Bribes and Blessings
Rabbi Ari Kahn
Parashat Eikev[1] contains one of the Torah’s most concentrated descriptions of what it means to live in covenant with God. Moshe addresses the people and says:
“And now, Israel, what does the Lord your God ask of you? Only this: to fear the Lord your God, to walk in all His ways, to love Him, and to serve the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul; to keep the commandments of the Lord your God and His statutes… for your good.” (Devarim 10:12–13)
The elements are familiar: fear of Heaven, walking in God’s ways, love, service, and the observance of mitzvot. What is perhaps less obvious is the Torah’s framing. All of this is presented as “for your good.” The verse does not read like a list of demands imposed from above, but as a description of the way a people lives when it dwells in the presence of God.
Immediately afterward, the Torah turns from Israel’s obligations to the nature of the One who stands on the other side of the covenant:
“For the Lord your God is the God of gods and Lord of lords, the great, mighty, and awesome God, who shows no favor and takes no bribe. He upholds the cause of the orphan and the widow, and loves the stranger, giving him food and clothing.” (Devarim 10:17–18)
The description is carefully composed. God is first portrayed in majestic, almost cosmic terms: “God of gods and Lord of lords, great, mighty, and awesome.” Then the verse turns to His justice: “who shows no favor and takes no bribe.” Only afterward does it speak of His care for the orphan, the widow, and the stranger.
At first glance, these might seem like three separate statements: an assertion of God’s transcendence, a declaration of His incorruptible judgment, and a note about His compassion. But their proximity suggests otherwise. The Torah is inviting us to hear them together. The God whose authority spans heaven and earth is precisely the God whose justice cannot be bent and whose care reaches those without power. Only when justice is immune to bribery can the orphan, widow, and stranger stand before the court with confidence.
It is here that the phrase “He takes no bribe” becomes central. The Torah is not addressing an abstract legal concern. It is telling us something about the conditions under which genuine compassion is possible. A judge who can be swayed by gifts cannot reliably protect the vulnerable. The refusal to take bribes is itself part of the defense of those who have no influence.
Yet the verse does more than warn us of the dangers of human corruption. It also raises a theological question. What does it mean to speak of “bribery” in relation to God?
Rashi’s comment brings the difficulty into sharper focus. On the words “He takes no bribe,” he writes simply: “to appease Him with money.” (Rashi to Devarim 10:17). It is a straightforward reading of the verse. But the Ra’em, Rabbi Eliyahu Mizrachi, immediately asks the obvious question: what “money” could one possibly give to the Master of the Universe? Everything already belongs to Him.
The question is not merely technical. It touches a deep human tendency. People sometimes imagine that generosity can function as a kind of spiritual leverage. Donations, support for institutions, and various acts of giving may be invested with hopes that they will purchase protection, favor, or forgiveness. If that were so, the vulnerable would have reason to fear, for those with greater means would have disproportionate access to divine leniency.
The Torah’s insistence that God “takes no bribe” thus carries two implications. It tells us that divine judgment cannot be bought, and it reminds us that human attempts to use generosity as a substitute for responsibility are fundamentally misguided. No gift, however noble, can cause God to ignore what is real.
But if money cannot be the true “bribe,” what, then, is the Torah prohibiting?
Here the commentaries open a different path. Rabbeinu Bachya, Rabbi Ovadiah Sforno, Rabbi David HaLevi Segal in Divrei David, and Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin in Ha’amek Davar all move, in their own language, toward a shared idea. The bribe is not currency. It is the attempt to use something good in order to erase something wrong.
Rabbeinu Bachya imagines the inner calculation that a person might make: I have certainly sinned, but look at the Torah I have studied, the charity I have given, the mitzvot I have performed. Surely the merits will outweigh the failures. He then dismantles this logic. God does not say, “He performed a thousand mitzvot and committed one transgression; let one mitzvah be deducted and the matter be settled.” Each mitzvah receives its reward; each aveirah receives its reckoning. They do not cancel each other out. (Rabbeinu Bachya to Devarim 10:17).
Sforno sharpens the point. The problem is not that mitzvot lack value. It is that their value lies elsewhere. A mitzvah does not erase an aveirah because the two belong to different moral categories. A good deed remains good; a transgression remains harmful. One does not undo the other. (Sforno to Devarim 10:17).
At this stage, the picture of “bribery” begins to change. We are no longer speaking of an envelope of money slipped under the table, but of a pattern in which a person attempts to use a mitzvah as a shield against accountability. Instead of facing the wrongdoing and repairing it, one offers a different good deed and hopes that it will suffice.
Yet Sforno immediately adds an equally important qualification. The Torah does not trap a person forever within his failures. It does not deny the possibility of forgiveness. What it denies is the attempt to reach forgiveness without teshuvah. Charity cannot substitute for teshuvah. Torah study cannot substitute for teshuvah. Additional mitzvot cannot substitute for teshuvah. The answer to wrongdoing is not compensation but transformation. As Sforno writes, escape from punishment comes only through complete repentance.
The Torah’s rejection of bribery is therefore not a rejection of mercy. It is a rejection of shortcuts. A “bribe” is any attempt to offer something good in order to avoid dealing with something wrong. It is not the extra mitzvah that stands alongside teshuvah and deepens one’s relationship with God. It is the mitzvah that is offered in place of teshuvah, as if the two could be exchanged. In this sense, “He takes no bribe” is not only a statement about the incorruptibility of divine judgment. It is also a statement about the integrity of divine compassion. The God who protects the orphan, widow, and stranger protects them because His justice cannot be diverted by those who seek to buy their way out of truth.
At this point we might think that the picture is complete. God’s justice cannot be bribed. Mitzvot do not cancel aveirot. Teshuvah, and only teshuvah, addresses failure. The Torah’s insistence that God “takes no bribe” thus guards both the integrity of judgment and the integrity of compassion. Yet the Torah itself introduces an additional element that seems, at first, to complicate matters. On the one hand, we are told that God “does not show favor.” On the other hand, in Birkat Kohanim we recite:
“May the Lord lift His face toward you and grant you peace.” (Bamidbar 6:26).
The phrase “lift His face” evokes precisely what the earlier verse seemed to deny. If God “does not show favor,” how can we ask that He do exactly that?
The Gemara in Berakhot brings this tension to the fore. The ministering angels turn to God and ask: Your Torah says that You do not show favor, and yet You show favor to Israel. God’s answer is well known, but its implications are easily underestimated:
“How can I not show favor to Israel? I wrote in My Torah, ‘You shall eat and be satisfied and bless the Lord your God,’ yet they are meticulous with themselves and bless even on a kezayit (size of an olive) or a kebeitzah (size of an egg).” (Berakhot 20b).
On its surface, the response seems puzzling. The Torah’s obligation of Birkat HaMazon is framed in terms of satiation: “You shall eat and be satisfied and bless.” The Gemara notes that Israel often bless even after eating amounts that fall short of full satiation – a kezayit or a kebeitzah. For this they are said to be “worthy of favor.”
We might initially understand this as a technical detail. Israel are praised because they perform an act that exceeds the strict requirement. But that reading does not yet explain why this particular act should be so central to the notion of nesiat panim.
Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Peshischa, in Kol Simcha, offers an explanation that shifts the entire discussion. When a person blesses over a small amount of food, he is not merely adding another religious act to his day. He is demonstrating that the relationship matters more than the gift. Gratitude for a banquet may reflect appreciation for the food itself. Gratitude for a kezayit reveals that the thankfulness is directed toward the One who provided it.
Anyone can recognize abundance. Anyone can say “thank you” when the table is full. The test of relationship lies elsewhere. It lies in the capacity to notice small gifts, to view them not as negligible but as significant precisely because they are expressions of care. When Israel bless even on a kezayit or a kebeitzah, they show that their attention is not fixed only on the magnitude of the gift. It is attuned to the presence of the Giver.
Read in this light, God’s answer to the angels becomes clearer. The question was framed in terms of “favor.” Why should Israel be singled out? God’s response does not introduce a new legal calculus. It points to a different dynamic entirely. Israel’s behavior reveals that the covenant between them and God is not a matter of minimal compliance. It is a relationship in which gratitude seeks opportunities to express itself even when no obligation demands it.
This does not mean that judgment has been suspended. The Gemara does not say that because Israel bless on small amounts of food their aveirot are erased. It does not suggest that Birkat HaMazon on a kezayit functions as a “bribe” in the courtroom. Rather, it reveals that there is a second language at play – a language in which God’s response is shaped by the quality of the relationship as well as by the facts of the case.
It is precisely here that other talmudic discussions begin to shed light on the distinction. The Gemara in Niddah and in Rosh Hashanah resolves the apparent contradiction between “He does not show favor” and “May the Lord lift His face toward you” by distinguishing between before a heavenly decree has been sealed and after it has been sealed. Before the decree, there is room for “favor”; after the decree, there is not (Niddah 70b; Rosh Hashanah 18a). Tosafot, commenting on this distinction, note that it does not conflict with the teaching in Berakhot. The angels’ question in Berakhot concerns the moment before judgment has been finalized. Their puzzle is not how God could alter a verdict once it has been rendered, but why He grants a unique kind of favor to Israel at the stage when His posture toward them is still in formation. Tosafot explain that the answer lies in Israel’s own conduct. They themselves behave – beyond the strict letter of the law – and God’s response reflects that posture (Tosafot to Niddah 70b, s.v. kan kodem gezar din).
