Parshat Ki Tavo: Learning to See What We Have Been Given

Gratitude, Responsibility, and the Understanding That Comes With Time

Introduction — Learning to See

There are experiences we understand while they are happening, and others whose meaning becomes clear only much later. We can live through something, be changed by it, and still not fully recognize what it has given us or what it has asked of us. Time does not necessarily provide answers, but it can change the way we understand the questions.

This is especially true of the things that become familiar. What we once waited for can become something we expect. A relationship, an opportunity, a responsibility, even a blessing can remain present in our lives while our awareness of its significance begins to fade. Nothing has necessarily been lost, but we may no longer recognize its value in the same way.

Recognition requires more than noticing what is present. It asks us to remember where we came from, to consider what has been entrusted to us, and to decide what we will do with it. Some things become meaningful not at the moment we receive them, but through the way we carry them forward. Experience, memory, responsibility, and choice can all deepen our understanding of what we have received.

There are also things we cannot see at the beginning of a journey. Only after we have walked some distance can we look back and recognize what we were holding, what we overlooked, and what we understand differently than we once did. The circumstances themselves may not have changed. What changes can be our capacity to understand them more clearly.

I. Bikkurim — Receiving Without Forgetting

Ki Tavo begins at the moment toward which so much of the Torah has been moving. וְהָיָה כִּי תָבוֹא אֶל הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ נֹתֵן לְךָ נַחֲלָה וִירִשְׁתָּהּ וְיָשַׁבְתָּ בָּהּ — “And it shall be, when you come into the Land that Hashem your God gives you as an inheritance, and you possess it and settle in it” (Devarim 26:1). The people who had known slavery and wandering are preparing to possess land, establish homes, work the soil, and see the first fruits of their labor begin to grow.

It is precisely there that Moshe commands, וְלָקַחְתָּ מֵרֵאשִׁית כָּל פְּרִי הָאֲדָמָה... וְשַׂמְתָּ בַטֶּנֶא — “You shall take from the first of every fruit of the ground... and place it in a basket” (26:2). The farmer has prepared the ground, planted, tended, and waited. Before enjoying the first evidence of what that work has produced, he takes some of it to Yerushalayim. At the moment when accomplishment could most easily become self-sufficiency, the Torah introduces an act of recognition.

Rashi captures this in the farmer's declaration, הִגַּדְתִּי הַיּוֹם לַה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ כִּי בָאתִי אֶל הָאָרֶץ — “I declare today to Hashem your God that I have come to the Land” (26:3). Rashi explains: שאינך כפוי טובה — the declaration shows that one is not ungrateful for the good received. The farmer stands on his own land holding something he has grown, yet his words acknowledge that even the ground beneath his feet is something he was given.

Moshe asks him to look further back. אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי... וַיּוֹצִאֵנוּ ה׳ מִמִּצְרַיִם... וַיְבִאֵנוּ אֶל הַמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה — “An Aramean sought to destroy my father... Hashem brought us out of Egypt... and He brought us to this place” (26:5–9). Ramban emphasizes the acknowledgment of Hashem's kindness contained within this retelling. What appears to be the story of one farmer and his harvest is placed within a much larger story of vulnerability, exile, redemption, and promise. The present acquires meaning through memory.

The Land that one generation knew only as a promise could become, for another, simply the place where they lived. Bikkurim protects against that loss of perspective. Moshe does not ask the farmer to diminish his accomplishment, but to understand it within a larger story. The fruit cannot be understood apart from the Land, and the Land cannot be understood apart from the history that brought Israel there. His own labor remains real, but it exists within a story much larger than himself, one that asks him to remember what made his arrival possible.

II. Vidui Maaser — What Did You Do With What You Were Given?

At the completion of the maaser cycle, the farmer makes a declaration: בִּעַרְתִּי הַקֹּדֶשׁ מִן הַבַּיִת וְגַם נְתַתִּיו לַלֵּוִי וְלַגֵּר לַיָּתוֹם וְלָאַלְמָנָה... לֹא עָבַרְתִּי מִמִּצְוֹתֶיךָ וְלֹא שָׁכָחְתִּי — “I have removed the sacred portion from the house, and I have also given it to the Levi, the stranger, the orphan and the widow... I have not transgressed Your commandments, and I have not forgotten” (Devarim 26:13).

The farmer must account for his own actions. The produce Hashem gave him carried obligations toward others, particularly those who did not possess the same security he enjoyed. Gratitude for what we have received is incomplete if it never influences what we do with it.

Among the farmer’s declarations is וְלֹא שָׁכָחְתִּי — “and I have not forgotten.” Rashi, citing Chazal, explains this specifically as not having forgotten the required blessing. Its place within a much larger declaration gives the detail particular significance. Responsibility is not expressed only through great decisions. It is also found in remembering obligations that can easily be overlooked once something has become ours.

The declaration concludes with the farmer turning toward Hashem: הַשְׁקִיפָה מִמְּעוֹן קָדְשְׁךָ... וּבָרֵךְ אֶת עַמְּךָ אֶת יִשְׂרָאֵל — “Look down from Your holy dwelling... and bless Your people Israel” (26:15). Sforno connects this request for continued blessing with the fulfillment that precedes it. The farmer asks Hashem for continued blessing having accounted for how he used what was already entrusted to him.

III. Hayom — Making an Inherited Covenant Our Own

Moshe places unusual emphasis on the present: הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ מְצַוְּךָ לַעֲשׂוֹת אֶת הַחֻקִּים הָאֵלֶּה וְאֶת הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים — “This day Hashem your God commands you to perform these statutes and ordinances” (Devarim 26:16). The word הַיּוֹם — today appears again in the verses that follow: אֶת ה׳ הֶאֱמַרְתָּ הַיּוֹם... וַה׳ הֶאֱמִירְךָ הַיּוֹם — “You have distinguished Hashem today... and Hashem has distinguished you today” (26:17–18).

The repeated use of today is surprising. Israel's relationship with Hashem did not begin here. They had stood at Sinai forty years earlier, and the covenant itself reached back to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov. Yet Moshe speaks in the language of the present, as though something long established must still be encountered anew.

Rashi explains הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה with the words בכל יום יהיו בעיניך חדשים, כאילו בו ביום נצטוית עליהם — each day the commandments should appear new in your eyes, as though you were commanded them that very day. What was received in an earlier generation cannot depend solely upon the force of that original moment. Each generation, and each person within it, must encounter the obligation as something that speaks to them in their own present.

The following verses describe that relationship in reciprocal terms. Israel declares Hashem as its God and commits to walk in His ways, while Hashem declares Israel His עַם סְגֻלָּה, His treasured people. Sforno understands these verses as an expression of this mutual commitment. Covenant is more than something Israel possesses because of its history. It is a relationship expressed through the commitments made within it.

Much of what shapes us arrives before we are old enough to choose it: family, history, values, obligations, and identity. These things can be genuinely ours while still remaining largely inherited. הַיּוֹם asks that what we have received become something we consciously choose to carry, allowing an inherited identity to become part of who we choose to be.

IV. The Stones at the Jordan — Carrying What Matters Forward

Israel stands before a transition unlike anything the nation has known. וְהָיָה בַּיּוֹם אֲשֶׁר תַּעַבְרוּ אֶת הַיַּרְדֵּן אֶל הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ נֹתֵן לָךְ וַהֲקֵמֹתָ לְּךָ אֲבָנִים גְּדֹלוֹת... וְכָתַבְתָּ עֲלֵיהֶן אֶת כָּל דִּבְרֵי הַתּוֹרָה הַזֹּאת — “On the day that you cross the Jordan into the Land that Hashem your God gives you, you shall set up great stones... and write upon them all the words of this Torah” (Devarim 27:2–3).

