy, the amazement—but also the sorrow associated with the great tragedy we had just emerged from.

Living in Israel, today my brother is the coordinator of youth and public events for the city of Ramat Gan. The many certificates and plaques of recognition he has received—from the city, its mayor, and from the many groups and individuals he has taught and encouraged throughout his lifetime of work—could well represent the opening words of Ki Tavo: “And it will be, when you come to the land which the Lord, your God, gives you for an inheritance, and you possess it and settle in it, that you shall take of the first of all the fruit of the ground, which you will bring from your land, which the Lord, your God, is giving you…”.

Through his life and work, my brother fulfills the purpose of this commandment. As the parashah continues, we learn that this offering of first fruit isn’t only for us to enjoy; nor is its purpose merely to fill the government’s treasury. Rather, it is for the entire people to enjoy, with a good part of it set aside especially for the weak, the hungry, for the many survivors and their children.

That is the source of Israel’s strength. That is what Ki Tavo and its accompanying haftarah, Isaiah 60:1-22, are all about.

Mazal Tov, Ariel! May the fruit of your labor continue to enrich our Land and our People for many years to come.

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman