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.

War, Morality, and Marriage in the Torah’s Vision

This devar Torah, composed by our member Rabbi Paul Bloom, is based on a recording of a parashah shiur by Rabbi Wein ztz’l that was made seven years ago.

The Torah often presents us with passages that challenge our moral sensibilities, forcing us to confront difficult realities of human life and history. One such section appears in parashat Ki Teitzei, where the Torah addresses the case of the Yefat To’ar — the “beautiful captive woman.” The laws given here highlight a profound tension between the brutality of war and the values of Torah, between the raw instincts of human nature and the discipline demanded by holiness.

War and the Breakdown of Restraint

Chazal recognized that war unleashes forces that cannot always be contained. As the Torah states:

כִּי־תֵצֵא לַמִּלְחָמָה עַל־אֹיְבֶיךָ וּנְתָנוֹ ה׳ אֱלֹקיךָ בְּיָדֶךָ וְשָׁבִיתָ שִׁבְיוֹ. וְרָאִיתָ בַּשִּׁבְיָה אֵשֶׁת יְפַת־תֹּאַר וְחָשַׁקְתָּ בָהּ וְלָקַחְתָּ לְךָ לְאִשָּׁה
 (דברים כא:י–יא)

“When you go out to war against your enemies, and the Lord your God delivers them into your hands, and you take captives; and you see among the captives a beautiful woman, and you desire her, then you may take her for yourself as a wife.”

Rashi explains:

לא דיברה תורה אלא כנגד יצר הרע
 (קידושין כא ב)

 “The Torah spoke here only in relation to the evil inclination.”

The Ramban adds that the Torah permitted this not because it is good, but because in the chaos of war the yetzer hara is too strong, and without regulation, far worse sins would occur. The Torah, however, warns of its outcome:

וְהָיָה אִם־לֹא חָפַצְתָּ בָּהּ וְשִׁלַּחְתָּהּ לְנַפְשָׁהּ… לֹא תִתְעַמֵּר בָּהּ תַּחַת אֲשֶׁר עִנִּיתָהּ
 (דברים כא:יד)

“If you do not desire her, then you shall let her go free… you may not treat her as a slave, because you have afflicted her.”

The Gemara (Sanhedrin 107a) links Yefat To’ar to David and Avshalom, teaching that such concessions often plant the seeds of future tragedy. Radak notes that Avshalom’s rebellion reflected the instability born of David’s complex household.

Polygamy in the Ancient World

Immediately after Yefat To’ar, the Torah describes another case:

כִּי־תִהְיֶיןָ לְאִישׁ שְׁתֵּי נָשִׁים הָאַחַת אֲהוּבָה וְהָאַחַת שְׂנוּאָה…
 (דברים כא:טו)

“If a man has two wives, one beloved and the other hated…”

The Avot themselves lived in polygamous households — Avraham with Sarah and Hagar (בראשית טז), Yaakov with Rachel, Leah, Bilhah, and Zilpah (בראשית כט–ל). Yet the Torah shows us the tensions that arose from these unions. The Gemara (Bava Batra 16a) remarks: צרה כצרה — “The rival wife is a constant source of strife.”

The Ramban explains that the Torah places Yefat To’ar, polygamy, and the rebellious son together to teach us a chain: indulging passion leads to jealousy, and jealousy leads to broken families and rebellious children.

From Polygamy to the Ban of Rabbeinu Gershom

In the 10th century, Rabbeinu Gershom (Me’or HaGolah) of Mainz issued his famous ban:חרם דרבנו גרשום — forbidding polygamy in Ashkenazi communities.

Violators were placed under communal ban. Rare exceptions (heter me’ah rabbanim) were allowed in extreme cases, such as when a wife was incapacitated and unable to receive a get.

Radak, commenting on Elkanah’s two wives (I Samuel 1), observed that such arrangements almost always caused pain and jealousy, as with Chana and Peninah. The ban thus aligned with the Torah’s deeper vision: sanctity within marriage and peace within the home. Though Sephardic communities did not originally adopt the ban, the practice eventually disappeared. In modern Israel, while older polygamous marriages were recognized, new ones were forbidden — making Rabbeinu Gershom’s decree universally binding in practice.

Evolving Law, Eternal Values

The Torah does not idealize war or polygamy. Rather, it acknowledges them as concessions to human weakness while pointing toward a higher moral standard. The Ramban teaches that the placement of these passages is deliberate: Yefat To’ar → Polygamy → Rebellious Son. The Torah warns us that small compromises to the yetzer hara may lead to family breakdown and societal decline.

A Takeaway for Our Time

These passages remind us that the Torah is not an abstract code detached from life’s struggles. It recognizes human impulses, but it calls upon us to rise above them.

●      The Torah’s restraint on Yefat To’ar teaches that we must never sanctify passion simply because it feels inevitable; instead, we channel it with discipline and holiness.

●      The story of polygamy shows that family harmony depends on fidelity, equality, and compassion, not on multiplying options.

●      The ban of Rabbeinu Gershom demonstrates how halakhah evolves to reflect eternal Torah values in changing times, always striving for justice, dignity, and peace.

Ultimately, the Torah pushes us toward a vision of life where the home is built not on conquest or rivalry, but on faith, loyalty, and love.

Am Yisrael has always been called to live by higher standards, even in the most difficult circumstances. The Torah does not hide human weakness, but it teaches us how to transform weakness into strength, how to bring holiness even into the battlefield, and how to sanctify the bonds of family. In our generation, as the Jewish people return to their Land and rebuild their nation, these lessons carry renewed meaning. We are challenged to create homes of faith and compassion, to build a society guided by Torah values, and to serve as a living example of “כִּי הִוא חָכְמַתְכֶם וּבִינַתְכֶם לְעֵינֵי הָעַמִּים” — “for this is your wisdom and your understanding in the eyes of the nations” (דברים ד:ו). By striving for holiness in our private and communal lives, we bring closer the day when Israel truly shines as a light to the nations.

 

The Subtle Corruption of Shochad

 Here is a devar Torah taken  from a shiur that Rabbi Wein ztz'l gave a couple of years  ago on Shofetim, and summarized by Rabbi Paul Bloom.

One of the central themes of this week’s parashah is the danger of corruption — shochad. The Torah warns explicitly:

“לֹא תַטֶּה מִשְׁפָּט לֹא תַכִּיר פָּנִים וְלֹא תִקַּח שֹׁחַד, כִּי הַשֹּׁחַד יְעַוֵּר עֵינֵי חֲכָמִים וִיסַלֵּף דִּבְרֵי צַדִּיקִים”

“You shall not pervert judgment, you shall not show favoritism, and you shall not take a bribe, for a bribe blinds the eyes of the wise and distorts the words of the righteous.” (Devarim 16:19)

At first glance, the prohibition seems directed only at judges and government officials. But Chazal and Jewish thinkers throughout the ages have seen in this warning a deeper truth: shochad is not limited to bribery in the legal system. Rather, it is a human condition — a distortion of judgment to which every one of us is vulnerable.

Bribery Beyond the Courtroom

The Torah’s language is striking. It does not merely say that bribes are “unfair” or “immoral.” Instead, it teaches that bribery blinds even the wise and corrupts even the righteous. A bribe — whether large or small — undermines objectivity. Once we have a personal stake, we see reality differently.

This is not only about money changing hands. As I heard from my Rebbi, “the entire world is subject to shochad.” Today we might call it “conflict of interest.” And in truth, everything in life carries with it some degree of conflict of interest. Politicians make promises they cannot fulfill in order to win votes — and that too is a form of socially accepted shochad. But the Torah hints to something subtler: the biases that shape our perceptions. Our prejudices, our prior experiences, the way we are “programmed” to see the world — these too can blind us to facts and twist our judgments.

The Sensitivity of Chazal

The Talmud illustrates how deeply Chazal understood the power of shochad. The Gemara (Ketubot 105b) relates that the great sage Shmuel once disqualified himself from judging a case because one of the litigants had stepped aside for him on a narrow bridge, allowing him to pass first.

Was that a bribe? No money was exchanged. Yet Shmuel recognized that even such a small gesture planted in him a favorable impression. That was enough to compromise his impartiality. This story shows the profound awareness our Sages had of human susceptibility. Shochad is not always conscious. It often works subtly, below the surface. It is not about dishonesty — it is about the way our opinions are shaped before we even begin to weigh the facts.

Everyday Biases

This danger extends far beyond the courtroom. Leaders, teachers, rabbis, and parents can all fall prey to it. How often are our opinions about people based not on reality, but on instinct, appearance, or past impressions? A certain style of dress, an accent, a family background — all can bias us unfairly.

There is a famous story about Rav Chaim Shmulevitz. Even as a child, he was known for his strong personality. When he was five years old, his father pointed out the girl who had been designated as his future shidduch. “Do you know who her father is?” he was asked. Rav Chaim immediately responded, “Yes — and I already don’t like him.” The anecdote, though humorous, illustrates how deeply rooted our snap judgments can be.

A World of Madness

A parable captures the depth of this problem. A king was once warned by his advisors that the year’s grain crop had been infected by a fungus that would drive people insane. “Don’t worry,” they said. “We will set aside enough grain for you and for us, so that at least we will remain sane.” But the king replied, “If everyone else becomes insane and we remain sane, then we will appear to be the madmen! The only solution is that we too must eat the grain — but let us put a mark on our foreheads, so that when we see each other, we will remember that we are insane.”

So too with shochad. We are all affected by bias, prejudice, and personal interest. The wise person is not the one who imagines himself immune, but the one who acknowledges his own vulnerability.

The Torah’s Challenge

The Torah therefore gives us a dual message:

1. On a practical level — judges must not take bribes, no matter how small. Legal systems must guard against corruption.
   
   
2. On a deeper, personal level — each of us must be vigilant in recognizing how bias shapes our vision. Our “inner bribes” can blind us just as much as money in an envelope.

By admitting our susceptibility, we can strive toward clearer, fairer judgments of others, and of life itself.

Conclusion

The Torah’s warning against shochad is timeless. It is not merely a legal prohibition but a profound psychological insight: we are never fully objective. Our task is to cultivate awareness, humility, and caution — to place that symbolic “mark on our foreheads” reminding us that our vision may be clouded.

Only with that humility can we hope to approach true justice: “צֶדֶק צֶדֶק תִּרְדֹּף — Justice, justice shall you pursue” (Devarim 16:20).

Following in Their Ways – The Eternal Struggle Against Avodah Zarah

This parashah shiur is based on a Shiur given by Rabbi Wein ztz’l on August 30,2024

 In this week’s parashah, we encounter a passage that reverberates throughout Jewish history and Jewish life. Moshe warns the people:

הִשָּׁ֣מֶר לְךָ֗ פֶּן־תִּנָּקֵשׁ֙ אַֽחֲרֵיהֶ֔ם אַֽחֲרֵ֖י הִשָּֽׁמְדָ֣ם מִפָּנֶ֑יךָ וּפֶן־תִּדְר֨שׁ לֵאלֹֽהֵיהֶ֜ם לֵאמֹ֗ר אֵיכָ֨ה יַֽעַבְד֜וּ הַגּוֹיִ֤ם הָאֵ֨לֶּה֙ אֶת־אֱלֹ֣הֵיהֶ֔ם וְאֶֽעֱשֶׂה־כֵּ֖ן גַּם־אָֽנִי

“Take heed… lest you inquire after their gods, saying: ‘How did these nations serve their gods, that I may do the same?’” (דברים י״ב:ל)

 This verse is not merely a historical warning about ancient idolatry. It points to a deep spiritual and cultural struggle that the Jewish people have faced in every generation: the temptation to imitate the practices, priorities, and lifestyles of the nations around them.

 How Far Does Avodah Zarah Go?

 Rashi, citing the Gemara (סנהדרין ס׳ ע״ב), explains: 

“כְּגוֹן מַרְקוּלִיס שֶׁדַּרְכּוֹ לְהַשְׁלִיךְ לוֹ אֲבָנִים, וְהַשּׁוֹלֵךְ לוֹ אֶבֶן, חַיָּיב”

 “For example, the idol Marculis, whose way of worship is to throw stones at it—one who throws even a single stone is liable.”

 Even though such an act appears disrespectful, when done as ritual it becomes idolatry. But what if someone bows to Marculis, even though its typical service is throwing stones? Rashi notes that bowing itself is universally considered an act of worship, so it too constitutes avodah zarah: 

“אֲבָל הַמִּשְׁתַּחֲוֶה לוֹ—אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁאֵין דַּרְכּוֹ בְּכָךְ—חַיָּיב”

 “But one who bows to it—even though that is not its way—he is liable.”

 The Rambam expands on this principle: 

“כָּל עֲבוֹדָה שֶׁהִיא דֶּרֶךְ כָּבוֹד—אַף עַל פִּי שֶׁאֵינָהּ דֶּרֶךְ עֲבוֹדָתוֹ—חַיָּיב עָלֶיהָ”

 “Any form of service that is a way of honor—even if not the idol’s usual service—one is liable for.” (הלכות עֲבוֹדַת כּוֹכָבִים ג:ג)

The Torah’s purpose, says the Rambam, is to distance us from avodah zarah entirely, for it has always exerted a powerful psychological pull. 

The Pressure of the Majority

Moshe’s warning is not only theological but deeply psychological: How could it be that so many nations are wrong? How can a tiny minority insist on saying “no” when the whole world seems to say “yes”?

כִּי עַם־קָדוֹשׁ אַתָּה לַה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ… וּבְךָ בָּחַר ה׳ לִהְיוֹת לוֹ לְעַם סְגֻלָּה

 “For you are a holy people to Hashem your God… and Hashem has chosen you to be His treasured people.” (דברים ז:ו)

 The Torah recognizes that it is hard to be a despised minority, mocked for standing apart. Yet that is precisely the Jewish destiny: to remain faithful even against the tide of the majority. 

Darkei Emori – The Ways of the Nations 

Beyond worship itself, the Torah forbids imitating pagan practices—darkei Emori. The Mishnah teaches: 

“דַּרְכֵי הָאֱמוֹרִי—כָּל מִינֵי נִחוּשׁ שֶׁהָיוּ אוֹמְרִים…”

“The ways of the Emorites—these are all forms of superstition that they would practice…” (שבת סז ע״א)

 Throughout Jewish history, this principle sparked debate:

● In 19th-century Germany, Reform synagogues introduced organ music to imitate churches. Orthodox authorities banned it, declaring it darkei Emori.

● Rabbi Yaakov Emden forbade decorating synagogues with flowers on Shavuot because it resembled Christian Easter celebrations—though most communities kept the custom, claiming Jewish precedent.

● The Rambam insisted that all superstition—lucky numbers, red strings, omens—is forbidden: 

“כָּל הַמְנַחֵשׁ אוֹ מְעוֹנֵן—לוֹקֶה. וְאֵין בְּדְבָרִים הָאֵלּוּ דָּבָר שֶׁל חָכְמָה כְּלָל”

 “Anyone who practices divination or soothsaying is liable to lashes. There is no wisdom in these things whatsoever.” (הלכות עֲבוֹדַת כּוֹכָבִים יא:טז)

 The reasoning is clear: imitation in custom can lead to assimilation in spirit.

 Drawing the Line 

Where, then, do we draw the line?

● Should rabbis wear clerical robes like priests? Some German communities said yes; Eastern European Jews said no.

● Should synagogues adopt church-like decorum? Opinions diverged.

● Even the simple presence of a clock in a synagogue once sparked a Lithuanian rabbi to quip: “I see Reform has already arrived here!” 

The Rambam provides a guiding principle: 

כָּל מַה שֶּׁנִּמְצָא שֶׁיֵּשׁ בּוֹ תּוֹעֶלֶת מִנִּימוּסֵי הַגּוֹיִם—אֵין בּוֹ מִשּׁוּם חֻקּוֹתֵיהֶם. וְכָל מַה שֶּׁאֵין בּוֹ טַעַם רָאוּי—אָסוּר

 “Anything found among the nations that has a clear benefit is not included in the prohibition. But anything with no rational basis is forbidden.” (הלכות עֲבוֹדַת כּוֹכָבִים יא:א)

 Thus, medicine is permitted because it heals, while quack remedies—once tied to superstition—are forbidden. 

The Eternal Struggle 

Moshe’s words echo through the generations: the Jewish people must often stand apart, resisting the lure of majority culture. This has never been easy. 

הֶן־עָם לְבָדָד יִשְׁכֹּן וּבַגּוֹיִם לֹא יִתְחַשָּׁב

 “Behold, it is a people that dwells alone, and is not reckoned among the nations.” (במדבר כג:ט)

 The idols of today are different: money, fame, power, ideology. Yet the temptation to bow to them, to imitate the world, remains just as strong. The Torah reminds us to guard our uniqueness, to hold fast to truth, and to avoid being swept away by borrowed customs.  

שַׁבָּת שָׁלוֹם

One Mitzvah or All Mitzvot? The Singular Lesson of Parashat Eikev

In his devar Torah this week, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom focuses on a small, unexpected piece of phraseology in our Torah reading and shows how much we can learn from it. He writes:

In parashat Eikev, the Torah speaks about the benefits and consequences of living a life of Torah and mitzvot. One fascinating detail is the way Moshe Rabbeinu refers to “כָּל־הַמִּצְוָה” — the commandment — in the singular, rather than the expected plural form:

 (דברים ח:א) "כָּל־הַמִּצְוָה אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מְצַוְּךָ הַיּוֹם תִּשְׁמְרוּן לַעֲשׂוֹת"

Why use the singular when referring to the entire system of mitzvot? Many commentators ask this, and their answers reveal a profound key to our avodat Hashem.

All Mitzvot as One Unified System

The Ramban and others explain that “כָּל־הַמִּצְוָה” in the singular emphasizes that the mitzvot form one integrated, inseparable system. The Torah is not a menu from which one can select a few favorite commandments and consider oneself fulfilled.

They draw on the Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 18:21) which teaches that the 248 positive mitzvot and 365 prohibitions correspond to the 248 limbs and 365 sinews of the human body. If one finger is broken, the whole body is affected. Likewise, if one mitzvah is missing, the entire spiritual structure is impaired:

"אִם חִסֵּר אֵחָד מֵאֵבָרָיו — נִפְגָּם כֻּלּו"

This is a demanding — even daunting — interpretation. It means that partial observance misses the Torah’s goal. The mitzvot are designed to work together as a whole; only by fulfilling all of them does one achieve “כָּל־הַמִּצְוָה,” the one great commandment in its entirety.

The Infinite Value of One Mitzvah

The Kli Yakar and Rashba reverse the focus entirely. They read “כָּל־הַמִּצְוָה” as meaning that even a single mitzvah contains within it the value of the whole. Every mitzvah is a direct connection to the Ribono Shel Olam.

The Mishnah teaches:

"רצה הקדוש ברוך הוא לזכות את ישראל לפיכך הרבה להם תורה ומצוות"
 (מכות ג:טז)

The Rashba explains: this is not to burden us, but to multiply opportunities. Even if a person does just one mitzvah with pure intent (לשמה), from beginning to end, it has infinite significance.That single achievable goal of doing one  mitzvah and once there, often brings  you to do many more. This is exactly the Kli Yakar’s point: even one mitzvah is worth worlds.

Two Paragraphs of Shema: Maximum and Minimum

This interplay between “all” and “one” appears again in our parashah, in the second paragraph of Shema. The first paragraph (דברים ו:ד–ט) is written in the singular, addressed to the individual:

"וְאָהַבְתָּ אֵת ה' אֱלֹקֶיךָ בְּכָל־לְבָבְךָ וּבְכָל־נַפְשְׁךָ וּבְכָל־מְאֹדֶךָ"

This is the maximum ideal — serving Hashem with total love, unconditionally, with no mention of reward or punishment. It is pure, selfless devotion, as exemplified by Rabbi Akiva, who gave his life על קידוש השם.

The second paragraph (דברים יא:יג–כא), found in Parashat Eikev, shifts to the plural, addressing the nation:

"וְהָיָה אִם־שָׁמֹעַ תִּשְׁמְעוּ... וְנָתַתִּי מְטַר־אַרְצְכֶם בְּעִתּו"

Here mitzvah observance is tied to tangible rewards — rain, produce, security, and long life for us and our children. This is the realistic framework for a community: the motivation of blessing alongside the responsibility of obedience. The first paragraph presents the aspirational summit; the second provides the practical, accessible baseline.

Living Between the Minimum and the Maximum

The Torah thus sets two guiding poles:

●       Aim for the maximum — see the mitzvot as one complete system, serve with unconditional love, and aspire to total observance.

●       Value the minimum — recognize that even one mitzvah done purely connects you to Hashem in an eternal way.

Both poles are essential. Without the maximum, we lack vision; without the minimum, we lose accessibility.

May we merit to live with both אהבה and יראה, to integrate all mitzvot as one whole, and to treasure even a single act of connection to our Creator.

What are we doing when we say Shema?

Sometimes our own familiarity with the things we daily say, see and hear can cause us to stop thinking about their meaning and significance. We say Shema each day, but must never take it for granted. Our member Paul Bloom looks further into this mitzvah and points out things we may easily miss.

One of the most famous sentences in the entire Torah is:

 שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל ה׳ אֱלֹקֵינוּ ה׳ אֶחָד

This pasuk is found in our parashah. We say it every day. But what does it really mean?

Rabbi Alan Kimche explains something powerful: even though Shema appears in the siddur, it’s not actually a prayer — at least not in the way we usually think of prayer. Normally, in tefillah, we ask Hashem for things: health, peace, livelihood, wisdom, redemption. But Shema is different. It’s not a request — it’s a declaration. A pledge of allegiance.

Just like soldiers pledge loyalty to their country, when we say the Shema, we are pledging our loyalty to Hashem, to the Jewish people, and to our mission in this world. And those first two words — “Shema Yisrael” — aren’t just a poetic beginning. They’re a command: Listen. Pay attention. Tune in.

Why “listen”? Why not “see”? Rav Yitzchak Hutner points out that seeing can mislead us — it’s easy to be fooled by appearances. Just think back to the very first sin in the Torah: Chava saw the fruit and it looked good — and we all know where that led. But true understanding, true depth, comes from listening. Hearing the voice of Hashem, hearing the wisdom of Torah, listening to the truth that often can’t be seen with the eye, only felt in the heart. That’s why we cover our eyes when we say Shema — because the truths we’re affirming aren’t visible in the world around us. The world today looks divided, broken, chaotic. But we say “Hashem Echad” — we declare that beneath it all, there is unity. There is a Divine plan.

Another beautiful idea comes from the Maharal of Prague. He explains that when we say “Shema Yisrael,” we’re not talking to Hashem — we’re talking to each other. To all of Am Yisrael. This isn’t just a personal statement. It’s a national mission. I don’t say Hashem is my God — I say He’s our God. We’re in this together.

There’s a third layer — from the Sfas Emes. He reminds us that we actually heard the first two commandments directly from Hashem at Har Sinai — not through Moshe, but with our own ears. That voice of Hashem still echoes in the world, even if we can’t hear it in the usual sense. When we say the Shema, we’re reconnecting to that eternal voice.

And finally, the Gemara tells us something beautiful: the very first people who ever said “Shema Yisrael” were the sons of Ya’akov Avinu. When Ya’akov was on his deathbed, he asked his sons if they shared his faith — and they replied: “Shema Yisrael” — Listen, our father Yisrael, Hashem is our God, Hashem is One. In that moment they were saying, “We are with you. We carry your faith forward.” And so when we say Shema today, we’re also speaking to our ancestors — saying to them: “We are still here. We believe. We continue your path.”

We are part of that eternal chain. When we say “Shema Yisrael”, and we connect to Ya’akov, to Har Sinai, to thousands of years of Jews who came before you — and, IY”H, to generations who will come after us.