Crossing the Jordan will change the circumstances of Jewish life. The wilderness had been a place of dependence, where food fell from heaven and the nation traveled together from place to place. Life in the Land will require planting and harvesting, building homes and communities, and assuming responsibilities that could not exist in the wilderness. At the threshold of that new reality, Moshe tells Israel to erect stones and write the Torah upon them.

Ramban understands the ceremony of the stones, altar, blessings, and curses as part of Israel’s acceptance of the covenant upon entering the Land. The timing matters. The covenant is not left behind as something belonging to Sinai or to the wilderness generation. It must accompany Israel into the life they are about to build.

Moshe commands that the words be written בַּאֵר הֵיטֵב — “very clearly” (27:8). Rashi, drawing upon Chazal, explains that the Torah was written in seventy languages. The Torah Israel carries forward cannot remain distant or inaccessible. It must be capable of speaking within the world they are entering.

A new stage of life changes the circumstances in which earlier lessons must be lived. What sustained Israel in the wilderness would need to find expression within the very different demands of life in the Land. The stones stand at the boundary between those two worlds. Israel will cross the Jordan, but the question is what will cross with them. Growth is measured not only by how far we have traveled from where we began, but by what we have learned is important enough to bring with us.

V. Gerizim and Eival — A Gift Does Not Decide What We Will Become

On entering the Land, Israel is commanded to participate in an extraordinary ceremony. אֵלֶּה יַעַמְדוּ לְבָרֵךְ אֶת הָעָם עַל הַר גְּרִזִים... וְאֵלֶּה יַעַמְדוּ עַל הַקְּלָלָה בְּהַר עֵיבָל — “These shall stand to bless the people on Mount Gerizim... and these shall stand for the curse on Mount Eival” (Devarim 27:12–13). The people who are about to inherit the promised Land are confronted with two radically different possibilities for what life within that Land can become.

Rashi, drawing upon Chazal, describes the physical arrangement of the ceremony. Some of the tribes stood on Mount Gerizim, others on Mount Eival, while the Levi’im stood between them. They turned toward Gerizim when pronouncing the blessings and toward Eival when pronouncing the curses. The geography itself gave visible form to the choice being placed before the nation. Israel would receive the Land, but receiving it would not determine what they would build there.

The Land carries enormous promise, but promise does not eliminate human agency. The same fields can be worked with gratitude or entitlement, the same prosperity can deepen responsibility or weaken it, and the same covenant can be honored or neglected. Israel is being given the setting in which its future will unfold, while the ceremony confronts them with their responsibility for the choices they will make within it.

Sforno understands the blessings and curses in relation to Israel’s covenantal purpose. The distinctive blessings promised to the nation are bound to the way Israel lives within the relationship Hashem has established with them. Israel can be given the Land and all the possibility contained within it, but its choices will shape what life there becomes.

What we receive matters deeply, but it does not decide who we become. The opportunities, security, and blessings we are given still leave us responsible for the choices we make within them.

VI. Meirov Kol — When Abundance Makes Us Blind

The tochachah contains some of the most difficult passages in the Torah, describing the devastating consequences that will follow Israel’s abandonment of its covenant with Hashem. Amid those warnings, Moshe gives a reason that is easy to overlook: תַּחַת אֲשֶׁר לֹא עָבַדְתָּ אֶת ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ בְּשִׂמְחָה וּבְטוּב לֵבָב מֵרֹב כֹּל — “Because you did not serve Hashem your God with joy and goodness of heart, from an abundance of everything” (Devarim 28:47).

The final words change the way we understand the warning: מֵרֹב כֹּל — “from an abundance of everything.” Moshe describes failure not in a time of deprivation, but against the backdrop of abundance. Israel can possess what generations before them longed for and still fail to respond to it with joy. The blessing has not disappeared; something has changed in the way it is experienced.

Rashi reads the verse as describing Israel’s failure to serve Hashem with joy and goodness of heart while possessing an abundance of good. Their circumstances raise a difficult question about abundance itself. What we receive repeatedly can become what we expect, until what once awakened gratitude barely registers at all.

The Rambam, while not commenting directly on this verse, describes joy in serving Hashem as an essential part of avodah. In Hilchot Lulav (8:15), he writes of the significance of the joy with which a person performs mitzvot and serves Hashem. Joy, in this sense, reflects more than emotion. It expresses an awareness of the privilege contained within the relationship itself.

The contrast within Ki Tavo is difficult to miss. A farmer can hold the first fruit of his field and recognize an entire history within it, while a nation can possess רֹב כֹּל, an abundance of everything, and fail to recognize what surrounds them. Having more does not necessarily deepen our awareness of what we have.

We usually fear losing what is precious to us. Moshe identifies another danger: what is precious can remain with us while we lose the ability to see its value. The blessing has not disappeared. Our recognition of it has.

Parenting Reflection — Learning to See What Is Still Here

Parents of struggling teenagers can become painfully aware of what is missing. The relationship may not look as it once did. Expectations that once seemed natural may have fallen away. School, friendships, Yiddishkeit, emotional health, family life, or plans for the future may have changed in ways no one anticipated. Much of a parent's attention can become drawn toward the distance between the life they imagined and the life they are actually living.

That distance can shape the way we see our child. We become highly aware of what has changed, what they have stopped doing or caring about, and how different they seem from the teenager we remember. When we are worried about someone we love, our attention naturally goes toward signs that something is wrong.

A child can feel when they are being seen primarily through the lens of our concern. They can sense when conversations carry the weight of where they are not going, what they are not doing, or who they are no longer becoming. We can become so focused on the future we want for them that we lose some of our ability to encounter the person who is with us now.

Seeing what is still here does not require us to deny what has been lost or minimize what is frightening. There may still be ten minutes together in the car, dinner late at night, a joke that makes them laugh, a request for a ride, or a story they unexpectedly decide to tell. These moments may seem small compared with everything we wish were different, but they are often where connection remains available to us.

When we notice those openings without immediately using them to correct, question, or steer, we communicate something our child may desperately need to feel: I still see you, not only the struggle surrounding you. We can hope for change, seek help where it is needed, and carry real fears for the future without allowing those concerns to become the only way we see our child.

The question is not only, “What has happened to my child?” There is another question worth asking when fear has narrowed our field of vision:

“What is still here that I may have stopped seeing?”

Closing — Until This Day

Near the end of Ki Tavo, Moshe says something difficult to understand: וְלֹא נָתַן ה׳ לָכֶם לֵב לָדַעַת וְעֵינַיִם לִרְאוֹת וְאָזְנַיִם לִשְׁמֹעַ עַד הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה — “Hashem did not give you a heart to know, eyes to see, and ears to hear until this day” (Devarim 29:3). Israel had witnessed Egypt, the splitting of the sea, Sinai, the manna, and forty years of Hashem’s protection in the wilderness. They had certainly seen and heard before. Moshe is describing something deeper: the ability to understand the meaning of what they had experienced.

Rashi connects עַד הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה — “until this day” to a moment when Israel demonstrated how deeply Torah mattered to them, revealing an understanding that Moshe recognized at the end of forty years. The Gemara in Avodah Zarah (5b) draws upon this verse to teach that a person does not fully understand the mind of his teacher until forty years have passed. Some understanding cannot simply be handed from one person to another; it develops through lived experience.

Moshe’s language suggests that seeing is not always the same as having עֵינַיִם לִרְאוֹת, just as knowing is not necessarily the same as possessing a לֵב לָדַעַת. We can live through something long before we understand its significance. The experience was real from the beginning, even when our ability to understand it was not yet complete.

Ki Tavo begins with כִּי תָבוֹא, with Israel preparing to enter the Land, and leaves us with עַד הַיּוֹם הַזֶּה, after forty years of experiences they were only now beginning to understand more fully. Sometimes the deepest arrival comes when we are finally able to see more clearly what has been with us all along.

Have a Wonderfull Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar