Thursday, September 11, 2025
Parashat Ki Tavo: Be Happy
Parashat Ki Tavo: Be Happy
Rabbi Ari Kahn
This week’s parashah opens with a vision of arrival: “And it shall be when you come to the Land…” (Devarim 26:1). The Torah describes a special mitzvah to be performed upon entering the Land of Israel—the offering of bikkurim, the first fruits. But this mitzvah is not merely agricultural or ceremonial. It is deeply spiritual and educational.
The farmer brings his fruits to Jerusalem, but he also brings his story. He recites a declaration that begins with “Arami oved avi”—a passage familiar from the Passover Haggadah. This declaration recounts our national journey from slavery to redemption, from Egypt to the Promised Land. The Torah is crafting what we might call historical consciousness—a spiritual memory that transcends generations [1].
Children born in freedom must be taught about slavery. Those raised in prosperity must learn about suffering. The mitzvah of bikkurim is not just about gratitude for the harvest; it is about contextual gratitude—recognizing the divine hand in our history and our present.
And then, the Torah adds a surprising command: “You shall rejoice in all the good that Hashem your God has given you” (Devarim 26:11). Not a suggestion. A command. Be happy.
How can happiness be commanded? Isn’t joy an emotion, spontaneous and elusive?
Later in the parashah, we encounter the terrifying tochacha—a litany of curses that will befall the nation for its disobedience. Among the reasons given is this: “Because you did not serve Hashem your God with joy and gladness of heart…” (Devarim 28:47). Apparently, joy is not optional. It is essential.
The Arizal, Rabbi Yitzchak Luria, taught that all his spiritual achievements were rooted in one principle: serving God with joy [2]. His student, Rabbi Chaim Vital, recorded that the Arizal’s mystical insights were not the result of asceticism or suffering, but of happiness in divine service.
We can all fulfill mitzvot. The question is: do those mitzvot transform us? Do they deepen our relationship with God? Do they bring us joy?
And here lies the paradox of our generation. We live in unprecedented comfort. We have more material goods than any previous generation. And yet, depression and dissatisfaction are rampant. What went wrong?
We focus on what we lack, not on what we have. This spiritual malady dates back to Eden. Adam and Chava were given access to every tree in the garden—except one. And that one tree became their obsession. The serpent’s strategy was simple: fixate on the forbidden [3].
The mitzvah of bikkurim is a tikkun—a spiritual repair—for that original sin. Instead of obsessing over what we cannot have, we celebrate what we do have. We bring our first fruits, not our last. We rejoice in the beginning, not just the end.
So perhaps the question is not whether the glass is half full or half empty. Perhaps the real insight is this: we have all the water we need, and God gave us a very large glass.
Let us teach our children to rejoice. Let us cultivate historical consciousness and spiritual gratitude. Let us serve God with joy. And if we do, perhaps we will merit not only divine blessing—but truly happy lives.
Footnotes:
[1]: See Ramban on Devarim 26:5, who emphasizes the importance of recounting the Exodus as part of the bikkurim declaration. [2]: Shaar HaGilgulim, Introduction by Rabbi Chaim Vital. [3]: Bereishit 3:6, and commentary of Sforno and Meshech Chochmah on the psychological manipulation of the serpent.
Coming to the Land (Based on a Lecture of Rabbi Ari Kahn)
Coming to the Land (Based on a Lecture of Rabbi Ari Kahn)
This week’s parashah, Ki Tavo, opens with a powerful phrase:
“And it shall be, when you come into the land which Hashem your God gives you as an inheritance…” (Devarim 26:1).
The Torah is not merely describing a geographical relocation—it is describing a spiritual arrival. The Land of Israel is not just a place; it is a divine gift, a fulfillment of ancient promises made to our forefathers.
For me, this parashah carries personal resonance. Thirty-four years ago, my family and I made aliyah. We left America on September 11, 1984—a date that held no particular significance at the time—and arrived in Israel on September 12. That Shabbat, we heard Parashat Ki Tavo read in shul. The timing felt providential. We had just arrived in the land, and the Torah was speaking directly to us: “When you come into the land…”
The First Mitzvah: Bikurim
The first mitzvah mentioned in this parashah is the offering of bikkurim, the first fruits. The farmer brings his produce to Jerusalem and recites a declaration that recounts our national history—from wandering to slavery, from Egypt to redemption (Devarim 26:5–10). This ritual is not just agricultural; it is deeply spiritual. It cultivates two essential forms of consciousness:
- Historical consciousness – recognizing the journey that brought us here.
- God-consciousness – acknowledging the divine hand in our success.
This dual awareness is critical. Without historical memory, we risk ingratitude. Children born into comfort may not realize the sacrifices of previous generations. The mitzvah of bikkurim ensures that we remember.
A Tikkun for the First Sin
There is a deeper layer to this mitzvah. The mystical tradition notes that the first sin in human history involved fruit. Adam and Chava were commanded not to eat from one particular tree—and they did. The serpent’s temptation was theological:
“For God knows that on the day you eat of it, you will be like God…” (Bereishit 3:5).
The sin was not just disobedience—it was a failure of appreciation. Adam blames Chava, and by extension, blames God:
“The woman whom You gave to be with me—she gave me of the tree…” (Bereishit 3:12).
Rashi comments that Adam was kafui tov—ungrateful for the good God had given him [1].
The mitzvah of bikkurim is a tikkun, a spiritual repair. It is an act of hakarat hatov, recognizing the good. We bring our fruits and say thank you—not just for the produce, but for the journey, the land, and the divine providence that brought us here.
God in Search of Man
After Adam’s sin, God does not abandon him. Instead, God seeks him out:
“Where are you?” (Bereishit 3:9).
This is not a question of location—it is a question of relationship. My father, Rabbi Pinchas Kahn, wrote about this dynamic in his essays on the Book of Yonah. Yonah runs away, but God pursues him—not to punish, but to reconnect. It is the tender image of a parent chasing after a child, still holding out a lunch bag, still caring.
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel famously wrote about “God in Search of Man.” When we stop seeking God, He begins seeking us. The mitzvah of bikkurim is our response. It is our way of saying: We see You. We remember. We are grateful.
The Present Moment: Hayom Hazeh
The parashah continues with a series of verses emphasizing the present tense:
“This day, Hashem your God commands you…” (Devarim 26:16).
“You have affirmed this day…” (26:17).
“Hashem has affirmed you this day…” (26:18).
This repetition of hayom hazeh—“this day”—creates a sense of immediacy. The covenant is not ancient history. It is happening now.
The language echoes the Shema:
“…with all your heart and with all your soul.”
We are called to live with full presence, full commitment. The relationship between God and Israel is described as one of exclusivity and sanctity:
“To be His treasured people… to be a holy people to Hashem your God…” (Devarim 26:18–19).
A New Beginning
Coming to the Land of Israel is not just a physical relocation—it is a spiritual transformation. It requires appreciation, memory, and presence. The mitzvah of bikkurim teaches us to say thank you, to remember our journey, and to recognize God’s hand in our lives.
Unlike Eden, where the lack of appreciation led to exile, here we are called to build a new reality—one rooted in gratitude and holiness. This is the beginning of a new chapter. And it begins hayom hazeh—this very day.
Coming to the Land – Covenant and Consecration
In the previous section, we explored the mitzvah of bikkurim as a spiritual response to entering the Land of Israel—an act of gratitude and historical consciousness. Now, the Torah shifts from the personal to the national, from the farmer’s offering to the people’s covenant.
A National Covenant: Writing, Building, Rejoicing
Immediately following the mitzvah of bikkurim, the Torah outlines a national ceremony to take place upon crossing the Jordan River:
“On the day you cross the Jordan into the land that Hashem your God is giving you, you shall set up large stones and coat them with plaster. You shall write upon them all the words of this Torah…”
(Devarim 27:2–3)
This act of inscribing the Torah on stone is followed by another command:
“You shall build there an altar to Hashem your God… and offer burnt offerings and peace offerings… and you shall rejoice before Hashem your God.”
(Devarim 27:5–7)
The sequence is striking: write, build, sacrifice, rejoice. The Ibn Ezra (on Devarim 27:5) emphasizes that the first mitzvah upon entering the land is not merely the writing of the Torah, but the building of a new altar—a mizbeach chadash—as an act of hakarat hatov, gratitude to God for allowing us to begin life in the land.
This is, in essence, a chanukat habayit, a consecration—not of a private home, but of a national existence. Just as we dedicate a new home with blessings and joy, so too the Jewish people dedicate their new life in the land with offerings and celebration.
The Joy of Covenant
The Torah repeats a remarkable phrase:
“You shall rejoice before Hashem your God.”
(Devarim 27:7)
This command appears multiple times in the parashah. Joy is not optional—it is part of the covenantal experience. The olahoffering represents total dedication to God, while the shlamim offering symbolizes peace and partnership. Together, they express a relationship of intimacy and gratitude.
A New Covenant in Moav
Later in the parashah, we encounter a surprising statement:
“These are the words of the covenant that Hashem commanded Moshe to make with the Children of Israel in the land of Moav, in addition to the covenant He made with them at Chorev.”
(Devarim 28:69)
Why is a new covenant necessary? Didn’t we already receive the Torah at Sinai?
Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik suggests that this is a generational renewal. The covenant at Sinai was made with the generation that left Egypt. Now, a new generation stands poised to enter the land. They must affirm the covenant for themselves.
This idea may also explain the institution of Hakhel, the national assembly every seven years, where the Torah is read aloud to the entire nation (Devarim 31:10–13). Hakhel serves as a periodic reaffirmation of the covenant, ensuring that each generation hears, accepts, and internalizes the Torah anew.
Covenant as Contract: The Role of the Tochacha
Rashi (on Devarim 28:69) explains that the covenant in Moav includes the tochacha—the rebuke and consequences for disobedience. This is not merely a warning; it is part of the contractual structure of the covenant. A true covenant requires clarity: both sides must understand the terms, the obligations, and the consequences.
This echoes a fascinating debate among the commentators regarding the phrase Na’aseh v’nishma—“We will do and we will hear” (Shemot 24:7). Rashi sees it as a declaration of unconditional commitment. The Ramban, however, argues that it followed the detailed laws of Parashat Mishpatim, implying informed consent. The Chizkuni goes further, suggesting that even the tochacha in Vayikra was included in the original covenant—making it a kind of spiritual prenuptial agreement.
Consecrating a New Reality
The entry into the Land of Israel is not just a historical event—it is a theological moment. It demands gratitude, joy, and covenantal clarity. The building of the altar, the offerings, and the public inscription of the Torah all serve to consecrate a new reality: the Jewish people living in their land, under the sovereignty of God.
This is not merely about territory. It is about identity. It is about affirming who we are, where we come from, and what we are called to become.
Covenant Renewed, Zion Remembered
We return to a central question: Why is there a second tochacha—a second rebuke—in Sefer Devarim, when one already appears in Vayikra? One answer, though uncomfortable, is straightforward: the first covenant was broken. Like any contract, when violated, it must be renewed. The second tochacha is not merely a repetition—it is a response to failure.
But there is a deeper layer. The tochacha in Vayikra completes the covenant at Sinai. It is the conclusion of Matan Torah, not merely the giving of laws, but the articulation of consequences. Only after this covenantal structure is complete do the Israelites leave Sinai.
A Covenant for the Land
The second covenant, forged in the plains of Moav, is not simply a renewal—it is a new covenant for a new reality: life in the Land of Israel. While the Sinai covenant was about receiving the Torah, the Moav covenant is about living the Torah in the land.
This distinction is reflected throughout Sefer Devarim. Moshe repeatedly warns the people:
“You are crossing over… you are entering the land… make sure you keep the commandments.”
The Torah is not abstract. It is meant to be lived—in homes, in fields, in cities, in society.
Shema: A Zionist Declaration
This theme is embedded in the most central declaration of Jewish faith: the Shema.
“Hear, O Israel: Hashem is our God, Hashem is One.” (Devarim 6:4)
But what surrounds this verse?
Before the Shema, the Torah speaks of entering the land:
“This is the commandment… to be performed in the land you are crossing into…” (Devarim 6:1–3)
After the Shema, the Torah continues:
“And it shall be, when Hashem your God brings you into the land…” (Devarim 6:10)
The Shema is sandwiched between two Zionist messages. It is not merely a theological statement—it is a call to live a life of faith in the Land of Israel. The second paragraph of the Shema (Devarim 11:13–21) reinforces this:
“…so that your days and the days of your children may be prolonged on the land that Hashem swore to your ancestors…”
Signposts for Return: Yirmiyahu’s Message
The prophet Yirmiyahu, often associated with sorrow and exile, offers a poignant message:
“Set up signposts for yourself… mark the way… return, O virgin Israel…” (Yirmiyahu 31:20)
As the people leave the land, they are commanded to leave markers—to remember the path back. This is not just poetic. It is theological. Exile is not the end. Return is always possible.
The Ramban and the Sifrei: A Mitzvah to Return
Many attribute the idea of a mitzvah to live in the Land of Israel to the Ramban (Nachmanides). But this teaching is rooted in the Sifrei, the halachic midrash on Devarim. The Sifrei interprets the command to possess the land as a positive mitzvah—not just to conquer, but to settle and live in the land.
This mitzvah is not merely national—it is personal. It is about building homes, planting vineyards, raising families, and living a life of Torah in the land promised to our ancestors.
Covenant, Land, and Legacy
The second tochacha is not redundant—it is contextual. It is a covenant for a people about to enter their land. It is a reminder that Torah is not just received—it must be lived. The Shema, the covenant, the rebuke, and the promise are all part of a single message: the Land of Israel is central to Jewish destiny.
As we read Parashat Ki Tavo, we are reminded that our journey is not just historical—it is spiritual. We are called to remember, to rejoice, and to return. And when we leave, we must leave signposts—so that we, or our children, can always find the way back.
Here is Part 4 of the essay on Parashat Ki Tavo, completing the arc of covenant, exile, and return. This section focuses on the theological significance of mitzvot in exile, drawing from the Sifrei, Rashi, and Ramban, and refining the original lecture into a polished, source-based essay:
Mitzvot in Exile, Signposts for Return
We’ve seen how Parashat Ki Tavo outlines a covenantal vision for life in the Land of Israel. But what happens when that vision is interrupted—when the people are exiled from the land? What becomes of the mitzvot, and how do we maintain our identity?
The answer lies in a remarkable teaching from the Sifrei on the second paragraph of the Shema (Devarim 11:18–21), which commands us to bind tefillin, teach Torah, and affix mezuzot. The Sifrei comments:
“Even though I exile you from the land to outside of it, be distinguished through the mitzvot, so that when you return, they will not be new to you.”
(Sifrei Devarim 43)
This is a profound idea. The mitzvot we perform in exile are not merely obligations—they are signposts. They preserve our spiritual identity and prepare us for return.
Mitzvot as Markers of Memory
The Sifrei’s language echoes the prophet Yirmiyahu:
“Set up markers for yourself… set your heart on the path you walked… return, O virgin Israel…”
(Yirmiyahu 31:20)
Yirmiyahu is not speaking metaphorically. He is instructing the exiled nation to leave spiritual breadcrumbs—to maintain practices that will guide them home. The mitzvot become those markers. They are not just rituals; they are reminders.
The Mishnah and the Scope of Mitzvot
The Mishnah in Kiddushin (1:9) distinguishes between mitzvot that are dependent on the land (mitzvot teluyot ba’aretz)—such as agricultural laws—and those that apply everywhere, like tefillin and mezuzah. Yet the Sifrei adds a layer of meaning: even mitzvot that apply outside the land are meant to remind us that we are not home.
This is not exile as abandonment. It is exile as preparation. The mitzvot are not just duties—they are dress rehearsals for redemption.
The Royal Parable
The Sifrei offers a parable:
A king becomes angry with his wife and sends her back to her father’s house. But he tells her: “Continue to wear your royal garments and jewelry, so that when you return, it will not be unfamiliar.”
So too, God says to Israel: “Even in exile, be adorned with mitzvot, so that when you return, they will not be new to you.”
This is not just a metaphor. It is a theology of hope and continuity. The mitzvot are our royal garments. They remind us of who we are, even when we are far from home.
Rashi and the Ramban: Exile Is Not the End
Rashi, commenting on the same verse in Devarim 11:18, quotes the Sifrei almost verbatim:
“Even after you are exiled, be distinguished through mitzvot… so that they will not be new to you when you return.”
Ramban (on Devarim 11:18) expands this into a theological principle. He affirms that mitzvot like tefillin and mezuzah are obligatory everywhere, but adds:
“There is a deep secret here.”
The mitzvot performed in exile are not the ideal—they are preparatory. They are meant to keep us spiritually ready for the day we return to the land.
This “deep secret” (sod amok) is not mystical in the esoteric sense—it is profound in its simplicity: Exile is not permanent. Mitzvot are the bridge between dispersion and return.
Exile with Purpose
The Sifrei, Rashi, and Ramban all converge on a single message: Mitzvot in exile are not just obligations—they are orientation. They point us homeward. They remind us that we are not where we are meant to be, but also that we are not lost.
Every mezuzah, every tefillin strap, every whispered Shema is a signpost. A marker. A declaration that we remember, and that we are preparing to return.
As Parashat Ki Tavo reminds us, the covenant is not broken—it is waiting. And the mitzvot are the thread that ties us to our past, our land, and our future.
Here is Part 5 of the essay on Parashat Ki Tavo, continuing the exploration of mitzvot in exile, the sanctity of the Land of Israel, and the deeper theological implications found in the writings of the Ramban, Rashi, and the Sifrei:
Secrets, Sanctity, and the Sensitivity of the Land
The Ramban’s commentary on the Torah is filled with profound insights, and occasionally, he hints at something deeper—what he calls a “sod amok”, a deep secret. In his commentary on Devarim 11:18, the Ramban affirms that mitzvot apply outside the Land of Israel, but he emphasizes that their primary context and fulfillment is within the land. Exile is not the ideal. It is a temporary state, and mitzvot performed in exile are meant to preserve identity and prepare for return.
This idea is echoed in the Sifrei, which teaches that mitzvot like tefillin and mezuzah are to be kept in exile so that they will not be unfamiliar when we return to the land. The mitzvot are not just obligations—they are spiritual signposts, reminders of our true home.
The Ramban’s Secret and Its Interpreters
Two works attempt to unpack the Ramban’s “secret”:
- Rabbi Yitzchak of Akko, a student of the Ramban, claims to reveal what his teacher kept hidden.
- Menachem Recanati, a kabbalist, offers mystical commentary on the Ramban’s teachings, later expanded by the Lavush.
These works suggest that the Ramban’s emphasis on mitzvot in the land is not merely halachic—it is cosmic. The Land of Israel is not just holier—it is spiritually reactive.
The Land’s Sensitivity to Sin
In Vayikra 18, the Torah warns:
“Do not defile yourselves… for the nations before you defiled themselves, and the land became impure…”
(Vayikra 18:24–25)
This passage introduces a radical idea: the Land of Israel has a spiritual constitution. It cannot tolerate impurity. The nations that preceded Israel were expelled not merely because of moral failure, but because they polluted the land.
This is not conventional reward and punishment. It is spiritual incompatibility. The land itself reacts to sin. It is, as it were, intolerant—not of lactose or gluten, but of immorality and impurity.
Why Some Fear to Return
Some rabbinic voices have hesitated to encourage aliyah, arguing that the land is too holy for a generation not yet ready. The concern is that living in Israel without spiritual integrity risks defiling the land. Better, they argue, to remain in exile until the nation is spiritually prepared.
But this view overlooks a central truth: the Jewish people have never been permanently at home anywhere else. Exile is not a solution—it is a condition to be transcended. The mitzvot we perform in exile are meant to guide us back, not to keep us away.
Conclusion: The Land as Covenant Partner
The Torah presents the Land of Israel not just as a gift, but as a covenantal partner. It responds to our actions. It welcomes holiness and expels impurity. The mitzvot are not just duties—they are the language of that covenant.
The Ramban’s “deep secret” is this: the Land of Israel is the true home of the mitzvot. Outside the land, we rehearse. Inside the land, we perform. And every mezuzah, every tefillin, every prayer facing Jerusalem is a reminder that we are not yet home—but we are on the way.
Here is Part 6 of the essay on Parashat Ki Tavo, concluding the series with a reflection on the sanctity of the Land of Israel, the spiritual stature of its inhabitants, and the theological depth of the Ramban’s teachings:
The Palace of God and the People Within
A profound teaching from the Kabbalistic tradition suggests that the Land of Israel “spits out” those who do not deserve to dwell within it. This idea, rooted in Vayikra 18:28, implies that those who remain in the land are, by definition, tzaddikim—righteous individuals. It’s a humbling thought: the person who cuts you off in traffic, the stranger you pass on the street—each one may carry a story of sacrifice, suffering, and spiritual merit.
This land has been acquired not only through divine promise, but through blood, tears, and holiness. Every stone, every field, every home is steeped in the legacy of those who fought, prayed, and built. We walk among tzaddikim, even if we do not always recognize them.
The Land’s Spiritual Constitution
The Torah warns that the previous inhabitants of the land were expelled due to their immoral behavior:
“Do not defile yourselves… for the nations before you defiled themselves, and the land became impure and vomited them out.”
(Vayikra 18:24–28)
This is not simply divine punishment. It is a reflection of the land’s spiritual sensitivity. The Land of Israel is described by the Ramban as having a unique constitution—it cannot tolerate impurity. It is, as it were, spiritually allergic to sin.
This idea reframes our understanding of exile. It is not only about divine judgment—it is about spiritual incompatibility. The land itself reacts to moral failure.
Micromanagement in the Palace
The Ramban (on Vayikra 18) explains that while God governs the world through a system of angels and intermediaries, the Land of Israel is different. Here, God micromanages. The land is His palace, and sinning in the palace is fundamentally different from sinning elsewhere.
This is the “deep secret” the Ramban alludes to. The mitzvot are not merely obligations—they are the protocols of palace life. Living in Israel means living in proximity to the Divine. It demands a higher level of awareness, responsibility, and sanctity.
Yaakov’s Intuition and Rachel’s Fate
The Ramban connects this idea to a moment in Yaakov’s life. Upon returning to the Land of Israel, Yaakov commands his household to remove all foreign gods (Bereishit 35:2–4). The Ramban suggests that Yaakov intuitively understood the land’s intolerance for idolatry. What was permissible in exile was no longer acceptable in the land.
He goes further: Yaakov’s marriage to two sisters—permissible outside the land—becomes untenable upon entering it. And so, Rachel dies. The land demands purity, even from its greatest figures.
Living in the Palace
The Land of Israel is not just a homeland—it is a holy land, a palace of the Divine. Its spiritual sensitivity requires us to live with integrity, humility, and reverence. The mitzvot are not just commandments—they are the etiquette of living in God’s presence.
As we walk its streets, we must remember: we are guests in the palace. And those around us—no matter how ordinary they may seem—are fellow guests, fellow tzaddikim, each carrying a story of merit and meaning.
Yaakov’s Return, the GRA’s Vision, and the Spiritual Architecture of Zion
In Bereishit 35, Yaakov returns to the Land of Israel and is commanded by God to build a mizbeach—an altar. At first glance, this seems like a fulfillment of a vow: Yaakov had promised to build an altar upon his safe return. But upon deeper reflection, we realize something more profound is happening.
Yaakov’s return is not just personal—it is archetypal. He is doing exactly what the Jewish people are commanded to do in Parashat Ki Tavo: enter the land, build an altar, remove idolatry, and consecrate the space. As Ibn Ezra and Ramban understand it, this is not just ritual—it is covenantal. It is the spiritual architecture of return.
Yaakov as the Prototype of National Return
Yaakov’s actions mirror the national journey:
- He builds a mizbeach.
- He commands his household to remove foreign gods.
- He enters the land with reverence and responsibility.
The Ramban adds a tragic but profound layer: Rachel’s death. Outside the land, Yaakov could be married to two sisters. But upon entering the land, the spiritual constitution changes. The land cannot tolerate such a union. Rachel’s death is not just a personal loss—it is a theological necessity. The land demands purity.
The GRA’s Radical Insight: Mitzvot and Micromanagement
The Vilna Gaon (GRA), in his commentary on Devarim 32, goes even further than Ramban and Rashi. He asserts that even non-Jews living in the Land of Israel are bound by its spiritual laws. The land is not just holy for Jews—it is holy in itself. It demands moral integrity from all who dwell within it.
The GRA’s worldview is striking. He taught that God micromanages the Land of Israel, unlike other lands where divine providence operates more generally. In Israel, every detail matters. Every action reverberates. The land is a palace, and we are its guests.
The GRA and the Call to Return
More than any other figure in the last 200 years, the Vilna Gaon urged his students to make aliyah. He foresaw the destruction of European Jewry and insisted that Eretz Yisrael would be the safest place. He died in 1797, but his disciples laid the groundwork for the Ashkenazi return to Jerusalem.
The GRA also warned of spiritual resistance. He described how the Sitra Achra—the forces of spiritual opposition—would target the greatest leaders, blinding them to the truth of redemption. The messianic process, he taught, would unfold under the radar, through quiet acts of faith and courage.
The Three Vows and the Satmar Debate
The Gemara in Ketubot 111a speaks of three vows:
- That Jews should not ascend to Israel en masse.
- That they should not rebel against the nations.
- That the nations should not oppress the Jews excessively.
The Satmar Rebbe built a theological framework around these vows, arguing that Jews must wait for Mashiach before returning. But this position is difficult to sustain. The third vow has been violated repeatedly—during the Crusades, the Chelminitsky massacres, and the Holocaust. The contract, as it were, has been broken.
To deny the hand of God in the miracles of 1948, 1967, and beyond is to ignore the spiritual fingerprints on history. The success of the Israeli army, the survival of the Jewish state, and the flourishing of Torah in Israel are not accidents. They are open miracles, unfolding daily.
Conclusion: Flying Under the Radar Toward Redemption
The GRA’s vision is clear: redemption will come not through grand proclamations, but through quiet faithfulness. Through mitzvot, through aliyah, through building altars—literal and spiritual. The land is holy. The people within it are tzaddikim. And the journey home is not just historical—it is eternal.
Gertoshev, Mitzvot, and the Memory of Exile
The sanctity of the Land of Israel is not limited to its Jewish inhabitants. The Vilna Gaon (GRA) taught that even non-Jews living in the land are bound by its spiritual laws. This idea builds on the Torah’s warning that the land “vomits out” those who defile it (Vayikra 18:28). The nations that previously inhabited the land were expelled not merely because of moral failure, but because the land itself could not tolerate their impurity.
Who May Dwell in the Land? The Status of the Ger toshev
The Torah and Talmud recognize a category known as Ger toshev—a non-Jew who lives in the Land of Israel under certain conditions. The Gemara in Avodah Zarah 64b presents a three-way machloket (dispute) regarding the definition of a Gertoshev:
- Rabbi Meir: A Gertoshev is one who rejects idolatry. This minimal requirement reflects the land’s intolerance for idolatry above all else.
- Chachamim (Sages): A Gertoshev must accept the Sheva Mitzvot Bnei Noach—the seven Noahide laws, which include prohibitions against murder, theft, sexual immorality, and more.
- Acheirim (Others): A Gertoshev is one who accepts all mitzvot of the Torah, except for the prohibition against eating neveilot (non-slaughtered meat), based on the verse:
“You shall give it to the stranger in your gates…” (Devarim 14:21)
This third opinion is striking. It suggests that a Ger toshev may voluntarily accept additional mitzvot beyond the Noahide laws, creating a halachic framework for partial observance within a non-Jewish identity.
Halachic Implications: Writing Tefillin and Accepting Mitzvot
The Mishnah Berurah (Orach Chaim 32:3, Biur Halacha) discusses whether a Ger toshev may write tefillin. The halachic principle is that only one who is obligated in a mitzvah may perform it in a way that affects others (e.g., writing tefillin for others). The Mishnah Berurah defends the Magen Avraham, who permits a Gertoshev to write tefillin—if he has accepted the mitzvah upon himself.
This leads to a broader principle: voluntary acceptance of mitzvot creates obligation. The same applies to women, who are generally exempt from time-bound mitzvot. If a woman accepts the mitzvah of tefillin, she becomes obligated and may write tefillin.
This halachic flexibility reveals a deeper truth: the mitzvot are not just legal obligations—they are spiritual commitments. And those who choose to bind themselves to them, even partially, are elevated by that choice.
Mitzvot in Exile: A Torah Obligation with a Different Objective
The performance of mitzvot in chutz la’aretz (outside the Land of Israel) is a Torah obligation. But the objective is different. As the Sifrei and Ramban teach, mitzvot in exile serve as reminders—signposts that we are not yet home.
We wear tefillin, affix mezuzot, and recite the Shema not only because we are commanded, but because these acts preserve our identity. They remind us of the covenant, the land, and the promise of return.
The Land, the People, and the Path Home
The concept of Ger toshev reveals the inclusive sanctity of the Land of Israel. It is not just a homeland—it is a spiritual ecosystem, sensitive to purity, morality, and covenantal commitment. Whether Jew or non-Jew, those who dwell in the land must live with awareness of its holiness.
The mitzvot are not just laws—they are markers of memory, tools of transformation, and pathways home. And as we perform them—whether in exile or in the land—we affirm our place in the story, our role in the covenant, and our hope for redemption.
Signs, Sanity, and the Covenant of Home
The covenant forged in Parashat Ki Tavo is not merely a renewal—it is a new covenant for a new existence. The covenant at Sinai was about accepting the mitzvot. The covenant in the plains of Moav is about living those mitzvot in the Land of Israel.
This is not a repetition. It is a transformation. The Ramban and Ibn Ezra both understand that the Torah is describing a new reality—a life of holiness, rooted in the land, where mitzvot are not just obligations but expressions of divine intimacy.
The Ideal Relationship: Home Together
The Torah’s vision is clear: the ideal relationship between God and Israel is one of dwelling together in the land. Just as a husband and wife are meant to live together in their home, so too the Jewish people are meant to live in their land. Exile is a disruption. Return is restoration.
The mitzvot, especially those like tefillin, are meant to be performed in the land. Their full meaning is realized only in the context of covenantal presence.
Rabbi Nachman’s Parable: Signs of Sanity
Rabbi Nachman of Breslov tells a parable:
A king learns that the wheat crop has been poisoned. Anyone who eats it will go insane. His advisor suggests they eat from last year’s wheat. But then, they will be the only sane ones—and everyone else will think they are mad.
So they decide to eat the poisoned wheat like everyone else—but they will wear signs on their heads, so that when they see each other, they will remember: We are crazy.
This parable is a metaphor for exile. In exile, we live in a distorted reality. We eat the same wheat, speak the same language, live among the nations. But we wear tefillin—signs on our heads—to remind ourselves: We are not home. We are not whole. We are not where we are meant to be.
Tefillin as Tzionim: Signposts of Return
Tefillin are not just mitzvot. They are tzionim—signposts. They remind us of the covenant, the land, and the promise of return. In exile, they are markers of memory. In the land, they are expressions of fulfillment.
As Yirmiyahu taught:
“Set up signposts for yourself… mark the way…” (Yirmiyahu 31:20)
The mitzvot are those signposts. They guide us home.
Conclusion: Vindicating the Journey
Thirty-four years ago, I arrived in Israel on a Thursday morning. That Shabbat, we read Parashat Ki Tavo. Today, on another Thursday morning, I reaffirm that decision. The Land of Israel is not just a place—it is the home of the Jewish people. It is the context in which our covenant comes alive.
For those who may say this is too much Zionism—I offer no apology. The Torah itself is saturated with this message. The mitzvot, the Shema, the covenant, the land—they are all part of a single story. And that story is not just about where we came from. It is about where we are meant to be.
Ki Tavo: Averting Eviction - Essay
Ki Tavo: Averting Eviction
(Based on a lecture of Rabbi Ari Kahn delivered in September 2025)
This week, we read Parashat Ki Tavo. For me, this parashah carries personal resonance. When we made Aliyah, our last Shabbat in America was Ki Tetze, and our first Shabbat in Israel was Ki Tavo. That transition—between exile and home—mirrors the thematic shift embedded in the parashah itself.
Many instinctively recoil from Ki Tavo, associating it with the tochacha, the harrowing rebuke. But before we confront that litany of curses, we must attend to the structure and progression of the parashah, and indeed of Sefer Devarim as a whole.
Devarim: Not Mere Repetition
Though often described as a repetition, Devarim is not simply a restatement of earlier laws. It is a theological reframing. The repetition is primarily narrative, not legal. And as we approach the end of the book, a shift occurs: the Torah begins to articulate a national vision—a covenantal blueprint for life in the Land.
From Re’eh, which centers on the Beit HaMikdash and the concept of HaMakom asher yivchar Hashem, we move to Shoftim, which introduces national institutions—judges, kings, prophets. Then Ki Tetze addresses the complexities of war and civil society. These mitzvot are not merely personal or communal—they are national. They presuppose sovereignty.
For two millennia, we have lived without this reality. We have been Jews in exile, not a nation in our land. To speak of Torah observance without acknowledging this is to speak of a truncated Torah. The full corpus of mitzvot—particularly those tied to agriculture, governance, and sanctity of the Land—has been dormant.
Ki Tavo: Inheritance and Identity
The parashah opens with a declaration:
"וְהָיָה כִּי-תָבוֹא אֶל-הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר ה' אֱלֹקיךָ נֹתֵן לְךָ נַחֲלָה, וִירִשְׁתָּהּ וְיָשַׁבְתָּ בָּהּ"
“And it shall be when you come into the land which Hashem your God gives you as an inheritance, and you possess it and dwell in it.” (Devarim 26:1)
The verse does not merely speak of a divine gift—it speaks of nachalah, inheritance. This is not a transactional acquisition; it is a covenantal bequest. The land is not earned—it is inherited. But inheritance presupposes lineage. And lineage presupposes Sefer Bereshit.
You cannot read Ki Tavo without Bereshit. The patriarchal promises, the covenant with Avraham, the descent into Egypt, and the long arc of return—all culminate here. The land is not merely a place—it is the fulfillment of ancestral destiny.
Moshe and the Deuteronomist
Scholars often ask: what did the “Deuteronomist” know? But the Torah is not a redacted anthology—it is divine instruction. Moshe Rabbeinu speaks with Ruach HaKodesh. He knows Bereshit. He knows the covenantal arc. And Ki Tavo is his theological commentary on that arc.
The Land of Israel is not merely a possession—it is an inheritance. And inheritance implies lineage, continuity, and covenant. It presupposes a backstory, a sacred history that begins not with conquest but with promise.
"וְהָיָה כִּי-תָבוֹא אֶל-הָאָרֶץ… נַחֲלָה, וִירִשְׁתָּהּ וְיָשַׁבְתָּ בָּהּ"
“And it shall be when you come into the land… as an inheritance, and you possess it and dwell in it.” (Devarim 26:1)
The Torah’s language is deliberate: nachalah—inheritance—followed by viyarashta—you shall possess—and viyashavta—you shall dwell. This triad is not merely descriptive; it is prescriptive. It defines our orientation to the Land. To reject dwelling in the Land is to reject inheritance. It is to turn away from the divine bequest entrusted to our people.
This is not a political statement—it is a theological one. The Land is not earned through merit alone; it is received through covenant. And that covenant is rooted in Sefer Bereshit, in the promises made to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov.
Reshit and the Garden
The mitzvah of Bikkurim, the offering of first fruits, begins with the word reshit:
"וְלָקַחְתָּ מֵרֵאשִׁית כָּל-פְּרִי הָאֲדָמָה…"
“And you shall take from the first of all the fruit of the ground…” (Devarim 26:2)
The echo of Bereshit is unmistakable. The first fruits are not merely agricultural—they are theological. They are a tikkun, a rectification, for the primordial sin in Eden. There, humanity took the first fruit in defiance; here, Israel offers the first fruit in submission. The gesture is reversed. What was once theft becomes a gift. What was once rebellion becomes ritual.
The fruit is placed in a teneh—a basket. The Hebrew batene evokes the Aramaic, yet more familiar sal, the woven container carried on our shoulders. But this is no ordinary basket. It is a vessel of memory, a cradle of covenant.
Makom and Memory
The offering is brought to hamakom asher yivchar Hashem—the place which God will choose. This phrase, recurring throughout Devarim, signals the centralization of worship, the sanctification of space. The Land is holy, but within it is a holier place—a locus of divine presence.
The ritual continues with a declaration:
"וְעָנִיתָ וְאָמַרְתָּ לִפְנֵי ה' אֱלֹקיךָ: אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי…"
“And you shall declare before Hashem your God: ‘My father was a wandering Aramean…’” (Devarim 26:5)
This passage, more familiar from the Haggadah than from Bikkurim, is a liturgical retelling of our national origins. It links the avot—the patriarchs—with the banim—the children of Israel. It is a bridge between exile and redemption, between wandering and dwelling.
Ironically, the Arami oved avi text is more deeply embedded in our Passover ritual than in our agricultural one. In the Haggadah, it becomes a springboard for Torah she’be’al peh, for rabbinic expansion. In Bikkurim, it remains a fixed liturgical formula. Yet both serve the same purpose: to root our present in our past, to narrate our identity through memory.
Avot and Banim: A Tension of Inheritance
Here we arrive at the central tension: the relationship between the avot and the banim, between the ancestors who were promised the Land and the descendants who inherit it. The avot walked the Land as strangers; the banim dwell in it as heirs. But inheritance carries responsibility. To inherit is not merely to receive—it is to uphold, to preserve, to sanctify.
The Torah does not present this tension explicitly—but it is there, pulsing beneath the surface. The avot were nomads, pilgrims of promise. The banim are settlers, builders of covenantal society. The shift is profound. And Ki Tavo marks that shift.
