I opened the sermon by singing a small section of the Garden Song:

Shabbat Shalom.

There is something very powerful about the opening of Parashat Ki Tavo. Moses speaks to the Israelites about the day when they will finally enter the Promised Land. After forty years of wandering, they will plant fields, grow crops, build homes, raise families, and establish a society.

And then Moses gives them a very simple instruction.

When the first fruits of the harvest appear, take them and bring them to the priest.

But that is not all.

When you bring your basket of first fruits, you must tell a story.

You must remember.  The farmer is instructed to say:

“My father was a wandering Aramean…”

And then the farmer recounts the entire story: our ancestors went down to Egypt, they suffered there, they cried out to God, God brought us out with a mighty hand, and God brought us into this land.

Only after telling the story does the farmer say:

“And now, behold, I have brought the first fruits of the soil which You, Adonai, have given me.”

There is a remarkable lesson here.

The farmer has worked the land. He has planted the seeds. He has tended the crops. He has harvested the fruit.

Yet the Torah does not allow him to say, “Look what I accomplished.”

Instead, he says, essentially:

Look what I have been given.

That distinction is at the heart of Ki Tavo.

We often think of gratitude as simply saying “thank you.”

But Judaism teaches us that gratitude begins with something deeper:

memory.

Before we can truly appreciate what we have, we need to remember where we came from.

The farmer remembers Egypt.  He remembers slavery.  He remembers wandering.  He remembers the generations who came before him.

And then he looks at the basket of fruit in his hands and realizes:

I did not begin this story.  I am part of a story.  That is a very Jewish understanding of life.  We are always standing on the shoulders of those who came before us.

We inherit traditions from our parents and grandparents. We inherit words of Torah from generations of teachers. We inherit songs, prayers, customs, values, and memories.  And we inherit responsibilities.

One of the dangers of success is that we can begin to believe that everything we have is entirely the result of our own efforts.

Ki Tavo reminds us otherwise.

There is always a history behind the blessing.  “My Father Was a Wandering Aramean” Think about the opening words of the declaration:  “My father was a wandering Aramean.” The farmer standing in the Temple is surrounded by evidence of stability. He has land.  He has a harvest.  He has a home.  He has security.  And yet he is told to remember that his ancestors were once wandering and vulnerable.

Why?

Because remembering vulnerability makes us more compassionate.

When we remember that we, or those who came before us, once needed help, we become more willing to help others.  When we remember that our ancestors were strangers, we are more likely to welcome the stranger.  When we remember that our ancestors suffered, we become more sensitive to the suffering of others.

Memory is not merely about the past.  Memory shapes how we behave in the present. 

There is another important lesson in Ki Tavo.

The parashah contains one of the Torah’s great collections of blessings—and then one of its most difficult passages, the Tochachah, the curses that describe what can happen when society loses its moral direction.

The contrast is striking. 

The Torah is telling us that blessings are not simply possessions.  Blessings carry responsibilities.  If we have been blessed with enough, what do we do with what we have? 

If we have been blessed with education, whom do we teach?  If we have been blessed with strength, whom do we support?  If we have been blessed with a loving community, how do we make sure that someone else does not feel alone?

The Jewish response to blessing is not simply celebration.  It is responsibility.

This message is especially meaningful for us as a synagogue community.  Every congregation has a history.  There were people who came before us who built this community, supported it, taught in it, prayed in it, sang in it, and cared for it.  Some of them are still here.  Others are no longer with us.  But their fingerprints are everywhere.

Every siddur we open, every melody we sing, every Torah scroll we read, every holiday we celebrate carries something of the people who came before us.  We are the beneficiaries of their efforts.  And someday, others will inherit what we do today.

That means the question is not simply:

What do I get from my synagogue?

The deeper question is:

What am I leaving behind?  What will the next generation inherit from us?  Will they inherit a congregation that is welcoming?  Will they inherit a community that cares for people when they are sick or grieving?  Will they inherit a Judaism that is alive, joyful, meaningful, and compassionate?  Will they inherit songs worth singing?  Will they inherit traditions worth preserving—and the courage to create new ones when necessary?

That is the challenge of Ki Tavo.

Later in the parashah, Moses says something fascinating:

“Today you have become a people.”  But haven’t they already been a people?  They have been Israelites throughout the wilderness.  Why does Moses say “today”?  Perhaps because becoming a people is something we have to do again and again.

A Jewish community is never finished.  Every generation has to decide:  Will we care for one another?  Will we teach the next generation?  Will we welcome those who are searching?  Will we preserve what is precious?  Will we make Judaism meaningful in our own time?  We become a people not merely because we share a history, but because we accept a shared responsibility.

As We Approach the High Holy Days

There is an especially beautiful connection between Ki Tavo and the season in which we read it.  We are approaching Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  The High Holy Days are a time of remembering.  We remember the year that has passed.  We remember the people who have touched our lives.  We remember mistakes we have made.  We remember opportunities we missed.  We remember acts of kindness that sustained us.

And we ask ourselves:

What will I do differently in the year ahead?

Perhaps Ki Tavo offers us a simple spiritual practice for this season.

Take an imaginary basket.  Put into it the blessings of the past year.  The people who loved you.  The friends who stood beside you.  The moments of joy.  The meals shared with family.  The prayers that gave you strength.  The music that lifted your spirit.  The community that gave you a place to belong.

And then, before asking God for more, stop and say:

Thank You.

Thank You for what I have received.  Thank You for those who came before me.  Thank You for those who walk beside me.  And help me use what I have received to bless someone else.

Each of us comes to synagogue carrying an invisible basket.  Inside are our memories.  Our families.  Our traditions.  Our joys.  Our disappointments.  Our losses.  Our hopes.  And our blessings.  Ki Tavo teaches us not to hide that basket.  Bring it forward. Acknowledge what is in it.  Give thanks.

And then ask what we can do with it.

Because Judaism does not ask us simply to count our blessings.

It asks us to transform our blessings into blessings for others.  That may be the real meaning of the first fruits.  The first fruits are not simply the best part of the harvest.  They are the part we are willing to give away.  And perhaps that is the ultimate challenge of Ki Tavo:

What are we willing to give?

Our time.  Our compassion.  Our attention.  Our talents.  Our generosity.  Our forgiveness.  Our songs.  Our prayers.  Our presence.

As we enter the High Holy Day season, may we remember how much we have received.

May we appreciate the people who have made our lives richer.  May we recognize the blessings that surround us.  And may we have the wisdom to understand that every blessing carries a responsibility.  May the baskets we bring before God this year be filled not only with what we have received, but also with what we have given.  And may the year ahead be one in which our gratitude becomes action, our memories become wisdom, and our blessings become blessings for others.    Shabbat Shalom.