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ki tavo

when you come

And it will be, when you come into 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. And you shall put [them] into a basket and go to the place which the Lord, your God, will choose to have His Name dwell there. And you shall come to the kohen who will be [serving] in those days, and say to him, "I declare this day to the Lord, your God, that I have come to the land which the Lord swore to our forefathers to give us."

It’s lovely to send a fruit basket. Whether you’re sick, or in mourning, or celebrating an achievement or a milestone, it makes you feel all warm and fuzzy to receive a lovely basket of fruit. It means that someone is thinking of you and cares. It’s also a nice way to say, “thank you for watching my cats while I was away.”

But, what does God want with a fruit basket? God doesn’t have teeth to sink into a juicy pear.

Truth is, God doesn’t need a fruit basket; it’s we who need to give a gift to God, to remember to say thank you—to remember that the good things in our lives are not through our efforts alone. Further, we need to bring the best of the best, the most perfect of our crops, with hearts full of love. A gift of second rate stuff given begrudgingly is not a gift from the heart.

It’s one of the tools God-the-Parent uses to help us develop into good, caring people, to bring to light our best selves, and place the needs of others above our own.

We need to remember Who took us out of Egypt, Who fed us manna, Who brought us to this land. Moshe begs us not to forget, not to get caught up in the culture of the people who will surround us. He entices us by telling us about all the wonderful blessings that will be ours, if only we live by the laws set out for us in Torah, and warns us about how awful it will be if we don’t.

And yet, Moshe knows we’re going to forget. That after a while, we’ll come to believe that our success is due only to our own efforts. We’ll notice that our neighbors aren’t stuck with all these strict rules and they seem to be doing fine. Moshe and the exodus will fade into that mist known as the past, as memories are wont to do. Torah won’t seem so important.

Blessings and curses.

The blessings sound fabulous.

The curses sound pretty terrible.

Hearing them, one could surmise that God is an egocentric, vengeful tyrant, and maybe even a bully.

Or, is it something else? Are the curses actually chastisements, or are they simply warnings of what the natural result of disregarding the mitzvot will be? If you tell a child not to touch the stove and the child disobeys, the child’s hand will hurt. Was that burn a punishment?

 Perhaps we have the wrong idea about the mitzvot.

The word, mitzvot, is all too often translated as “commandments,” and because of its connotations in English, it’s a poor translation.

Say the word commandment to me and I visualize some angry, tyrannical administrator waggling a finger at me, just waiting for me to mess up so that I can be punished. That doesn’t sound like the God I know.

So let’s get rid of that image.

Colloquially, a mitzvah is a good deed. Nice. Many good deeds are, in fact, mitzvot. And many mitzvot are common sense, necessary if a society is to survive and thrive. But many are mysterious and some seem as if they make no sense at all.

So, what are they, then?

The mitzvot are pathways. They’re the connectors that lie between us and our Divine Source.

And Torah is the Key to the gates that guard the pathways.

As a people, we chose to follow those pathways 3500 years ago. That’s awesome. That’s who we are. We’re a people, we are Israel, the God-wrestlers—we’re the bearers of this great gift, the Torah.

But where is the individual in all that? It’s not enough to be a part of a people who have hold of a key. That means something, but it’s not enough. The individual needs a key. Just as our infant nation had to choose to accept Torah, the individual needs to make that choice, needs to take the key and use it to create the spark that opens the pathways—the pathways that form the connection between the self and Ribbono Shel Olam, the Master of the Universe—the connection that is the soul’s ultimate desire.

We’re blessed when we reach out and take the key, unlock the gates, and travel those pathways, fulfilling the longings of the soul.

The curse is the result of having chosen to turn away.

But this supposes a lot for the modern American Jew. It supposes an awareness and an understanding that they may not have been exposed to.

And there’s the catch:

That key is our birthright, but many of us don’t even know that it’s there, hidden deep in the folds of our pockets.

The text tells us:

“Your sons and daughters will be given to another people and you will see it with your eyes and pine in vain all day long, but your hand will be powerless.”

That’s not a punishment. That’s simply cause and effect. Children are body, mind, and spirit. Nurture all three and they will be whole.

In a perfect world, we’d introduce them to our teachings, both the plain meanings and the deeper understanding, according to their age, interest, and ability to understand. We live in a Christian society, and many Christian concepts have become ingrained in Jews who don’t even know where our beliefs differ. Show them the beauty and the wonder of our traditions. Let their souls be fulfilled at home and they won’t wander away to seek answers elsewhere.

But parents can’t teach what they don’t know and they can’t give what they don’t have.

Some kids are naturally more drawn to spiritual musings and meanderings than others. When a child’s needs aren’t fulfilled by the religion they loosely identify with, they’re likely to go seeking after other religions to see if they offer that missing piece—other religions that are all too happy to welcome them in.

It happens so often in assimilated, “culturally Jewish” families of today. Parents have a vague desire for their children to remain Jewish, because they sense that it’s important—they feel the history—have the sense that it’s something they’re a part of—a sense that they absorbed through, perhaps, their grandparents, and they want their kids to have that same sense of value in being Jewish. So they send the kids to afternoon Hebrew school for a few years, to memorize some lines and have a bar/bat mitzvah. That will be the beginning and end of their Jewish education. And those kids will think that this is the beginning and the end of what Judaism has to offer them. For some, it will be enough. For others, not so much. And when those kids for whom it isn’t enough are given over to another people, the parents lament. But the parents don’t have the tools to bring them home. They don’t have a key.

Because truth be told, this very limited knowledge is the beginning and the end of what the parents think that Judaism has to offer. They didn’t learn Torah from their parents, who didn’t learn it from their parents.

And so, your sons and your daughters will have been given over to another people.

And so it goes, from generation to generation. And for how many generations can this go on before the children’s children have wandered so far away that they don’t even know that they were ever Jews? And they’ll be lost to us, perhaps forever.

That’s the curse.

Yet, there’s a gift hidden within the curse, and this is the miracle, the magic. It’s a miracle because there’s no way to explain its existence, no natural reason for it to occur.

While the curses are a result of our negative actions and ignorance, there will remain within each of us a tiny flame that can never be extinguished. We only need some small wind to fan it into a brilliant blaze and it will light our way home.

An example:

Say the parent who drives the kids to their b’nai mitzvah lessons sits in on those lessons, has questions, challenges the readings, and speaks up. Suddenly the parent is as much the pupil as the children are. Perhaps that parent is fascinated by the fact that the teacher is a convert, that she deliberately chose this. The parent wonders about the teacher—why did she choose to be Jewish? The parent wants to know. Wants to understand. Earnestly seeks Truth. The flame is tickled.

Perhaps that parent starts lighting Shabbat candles and buying challah on Fridays, in order to offer their b’nai mitzvah students continuity. And the parent discovers that it feels good to do that. And that flame begins to glow.

Perhaps that parent is overwhelmed by life and longs for one day off from all the commitments and stress.

And then that parent has an epiphany—realizes that this longed-for day off is already built in, is their birthright. And then she begins to read and study in earnest. And then, quite by chance, she finds a shul and a brilliant rabbi, and that flame begins to blaze.

How did that happen to a secular Jew with almost no Jewish education?

Why, that’s The Blessing! Baruch HaShem!

So what shall we eat?

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