The contours of the distinction now come into view. What emerges from these sources is not a contradiction within the Torah’s view of God but a distinction between two different realms. One is the realm of judgment, in which actions are weighed and verdicts rendered. There, bribery and favoritism have no place. The other is the realm of covenant, in which love, gratitude, and devotion shape the relationship between God and Israel. Confusion arises only when the categories are collapsed into one another. A bribe attempts to introduce the language of relationship into the courtroom. Nesiat panim - bestowing favor - reflects the vitality of the covenant without compromising the integrity of judgment.
Bribery belongs to the courtroom, where it seeks to corrupt judgment; nesiat panim belongs to the covenant, where it expresses the vitality of the relationship.
Chazal themselves were sensitive to the possibility that these categories might become confused. The Mishnah in Megillah teaches that Birkat Kohanim is read but not translated, and Rashi explains that otherwise people might mistakenly conclude that God simply plays favorites. They would fail to understand that Israel are worthy of such favor (Megillah 25b; Rashi ad loc.). The text is therefore preserved in its original language, so that nesiat panim will be heard as covenantal, not as a distortion of justice.
The Netziv’s comment on our verse offers a further refinement. In Ha’amek Davar (Devarim 10:17), he asks what kind of conduct could even be imagined as a “bribe” toward God. Simple fulfillment of mitzvot cannot qualify. Performing what one is obligated to do is not a gift; it is fidelity to the covenant. Where, then, might bribery enter? The Netziv suggests that the verse alludes to a different type of behavior: acts that rise above ordinary expectations, forms of piety that appear exceptional, even heroic. They might be seen as a kind of “offering” beyond the basic requirements of the law. Yet, he warns, such excellence cannot excuse neglect in areas where the Torah does in fact obligate. One cannot appeal to personal stringencies in one realm as compensation for failures in another. Extraordinary devotion does not erase ordinary responsibility.
Indeed, one could argue that the Netziv is extending the very logic of the earlier commentaries. A mitzvah cannot function as a bribe because excellence in one area cannot compensate for neglect in another. The temptation is subtle. The more impressive the act, the easier it becomes to imagine that it may offset less visible failures. The Netziv insists that the Torah rejects precisely this sort of moral accounting. Spectacular piety does not purchase leniency where basic obligations have been ignored.
Placed against the backdrop of our earlier distinction, this teaching becomes even clearer. The covenant certainly has room for excellence. It welcomes those who seek to live beyond the letter of the law. But it does not allow excellence in one dimension to function as a shield against truth in another. Bribery is precisely that attempt: to use a good in one area to avoid confronting a wrong in another. The Torah’s “does not accept a bribe” closes that door.
It is not difficult to see how these categories extend beyond the realm of formal service of God, into the texture of human relationships. The courtroom/covenant distinction is not only a theological framework. It is also a lens through which we can examine the way we live with one another.
Consider marriage.
At its core, marriage is a covenant. It is not simply a contract, nor merely an arrangement of shared responsibilities. It is a relationship in which two people commit to live in faithfulness, openness, and mutual care. Within that space, the categories of bribery, teshuvah, and nesiat panim acquire new, human forms.
There are, first, the “courtroom” elements of marriage: the obligations that define basic integrity. These include honesty, fidelity, reliability, and the ordinary work of sustaining a home. When these are compromised, something fundamental has been damaged. In that realm, the logic of “no bribe” applies. No bouquet of flowers, no generous gift, no dramatic gesture can erase the need to confront what has gone wrong.
At the same time, there is the covenantal dimension of marriage: the warmth, the gratitude, the countless acts of kindness that are not required by any written agreement. Here, nesiat panim- bestowing favor - has a place. When husband and wife live in a way that looks beyond the minimum, noticing each other’s efforts, expressing appreciation for small gestures, and creating moments of joy that no rule demands, the relationship deepens. Each begins to see the other not merely as someone who fulfills obligations, but as someone who delights in giving.
It is here that a simple story can be illuminating.
Many years ago, I bought my wife a particularly beautiful bouquet of flowers in the Machane Yehuda market. As I walked through the shuk, I noticed that the bouquet drew attention. The women who saw it seemed to divide, at least in my imagination, into two groups. Some looked at the flowers and seemed to think, “What a lovely gesture. I wish my husband would buy me a bouquet like that.” Others looked at me with a slightly different expression, as if wondering, “I wonder what he did wrong that he needed such an impressive bouquet.”
The bouquet itself had not changed. What shifted was the story projected onto it. In one reading, it was a gift arising from affection. In the other, it was a kind of compensation, a sign that something had gone wrong and now needed to be “made up for.” The difference lay not in the flowers but in the imagined relationship.
The Torah’s categories help us name that difference. When gifts appear only in the wake of wrongdoing and are used in place of honest conversation and repair, they come dangerously close to the realm of bribery. They are attempts to offer something good so that the difficult work of teshuvah may be avoided. But when gifts emerge as part of a steady pattern of affection, gratitude, and kindness – when they are woven into a life in which truth is spoken and wrongs are addressed – they belong to the covenantal realm. They are expressions of love, not efforts to manipulate judgment.
The Gemara in Berakhot can now be heard as describing a similar dynamic, transposed into the relationship between Israel and God. When Israel bless even on a small amount of food, they are not trying to purchase leniency. They are acting from within the covenant, saying in effect: “We notice Your gifts, even when they are small. We cherish the relationship, not only the abundance.” God’s “favor” in response does not erase the demands of justice. It affirms the depth of the bond.
This brings us back to the two blessings that stand at the center of our discussion: Birkat HaMazon and Birkat Kohanim. Arguably, these are the only two blessings explicitly mandated by the Torah itself. One might perhaps add Birkat HaTorah, but Birkat HaMazon and Birkat Kohanim nevertheless occupy a unique place within the Torah's spiritual vocabulary
On one level, they occupy very different positions. Birkat HaMazon begins with human beings who have eaten and are satisfied. The Torah commands them to bless. That blessing rises from below, from the table, from the experience of receiving. God gives; we respond.
Birkat Kohanim, by contrast, begins above. The Kohanim recite the words, but the blessing itself is portrayed as coming from God. As Ramban notes, the Kohanim become channels through which divine speech descends. The text is explicit:
“Thus they shall place My name upon the children of Israel, and I shall bless them.” (Bamidbar 6:27).
Birkat HaMazon and Birkat Kohanim thus move in opposite directions. The former begins with human beings who have received and now respond with gratitude. The latter begins with God, whose blessing descends upon His people. One rises upward from earth to heaven; the other descends from heaven to earth. One is gratitude, the other grace.
What the Gemara in Berakhot teaches us is that these movements are not independent. The favor expressed in Birkat Kohanim is, in some sense, a response to the gratitude expressed in Birkat HaMazon. When Israel bless even for small gifts – a kezayit, a kebeitzah – they reveal a covenantal posture. They are not counting only in terms of sufficiency. They are attentive to relationship. In turn, God “lifts His face” toward them, not because justice has been overridden, but because love has been reciprocated.
The symmetry is striking. In a healthy marriage, something similar occurs. There are moments in which one partner gives without being asked, offering support, kindness, or joy that cannot be claimed as a right. There are moments in which the other responds not merely by accepting the gift, but by expressing gratitude in ways that far exceed what could be demanded. Over time, those two movements – giving and gratitude – reinforce one another. The home becomes a place in which blessing flows both upward and downward.
Bribery, in this picture, is the attempt to redirect those movements into the wrong realm. It is the effort to use a gift to erase a debt, to use a gesture to silence a truth, to use an act of piety to avoid confronting a failure. The Torah’s insistence that “He takes no bribe” thus guards us against a confusion that can damage both our relationship with God and our relationships with one another.
Nesiat panim, by contrast, is the recognition that when a covenant is lived with attention and love, God’s response – and our own responses to each other – are shaped not only by the ledger of obligations but by the presence of affection. It does not cancel justice. It accompanies it.
If we return, finally, to Moshe’s initial description in Parashat Eikev, we can see the arc more clearly. The Torah begins with fear of God, walking in His ways, love, service, and mitzvot “for your good.” It then speaks of a God who does not show favor and does not take bribes, who nevertheless upholds the cause of the orphan and widow and loves the stranger. It ends, in our discussion, with blessings that move both upward and downward, with a people who bless for small gifts, and with a God who lifts His face toward them.
Between these points lies the path of covenantal life. In that life, we are called to reject the shortcuts of bribery, to embrace the hard but liberating work of teshuvah, and to cultivate the small, seemingly “unnecessary” acts of gratitude and kindness that allow nesiat panim to flourish. In our relationship with God, this means noticing His gifts and blessing Him even when they appear small. In our marriages and homes, it means noticing each other’s efforts and responding with affection that does not wait for obligation.
Bribery belongs to the courtroom. Nesiat panim belongs to the covenant.
And a covenant, whether between God and Israel or between husband and wife, is sustained not only by justice, but by love.
