A Taste Of Eternity: Ki Tavo

A Taste Of Eternity:  Ki Tavo

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

September 21, 2016

The portion called Ki Tavo (“When You Arrive”, Deut. 26:1—29:8) begins with instructions that Moses gives the Israelites regarding their first harvest once they settle in the Land of Israel.

It isn’t the sacrifice part of these instructions that piques our interest.  Bringing offerings as a way of saying thanks to God is nothing new.  We’ve had the entire book of Leviticus to teach us that.  By this point, we know what we are doing.

Nor is it the command to bring “the first of the fruit of the ground.”  Again, we have had plenty of time to think about the value of “the first,” both to God and to us.  Indeed, seeing the first fruit of the season appear on a vine is nothing short of marvelous.  We plant a seed, we water and feed it; we watch the sprout appear, tiny and fragile, yet powerful enough to break through the soil and reach upwards to the sky.  We watch the plant grow, bud and flower, and then—a miracle happens!  As the flower dies, a luscious fruit replaces it. In our minds, we can almost taste the sweetness.

Taking some of the first fruit and dedicating it to God is of course a sign of gratitude for this wonderful gift.

Dayenu! It would have been enough! 

Yet what is truly amazing is the prayer that we are instructed to say when we bring this offering to God.  One of the oldest elements in our liturgy, the prayer is actually a review of our history.  In it we give thanks for what we have today and what we hope to have tomorrow, but additionally we also remind ourselves of the sorrows and difficulties that we encountered in the past.

אֲרַמִי אוֹבֵד אָבִי.  

It’s a text we may be familiar with:  “My forefather was a wandering Aramean.”  Another translation has it as “An Aramean tried to destroy my forefather.” The precise meaning could go either way, but the idea comes through clear enough: Our ancestors were wayfaring wanderers who often found themselves in danger for their lives.  The text then continues with a recounting of our slavery years in Egypt, the miracles and marvels of the Exodus, and finally our return to the Promised Land.  Throughout this journey, we had relied on God’s guidance, and we are now rewarded for our constancy and faithfulness.

So why repeat the story?  Who of us is not familiar with it, if not in a very personal way then through the stories we have heard our parents and grandparents tell and retell every Passover?

The first answer that immediately comes to mind is the common saying, “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it” (a phrase actually coined in 1905 by the philosopher George Santayana).  Learning from the past is key to a better future, and learning from mistakes is the most effective way of doing it.

But recounting the past is more than just a lesson plan.  For humanity, memory is as close to eternity as we can get.  It’s through our memories that loved ones who have passed on still live; we carry on their legacy in our hearts and minds, and we carry it forward through our deeds every day.  In turn, what we share with our children today will form the basis for all of their tomorrows.

Yet there is even more to Ki Tavo than these lessons in history and humanity.

This section in the parasha comes sandwiched in between other episodes, passages of horror, fear and revulsion.  Laws that place moral boundaries to slavery remind us of unfair social and economic systems where some people become so destitute that they hand themselves—or worse yet, their children—over to cruel, uncaring masters.  Laws that regulate warfare and mandate how we must behave with prisoners of war remind us of the harshest realities of life.  Then there is that long list of curses that appears later in Ki Tavo and which contains nightmarish apparitions that are so horrifying that when we chant them at services, we do so quickly and in a barely-audible voice.  When we look at life’s realities this way, the present moment loses its blush all too soon, replaced instead by fear and dread.   

Yes, there are verses that promise wonderful rewards for those who lead a good life; but looking at life and seeing only its future potential also leaves us wanting.  Through this overly optimistic and yet equally unrealistic lens, life is all promise—but no fulfillment. We find ourselves forever chasing a vision, an elusive dream of justice and reward at some uncertain point in the future.  

But this view, too, leaves us unfulfilled.  The moment at hand is never complete in itself; it is always tarnished, always lacking something.  Looking at life this way we never learn to hold a precious moment in our hands, to appreciate it for what it truly is, a miracle that will never repeat itself. 

But this prayer, the prayer we are commanded to say when we bring forth our first fruit, offers us a different outlook on life. It teaches us to appreciate the moment as a blessed present in itself.

A ripe, juicy fruit is more than the sum total of all our toil and trouble.  As we bite into it, sweetness and delight fill our being. We are captivated by the beauty, fragrance and flavor that the moment has for us. And then, even as we forget the labor that made this miracle happen, we are filled with hope for the future. In fact, within this fruit lie dormant the seeds of any number of tomorrows. 

And so, holding up the fruit, we forgive the past, we give thanks for what we have today, and additionally we say a prayer for what has yet to be.  For we know that in our hands we are holding life, eternal in and of itself, past, present and future all at once.

The prayer of gratitude with which Parashat Ki Tavo opens teaches us to look at life not merely in its harsh and cold reality, nor as a rosy dream of what it can be but never really is.  It teaches us that every moment of life, every breath we take, contains within it not only what is, but also what was and what has yet to be, all rolled into one, unbroken, sacred portion of eternity.

As we enter this season of Holy Days, of new beginnings, of pardon and forgiveness, may we be blessed with the knowledge that every moment in our life is a precious gift for which we must always offer our gratitude and thanks.

Kein y’hi ratzon.

© 2016 by Boaz D. Heilman