Ki Tavo: Past, Present and Future

Plaut p. 1350

Source Sheet by Yair Robinson

This week I hit a milestone that I wasn’t expecting to be a milestone. You know what I mean? There are those moments that we anticipate and expect to be momentous in our lives: graduation, the birth of a child, celebrating a life cycle event, or on the flipside, terrible moments like having to relocate beloved elder relatives to assisted living, or standing at the grave of a loved one. We know, on some core level, that those are coming. But then there are the unexpected milestones, and this week was one of them. This past Tuesday I had my last back to school night as a parent. It was…shockingly anticlimactic. My son’s program is such that most of his courses are the second year of a two-year program so I knew his teachers and the syllabus already. One of the teachers wasn’t even there, another is leaving in a few weeks. And yet, as I rushed from one class to the next, waving hello to the handful of other senior parents who bothered coming, there was a profound sense of this being a ‘last’, marking an end even as we anticipate the next beginning.

These kinds of unexpected moments are filled with mixed emotions: relief at never having to do this again, sadness that I did it solo, as Marisa had rehearsal, a bit of nostalgia, thinking of how many times I’d done this going all the way back to the ECC at the J, but two emotions or ideas stick out for me. One is a deep sense of gratitude: for the education my son has received, the teachers and classmates who have walked this path with him, and the person he is evolving into. Has it been perfect? Hardly, and if I picked at all the nits we’d be here all night. Nevertheless, I find myself grateful for the ways this place has made my son better. The second is hopefulness. For my son, without a doubt: I’m excited to see where his adventure of life takes him this year and beyond. But I’m also hopeful for new students and their parents, and both continuing and new teachers who will continue to fill the halls of his high school for decades to come, as they’ve done for decades already.

Which leads to our parasha: Ki Tavo, literally ‘when you enter’, where we encounter several commandments for Israel to fulfill as they enter The Promised Land: they should set up standing stones with the words of Torah written upon them; they should hear curses proclaimed by the Levitical Priests of what will happen if they don’t uphold the brit, the covenant, and affirm their commitment, and most famously, right at the beginning, they are instructed that once they have settled in the land, they should bring their first fruits to the Priest in Jerusalem and proclaim words we continue to say to this day: “My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt in meager numbers, where he became numerous. He was oppressed, until God freed him with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, and brought me to this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.” As Shai Held points out, it is not just a recitation of Israel’s history, but an expression of gratitude. Each act is important in and of itself, but they also serve as a reminder of where Israel has come from–a place of pain and anguish–and where it is going and fundamentally has arrived. As theologian John Goldengay writes: “The people must keep alive the memory of oppression and deliverance because otherwise the wonder of their possessing the land may be lost.” The fact that of all these rituals, we continue to recite this history at Passover indicates that it still has some power over us, and I would argue because the words are so personal. It’s not an abstract history of Israel, but a personal, familial story. How can we not help but think of our own parents, or grandparents, or great grandparents, many of whom suffered in their own ways and escaped to freedom as we recite these words? This isn’t just their story; it becomes our story as well.

But I would argue something else is happening here as well. In addition to teaching us to remember our past, and offer gratitude for our present, for all the gifts bestowed upon us, there is a hopefulness about it as well. These words are to be spoken once in the land, settled and possessed, and when we have first fruits to offer, and then continued in every generation. In other words, this liturgy is not just about the past, but about the future, and anticipates that future being one where we are able to express gratitude in safety and bounty, freed from oppression and want. Not only for us, but for all those who suffer; the text is clear that our gratitude must lead to our bounty being shared with those who suffer as we suffered. As R’ Shai reminds us, “Genuine gratitude always leads to generosity and the desire to share our blessings with others.” Our recollection of the past, then, becomes a prayer for the future, one without suffering, or hatred, or violence, or want for anyone. 

 As we approach Rosh Hashanah, we’re reminded again and again that this is supposed to be a moment of transformation, a time in which the old year is ushered out and the new year welcomed in, a time when we imagine what could be, what should be, and turn toward that vision, and while we may remember those moments of pain or failure from this year, it is only to learn from them and improve ourselves. This year, of course, has felt challenging, if not bleak. The problems facing us as a people, here and in our homeland, seem endless, and to speak of the future feels, at times, untimely, perhaps even dangerous. It feels like we have all been holding our breath–since October 7th, since the winter of 2020, since the campaign of 2016, since the previous Gaza war in 2014, since…well, pick a date. How dare we seek out hope, or transformation, or improvement in this world? And then this text comes to us to say, remember all those moments, expected and unexpected, that have led us to this moment. Remember them with gratitude, and look to the future with hope. In a few weeks the shofar will sound and we will usher in a new year. We will be mindful of the challenges before us, the imperfections in our world. May we find a way to be grateful for what we do have and are able to do for one another, and may we strive to bring our first fruits forward, remembering our past a a blessing for the future of holiness. Amen.

Source Sheet created on Sefaria by Yair Robinson