Three Rituals, One Message
At the beginning of the parashah, we encounter three rituals. They are not random. Moshe is not emptying a bag of leftover mitzvot. These rituals are deliberate, thematic, and deeply connected to the transition from exile to sovereignty.
- Bikkurim – the offering of first fruits, a gesture of gratitude and memory.
- Viduy Ma’aser – the declaration of proper tithing, a statement of ethical integrity.
- Stones and Covenant – the inscribing of Torah on stones, a public affirmation of national identity.
Each ritual reflects a facet of covenantal life in the Land. Each is a response to the gift of inheritance. And each demands not only memory but responsibility.
The ritual of Bikkurim is not merely performative—it is cognitive, reflective, and transformative. It demands not only action but articulation. The declarative component forces the participant to develop historical consciousness—to trace the arc of divine providence, to understand how we arrived in the Land, and to express gratitude for that arrival.
This ritual links past and present, memory and mission. It is not enough to offer the fruit; one must narrate the journey. The declaration—Arami oved avi—is not a history lesson. It is a covenantal affirmation.
The Mitzvah of Joy
Following the declaration, the Torah commands:
"וְשָׂמַחְתָּ בְּכֹל הַטּוֹב…"
“And you shall rejoice in all the good…” (Devarim 26:11)
This mitzvah—to rejoice—may be the most difficult for our generation. It is not optional. It is not circumstantial. It is commanded. And it is communal. The joy must overflow, touching the Levi, the ger, the orphan, and the widow.
This joy is not self-contained—it is expansive. It is Avraham-like.
Avrahamic Generosity
Avraham is the archetype of covenantal generosity. He spreads joy. He shares divine blessings. He opens his tent to strangers. He embodies the ethic of chesed—lovingkindness.
The Torah’s insistence on joy and inclusion in Ki Tavo is a call to emulate Avraham. The rituals of Bikkurim and Ma’aser are not merely agricultural—they are ethical. They demand that we care for the disenfranchised, that we open our gates, that we become conduits of divine blessing.
"וְנָתַתָּ לַלֵּוִי וְלַגֵּר לַיָּתוֹם וְלָאַלְמָנָה…"
“And you shall give to the Levite, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow…” (Devarim 26:12)
This is not policy—it is prophecy. It is the Avrahamic ethic embedded in national law.
Inheritance and Deservedness
The Torah returns to the theme of inheritance:
"הַשְׁקִפָה מִמְּעוֹן קָדְשְׁךָ מִן הַשָּׁמַיִם, וּבָרֵךְ אֶת עַמְּךָ אֶת יִשְׂרָאֵל…"
“Look down from Your holy dwelling, from heaven, and bless Your people Israel…” (Devarim 26:15)
The verse concludes with a reminder: the Land is ours because God swore it to our ancestors. The tension between avot and banim persists. We inherit the Land, but we must deserve it. And deserving it means embodying the values of the avot.
Ramban: Walking in God's Ways
The Torah then shifts to a broader theological declaration:
"אֶת ה' הֶאֱמַרְתָּ הַיּוֹם לִהְיוֹת לְךָ לֵאלֹקִים, וְלָלֶכֶת בִּדְרָכָיו…"
“You have declared today that Hashem will be your God, and that you will walk in His ways…” (Devarim 26:17)
Ramban comments:
"שֶׁתַּעֲשׂוּ הַטּוֹב וְהַיָּשָׁר וְתִגְמְלוּ חֶסֶד אִישׁ לְרֵעֵהוּ…"
“That you shall do what is good and upright, and act with kindness toward one another…”¹
This is not ritual—it is moral. It is not about fulfilling all 613 commandments in technicality. It is about embodying divine attributes. It is about being Avraham-like.
Avot vs. Banim: A Theological Distinction
Chazal teach that the avot kept the entire Torah. But this cannot be literal. Yaakov could not have fulfilled all 613 mitzvot unless he was simultaneously a Kohen, Levi, and Yisrael; a man and a woman; a husband who gave a getand performed yibum and Halitzah. The claim is not about technical observance—it is about spiritual alignment.
The avot were mekayem et haTorah—they fulfilled its essence. They embodied its spirit. They walked in God’s ways. They were moral, upright, and kind.
This distinction is crucial. To be a ben—a child of Israel—is to be bound by law. To be an av—a patriarch—is to be bound by covenantal character. The Torah demands both.
A Dangerous Misreading
This theology is potent—and potentially dangerous. One might say: “I will be like Avraham. I will be kind. I do not need ritual.” But that is antinomianism. That is a rejection of halakhah. And that is not what the Torah teaches.
The Torah demands that we be banim—observant, law-bound, covenantal. But it also demands that we be avot—moral, generous, joyous. The tension is not a contradiction—it is a calling.
We are not called to be Avraham. Halavai—if only—we could. But that is not our mandate. Avraham Avinu is the hero of Sefer Mada, the section of Rambam’s Mishneh Torah devoted to knowing God. He is also the hero of Hilchot Teshuvah, particularly in Chapter 10, which speaks not of repentance but of love—ahavat Hashem.¹
Avraham’s greatness lies in his intuitive knowledge of God, his moral clarity, his capacity to arrive at truth without command. He contemplates the cosmos and concludes: there must be a Creator, and that Creator must be good.²
Why Not Just Be Like Avraham?
If Avraham is the ideal, why did God not simply say at Sinai: Be like Avraham?
Because we cannot. We are not Avraham. We are a nation, not a solitary seeker. We are flawed, distracted, vulnerable. We build golden calves. We fail the first test.
So God, in His kindness, gives us structure. He fills our days with mitzvot. He gives us ritual, rhythm, and law—not because we are perfect, but because we are not.³
The Kotzker Rebbe once said: I want chassidim who are too busy doing good to have time to do bad. That is the essence of halakhah. It is not merely a path to holiness—it is a safeguard against chaos.
The Third Ritual: Stones and Covenant
The third ritual in Ki Tavo is a one-time rite of passage: the inscribing of Torah on stones upon entering the Land.
"וְהָיָה בְּעָבְרְכֶם אֶת-הַיַּרְדֵּן תָּקִימוּ אֶת-הָאֲבָנִים הָאֵלֶּה…"
“And it shall be when you cross the Jordan, you shall set up these stones…” (Devarim 27:2)
This ritual is consecratory. It echoes Sinai. It mirrors the offerings of Olot and Shlamim brought during moments of covenantal renewal—at Sinai, at the Mishkan, and now at the threshold of the Land.⁴
But what is inscribed on the stones? Not the Aseret HaDibrot, as one might expect. That was already given in Parashat Va’etchanan. Instead, we receive a list of curses—arurim—each one condemning a violation of moral or ritual law.
Avraham the Iconoclast
The first curse:
"אָרוּר הָאִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יַעֲשֶׂה פֶסֶל וּמַסֵּכָה…"
“Cursed is the one who makes a graven image or molten idol…” (Devarim 27:15)
This is Avraham’s legacy. He is the iconoclast. He breaks his father’s idols. He rejects falsehood. He affirms the One.
The echo of Aseret HaDibrot is clear. But the context is different. This is not revelation—it is reaffirmation. It is not divine speech—it is a national declaration.
Avot and Banim: The Covenant Refracted
Once again, we encounter the tension between avot and banim. The avot walked the Land as seekers. The banimenter it as inheritors. The Avot embodied Torah before it was given. The banim receive Torah because they need it.
Moshe could have chosen any mitzvot to inscribe. He could have listed all 613. But he chooses a curated set—moral, ethical, foundational. Because entering the Land is not about technical observance alone. It is about covenantal consciousness.
As we continue through Parashat Ki Tavo, we encounter a series of arurim—curses—that form the backbone of a covenantal reaffirmation. These declarations, made at Har Eval, are not random prohibitions. They are a curated cluster of moral imperatives, echoing the foundational values of the Torah and the ethical legacy of Avraham Avinu.
Echoes of Sinai and the Aseret HaDibrot
The first curse:
"אָרוּר מַקְלֶה אָבִיו וְאִמּוֹ"
“Cursed is one who dishonors his father or mother.” (Devarim 27:16)
This takes us directly to the Aseret HaDibrot—honor your father and mother. The next:
"אָרוּר מַסִּיג גְּבוּל רֵעֵהוּ"
“Cursed is one who moves the boundary of his fellow.” (27:17)
This is theft, cloaked in deceit. We move from the right side of the Aseret HaDibrot—between man and God—to the left side—between man and man.
Then:
"אָרוּר מַשְׁגֶּה עִוֵּר בַּדָּרֶךְ"
“Cursed is one who misleads the blind.” (27:18)
This is Vayikra-language, classic bein adam lechavero. These are not ritual violations—they are ethical breaches.
Justice, Vulnerability, and Avraham’s Legacy
The list continues:
"אָרוּר מַטֶּה מִשְׁפַּט גֵּר יָתוֹם וְאַלְמָנָה"
“Cursed is one who perverts justice for the stranger, orphan, and widow.” (27:19)
This is Avrahamic. Avraham is the one who demands of God:
"הֲשֹׁפֵט כָּל-הָאָרֶץ לֹא יַעֲשֶׂה מִשְׁפָּט?"
“Shall the Judge of all the earth not do justice?” (Bereshit 18:25)
Avraham’s moral clarity is not passive—it is confrontational. He holds God to account. He embodies justice.
Sexual Ethics and National Survival
The next cluster of curses addresses sexual immorality:
- "אָרוּר שֹׁכֵב עִם אֵשֶׁת אָבִיו"
- "אָרוּר שֹׁכֵב עִם כָּל-בְּהֵמָה"
- "אָרוּר שֹׁכֵב עִם אֲחוֹתוֹ"
- "אָרוּר שֹׁכֵב עִם חוֹתָנְתוֹ"
These echo Vayikra 18, where the Torah warns:
"כְּמַעֲשֵׂה אֶרֶץ-מִצְרַיִם… וּכְמַעֲשֵׂה אֶרֶץ-כְּנַעַן…"
“Do not act like the practices of Egypt or Canaan…” (Vayikra 18:3)
These societies were expelled from the Land for these behaviors. The Torah warns: the Land will vomit out those who defile it.⁴
Avraham and Sarah both experience the moral depravity of Egypt firsthand. Sarah is abducted. Yosef is assaulted. These are not abstract warnings—they are lived experiences.
Avrahamic Decency as National Foundation
The final curse:
"אָרוּר אֲשֶׁר לֹא-יָקִים אֶת-דִּבְרֵי הַתּוֹרָה הַזֹּאת"
“Cursed is one who does not uphold the words of this Torah.” (27:26)
This is the summary. The Torah is not merely a legal code—it is a moral vision. And the entry into the Land is not merely geographic—it is covenantal.
The cluster of curses reflects the Sheva Mitzvot Bnei Noach: justice, sexual ethics, theft, idolatry. But it also reflects the ethical DNA of Avraham Avinu. When we enter the Land, we do not merely accept mitzvot—we reaffirm Avrahamic decency.
Ramban: Dual Covenants
In Devarim 28:9, the Torah promises:
"וְהָיָה ה' לְךָ לְעָם קָדוֹשׁ…"
“And Hashem will establish you as a holy people…”
Ramban comments:
“Either the covenant made at Sinai, or the covenant made with Avraham to be a portion to his descendants.”⁵
This is the dual covenant: Brit Avot and Brit Sinai. Rabbi Soloveitchik often spoke of this duality. The Brit Avrahamis identity; the Brit Sinai is an obligation. One is inherited; the other is accepted.
Ethics as Entry
The rituals of Ki Tavo culminate in a covenant. The blessings and curses are not threats—they are consequences. The Land is holy. It cannot tolerate moral corruption. To dwell in it, we must embody the ethics of Avraham and the obligations of Sinai.
This is not a tension—it is a synthesis. We are banim—children of the covenant. But we must also be avot—bearers of its moral legacy.
The themes of Ki Tavo—inheritance, covenant, and moral responsibility—are not isolated. They echo earlier passages in Sefer Devarim, particularly in Va’etchanan and Eikev. These sections articulate the same tension: the Land is promised to the descendants of Avraham, but it is not granted unconditionally. It must be deserved.
Not Because of Merit
"לֹא מֵרֻבְכֶם מִכָּל-הָעַמִּים חָשַׁק ה' בָּכֶם וַיִּבְחַר בָּכֶם…"
“Not because you are more numerous than all peoples did Hashem desire you and choose you…” (Devarim 7:7)
The Torah is explicit: Israel is not chosen for its greatness. In fact, "כִּי אַתֶּם הַמְעַט מִכָּל הָעַמִּים"—you are the fewest. The choice is rooted in love and in the covenant with the patriarchs.
"כִּי מֵאַהֲבַת ה' אֶתְכֶם… וּמִשָּׁמְרוֹ אֶת-הַשְּׁבוּעָה אֲשֶׁר נִשְׁבַּע לַאֲבוֹתֵיכֶם…"
“Because of Hashem’s love for you and His keeping of the oath He swore to your ancestors…” (7:8)
The promise is ancestral. The merit is not ours. But the responsibility is.
Inherited Promise, Earned Presence
"וְיָדַעְתָּ כִּי ה' אֱלֹקֶיךָ הוּא הָאֱלֹקִים הָאֵל הַנֶּאֱמָן…"
“Know that Hashem your God is the faithful God…” (7:9)
God keeps His side of the covenant. But Israel must keep theirs:
"וְשָׁמַרְתָּ אֶת-הַמִּצְוָה וְאֶת-הַחֻקִּים וְאֶת-הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים…"
“And you shall keep the commandment, the statutes, and the judgments…” (7:11)
This triad—mitzvah, chukim, mishpatim—recurs throughout Devarim. It is the structure that replaces the intuitive morality of the avot. They were not given mitzvot; we are. They lived by covenantal decency; we must live by halakhic detail.
The Danger of Self-Righteousness
"אַל-תֹּאמַר בִּלְבָבְךָ… בְּצִדְקָתִי הֱבִיאַנִי ה' לִרְשֹׁת אֶת-הָאָרֶץ…"
“Do not say in your heart… because of my righteousness Hashem brought me to possess the land…” (Devarim 9:4)
The Torah warns against spiritual arrogance. The Land is not ours because we are good. It is ours because the previous inhabitants were corrupt—and because of the promise to the avot.
"כִּי בְּרִשְׁעַת הַגּוֹיִם הָאֵלֶּה…"
“Because of the wickedness of these nations…” (9:5)
And yet, we are not innocent. We are "עַם קְשֵׁה-עֹרֶף"—a stiff-necked people. The term is repeatedly linked to the sin of the Golden Calf. We are not inherently deserving. We are recipients of mercy and covenant.
Avraham’s Decency vs. Israel’s Failure
The contrast is stark. Avraham is chosen for his emunah—his faith—and his chesed—his decency. Israel inherits the promise but fails the test. The sin of the Golden Calf is not a minor lapse—it is a betrayal of the very foundation of covenantal relationship.
"וּבְחֹרֵב הִקְצַפְתֶּם אֶת-ה'…"
“At Horeb you provoked Hashem to anger…” (Devarim 9:8)
And yet, God forgives. The covenant endures. But the terms change. We are no longer living by Avrahamic intuition—we are bound by Mosaic law.
The Contractual Model
The Torah’s response to Israel’s failure is legal structure. We are given mitzvot—not because we are righteous, but because we are not. It is like a landlord who rents to a tenant out of loyalty to the tenant’s grandparents, despite the tenant’s immediate damage. The solution? A detailed contract. A covenant with clauses, conditions, and consequences.
Avraham’s Torah: Two Views
The Talmud (Yoma 28b) records two views:
- Rav: Avraham kept the Sheva Mitzvot Bnei Noach.
- Shmuel: Avraham kept the entire Torah.
We often remember only the second. But the first is significant. It suggests that Avraham’s greatness was not in ritual observance, but in moral clarity. He kept the foundational laws of humanity—justice, sexual ethics, and monotheism.
Many sources refer to Torah before Sinai as the Aseret HaDibrot. This is not a full legal code—it is a moral compass. Avraham’s Torah is not halakhic—it is ethical.
Torah on Top of Decency
The rituals of Ki Tavo—Bikkurim, Ma’aser, Har Grizim, and Har Eval—are not merely ceremonial. They are affirmations of a deeper truth: Torah must rest on the foundation of Avrahamic decency. We accept all of Torah, but we must first be decent. We must first be just. We must first be faithful.
The Land is inherited through promise. It is preserved through righteousness.
The claim that Yaakov Avinu kept all 613 mitzvot is both beloved and problematic. In Parashat Vayishlach, Yaakov tells Esav:
"עִם-לָבָן גַּרְתִּי וָאֵחַר עַד-עָתָה"
“I lived with Lavan and delayed until now.” (Bereshit 32:5)
Rashi famously interprets “garti” as a hint to taryag—613—suggesting that Yaakov kept all the mitzvot even while in exile.
But this Rashi is contested. Some scholars note that this phrase does not appear in early manuscripts and may have been added later, possibly drawn from a late Midrashic source such as Lechach Tov. The idea that Yaakov kept all the mitzvot is not universally accepted—and for good reason.
Halakhic Impossibility
Yaakov marries two sisters—an explicit Torah prohibition (Vayikra 18:18). To claim he kept all 613 mitzvot is halakhically untenable unless we posit that the mitzvot were not binding outside the Land, or that pre-Sinai observance was spiritual rather than legal.
Indeed, the Ramban, Ibn Ezra, and Ba’alei Tosafot all grapple with this tension. Ramban suggests that Rachel’s death was a consequence of this transgression, as the Land of Israel cannot tolerate such behavior.
Spiritual Fulfillment vs. Legal Performance
The Talmud (Yoma 28b) records two views:
- Rav: Avraham kept the Sheva Mitzvot Bnei Noach.
- Shmuel: Avraham kept the entire Torah.
We often quote only the second, ignoring the first. But the first may be more historically accurate—and theologically profound. It suggests that the avot lived by a moral code, not a legal one. They were mekayem—they fulfilled the essence of Torah, not its technicalities.
The Izhbitzer’s Dangerous Beauty
The Mei HaShiloach (Izhbitzer Rebbe) dances near antinomianism. He suggests that mitzvot can obstruct true divine service. He even claims that Zimri was right and Pinchas was wrong—a deeply disturbing assertion.
Yet the Izhbitzer also offers profound insights. He sees the avot as operating on a higher spiritual plane, where mitzvot are unnecessary. They walk with God. They live in divine consciousness. They do not need the scaffolding of halakhah.
This is not a rejection of mitzvot—it is a recognition of spiritual hierarchy. The avot are the exception. We are the rule.
Messianic Vision and Avot Consciousness
In source 12, a description of the Messianic age emphasizes justice and knowledge of God—not ritual observance. This is striking. It suggests that the Messianic ideal is not halakhic maximalism but Avrahamic consciousness.
The avot lived in this consciousness. They did not need Eruv Tavshilin. They did not need Birkat HaMazon. They lived with God.
Why We Need Mitzvot
We are not the avot. We are not capable of sustained divine consciousness. We need reminders. We need structure. We need brachot.
The rabbis instituted blessings—not because the Torah required them, but because we did. Brachot create God-consciousness. They transform eating into worship, routine into ritual.
"בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה' אֱלֹקֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם…"
“Blessed are You, Hashem our God, King of the universe…”
This is not clutter—it is clarity. It is the scaffolding that holds up our spiritual lives.
The avot did not need Torah. We do. The Torah is not a burden—it is a gift. It is God’s response to our fragility, our forgetfulness, our failure.
We inherit the promise of Avraham. But to deserve it, we must live by the law of Moshe. We must build Avrahamic decency on the foundation of Sinaitic structure.
We need more God-consciousness. Not just in moments of prayer, but throughout the day. We need to think about God while eating, walking, working, and speaking. But we struggle. We forget. We compartmentalize.
Avraham did not. Avraham lived in constant awareness of God. His kindness was not performative—it was theological. He saw a world created in chesed and responded with chesed. He was God-like because he was God-conscious.
The Lease and Its Conditions
We are not Avraham. We mess up. We build golden calves. We forget the covenant. And yet, God lets us enter the Land—not because of our merit, but because of His friendship with our ancestors.
But the lease has conditions. The Land has rules. It cannot tolerate idolatry, immorality, or injustice. It is not ours by right—it is ours by covenant. And a covenant requires commitment.
The Tochacha: No Guarantees
The tochacha—the rebuke—is not a threat. It is a warning. There are no guarantees. The lease can be broken. The exile can return. The suffering can resume.
But before the tochacha, we are given three rituals:
- Bikkurim – Offering first fruits and remembering the avot.
- Ma’aser – Sharing with the disenfranchised.
- Har Grizim and Har Eval – Affirming moral decency and rejecting corruption.
Each ritual is a call to emulate Avraham. To be kind. To be just. To be joyous.
Avraham: The Rambam’s Hero
Avraham is the Rambam’s hero—not Moshe, not David. Because Avraham embodies yediat Hashem—knowledge of God. He lives in divine awareness. He acts with divine ethics. He is the model of what it means to be a religious human being.
The Messianic Age: A Return to Consciousness
In the Messianic age, the Torah describes a world filled with knowledge of God:
"כִּי מָלְאָה הָאָרֶץ דֵּעָה אֶת-ה' כַּמַּיִם לַיָּם מְכַסִּים"
“For the earth shall be filled with knowledge of Hashem as the waters cover the sea.” (Yeshayahu 11:9)
This is Avrahamic. It is not about Eruv Tavshilin. It is about divine awareness. Whether mitzvot will remain in the Messianic age is debated. But what matters is that mitzvot lead us to God—not away from Him.
Mitzvot as Means, Not Ends
Mitzvot are not clutter. They are scaffolding. They are the structure that supports our fragile spirituality. They are the reminders we need to stay connected.
The rabbis instituted brachot—blessings—not because the Torah required them, but because we did. Saying “Baruch Atah Hashem” before eating is not ritual—it is a relationship. It is a moment of gratitude, of awareness, of connection.
The Dual Relationship with the Land
The Land of Israel is ours—but it is also theirs. It is inherited—but it must be deserved. We are heirs—but we must prove ourselves worthy.
The rituals of Ki Tavo remind us: we are not just entering the Land—we are entering a covenant. And that covenant is built on Avrahamic decency and Mosaic law.
Conclusion: Deserving the Inheritance
To live in the Land, we must be more than descendants—we must be disciples. We must embody the ethics of Avraham and the obligations of Sinai. We must be kind, just, joyous, and God-conscious.
Thankfully, God gave us mitzvot. They keep us out of trouble. They keep us connected. They keep us deserving.
Shabbat Shalom.