Giving Thanks Before the Story Is Over (Ki Tavo 5786)

 This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg on the week's Torah reading was first publlished in Hanassi Highlights, 27 August 2026. Thanks to ChatGPT you can also read it in Hebrew, here.

Parshat Ki Tavo opens with the mitzvah of Bikkurim, the bringing of the first fruits to the Beit HaMikdash. The Mishnah describes the elaborate procession as farmers travelled to Yerushalayim with their first fruits. An ox walked before them with its horns covered in gold, a flute played as they travelled and, when they approached Yerushalayim, dignitaries came out to greet them. Even the craftsmen of the city would stop their work and welcome the arriving pilgrims. All this for a few figs and grapes?

Perhaps the answer lies in something unusual about the timing of Bikkurim. Rashi describes how a farmer would walk into his field, see the first fig beginning to ripen, tie a reed around it and declare: "Harei zo Bikkurim"—"This is Bikkurim." At that point, the farmer has no idea what kind of harvest lies ahead. Perhaps it will be abundant; perhaps disappointing. There may be too much rain or too little. Unlike teruma and ma'aser, which are separated once the crop has been harvested, Bikkurim begins while the outcome is still uncertain. And yet, already then, the farmer stops to say thank you.

There is another unusual feature of Bikkurim. When the farmer eventually reaches the Beit HaMikdash, he does not simply say, "Thank You, Hashem, for the fruit." Instead, he tells a story: "Arami oved avi..." He speaks about Yaakov Avinu, the descent to Egypt, slavery, the Exodus and finally arrival in Eretz Yisrael.

Why the history lesson? Because gratitude requires perspective. If the farmer looks only at this year's harvest, he may see plenty of reasons to complain. Perhaps his neighbour's crop was larger. Perhaps the weather could have been better. But when he steps back and considers the extraordinary journey that brought him to this moment—a  Jew standing on his own land in Eretz Yisrael, holding its produce in his hands—the picture looks very different.

This is a particularly important message as we approach Rosh Hashana. Naturally, we enter the Yamim Noraim thinking about what we hope will be different next year. We have requests, concerns and things in our lives that remain unresolved. We pray that the coming year will bring greater health, happiness, security and success. Bikkurim does not tell us to ignore any of those concerns. It teaches us that we need not wait until everything is resolved before giving thanks. The farmer brings his first fruit before he knows how the harvest will end. And when he brings it, he looks beyond the immediate moment and sees the larger story of which he is a part.

Perhaps that is something worth taking with us into Rosh Hashana. Alongside all that we hope and pray for in the year ahead, we can pause to recognise how far we have already come, and how much we have already been given. Gratitude does not mean pretending that everything is perfect. It means recognising the blessings we have even while the story is still being written.

Shabbat Shalom!

The Moral of Bikkurim: Continuity Beyond Self

The mitzvah of ביכורים—bringing the first fruits to the Beit HaMikdash—is one of the most beautiful expressions of gratitude in the Torah. As our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains, the mitzvah itself is divided into two distinct parts: 

1.         The physical act of bringing the fruits – placing them in a basket and presenting them to the Kohen. The Mishnah in Bikkurim teaches: העשירים מביאים ביכוריהם בסלי כסף ובסלי זהב, והעניים מביאים בסלי נצרים של קליפה (משנה ביכורים ג:ח). Yet regardless of the vessel, the fruits themselves were lifted jointly by the Kohen and the farmer, sanctifying the effort. 

2.         The recitation of the special passage from the Torah – beginning with the words:

 וְעָנִיתָ וְאָמַרְתָּ לִפְנֵי ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ, אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי; וַיֵּרֶד מִצְרַיְמָה, וַיָּגָר שָׁם בִּמְתֵי מְעָט; וַיְהִי שָׁם לְגוֹי גָּדוֹל עָצוּם וָרָב (דברים כ״ו:ה).

 The Gemara (סוטה ל״ב ע״א) points out that not everyone could recite this declaration—converts, for example, could not say אֲשֶׁר נִשְׁבַּע ה׳ לַאֲבֹתֵינו since their biological ancestors were not part of that oath. Still, they were obligated in the act of bringing Bikkurim. Thus the Torah separates the mitzvah of deed from the mitzvah of speech. 

This passage became so central that Chazal made it the backbone of the Pesach Haggadah. Instead of telling the Exodus story in our own words, we expound on each verse of ארמי אובד אבי. 

The Meaning of “Arami Oved Avi”

 The very first phrase is the subject of classic debate.

●          Rashi (דברים כ״ו:ה) explains that ארמי אובד אבי refers to Lavan, who “sought to uproot everything” (ביקש לעקור את הכל). While Pharaoh only decreed against the males, Lavan attempted to destroy the entire family of Yaakov by trickery and deception. Thus Jewish history begins not only with physical slavery in Egypt, but with existential threats even before we arrived thereץ

 ●          Ramban (שם) takes a different view, understanding אובד not as “seeking to destroy,” but as “lost, wandering.” According to him, the verse describes Yaakov himself, who was a destitute wanderer in Aram before descending to Egypt. The declaration highlights the fragility of our beginnings and the miracle of our survival.

 Both interpretations carry a profound message. Whether our survival was threatened by external enemies (Lavan) or by the precariousness of our own condition (Yaakov’s wandering), our very existence is a testament to God’s intervention in history.

 Farming and the Temptation of Self-Credit

 Farming is among the most difficult occupations. Even today, with modern technology, the farmer is still at the mercy of rain, sun, wind, insects, and fire. In ancient times, the struggle was almost unimaginable. A farmer who finally sees his crops ripen after months of labor could easily declare: Look what I have accomplished with my own hands! The Torah, however, demands that he take those very fruits—the tangible result of his toil—and publicly declare that they are not his alone. His success is not merely a product of sweat and labor but part of a story that began long before him.  As he recitesת

 וַיָּרֵעוּ אֹתָנוּ הַמִּצְרִים, וַיְעַנּוּנוּ; וַיִּתְּנוּ עָלֵינוּ עֲבֹדָה קָשָׁה. וַנִּצְעַק אֶל ה׳ אֱלֹקי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ, וַיִּשְׁמַע ה׳ אֶת קֹלֵנוּ, וַיַּרְא אֶת עָנְיֵנוּ וְאֶת עֲמָלֵנוּ וְאֶת לַחֲצֵנוּ. וַיּוֹצִאֵנוּ ה׳ מִמִּצְרַיִם בְּיָד חֲזָקָה, וּבִזְרוֹעַ נְטוּיָה, וּבְמוֹרָא גָדֹל, וּבְאֹתוֹת וּבְמֹפְתִים (דברים כ״ו:ו–ח).

 Only because of this chain of history can the farmer now stand with his basket in Jerusalem.

 Continuity Over Individualism

 Here lies the great moral lesson: Jewish life is not built on the illusion that the world begins and ends with me. It is built on continuity. The farmer must see himself as one link in a chain stretching back to Avraham and forward to generations yet unborn. This idea is echoed in the dramatic story of Shlomo HaMelech at the dedication of the Beit HaMikdash. The Midrash (שמות רבה ח:א; תנחומא, ויחי ז׳) relates that when Shlomo sought to open the gates of the newly built Temple, they refused to open. Only when he prayed: אַל תָּשֵׁב פְּנֵי מְשִׁיחֶךָ, זָכְרָה לַחֲסָדֵי דָּוִד עַבְדֶּך (תהלים קל״ב:י) did the gates swing wide.

 Even the wisest and holiest man of his generation could not enter on his own merits. The doors opened only when he invoked the merit of his father David.

 The Antidote to Modern Narcissism

 The world we live in often glorifies the “new,” the “innovative,” the “I.” Yet Jewish tradition teaches that true greatness is not found in self-creation, but in linking oneself to the eternal chain of Torah and history. That is why the Bikkurim passage was chosen as the centerpiece of the Seder. As the Haggadah teaches, every Jew must see himself as part of this story. We are not merely recalling ancient history; we are affirming our place within it.

 The farmer’s declaration, therefore, becomes our declaration as a people: We are not the beginning, and we are not the end. We are part of the story that God began with Avraham, a story that continues with us today.

 Halachic Note

 The Rambam codifies these laws in Hilchot Bikkurim (פרק ג–ד). He describes in detail how a person designates the first fruits in his field, places them in a basket, and ascends to Jerusalem in a joyous procession. Upon arrival, he presents them to the Kohen, recites the passage from ארמי אובד אבי, and then bows before the altar.

 The Rambam emphasizes: מצות עשה להביא בכורים למקדש… ומקריבן ונותנן לכהן, שנאמר ולקח הכהן הטנא מידך (הלכות ביכורים ג:א). He further rules that even after the declaration, the fruits remain a sacred gift for the Kohanim. Thus, the halacha itself reflects the central message of the drasha: our labor reaches its highest meaning not in personal pride, but in connecting it to Torah, history, and community.