Sep 09/06 - Parashat Ki Tavo

Commentary by Rabbi Alan Green

“You shall answer and say before the Lord your God: ‘My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt, few in number, and sojourned there, but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us, and oppressed us. They imposed heavy labour upon us. We cried out to the Lord, the God of our ancestors. God heard our cry, and saw our affliction, our misery, and our oppression. And God brought us out from Egypt with a mighty hand, an outstretched arm, with awesome power, and by signs and wonders. God brought us to this place, and gave us this land—a land flowing with milk and honey. Therefore, I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O God, have given me.’”   Deuteronomy 26:5 -10

Many people will recognize this passage as the core text around which the story of the Exodus is woven in the Haggadah like a rich rabbinic tapestry. In the Haggadah, each phrase in this passage is lovingly interpreted in classic Midrashic style, complete with proof texts drawn from all over the Bible. Those who are unfamiliar with Midrash often find this portion of the Haggadah heavy slogging. Surely there must be better ways to tell the story of the Exodus!

Indeed there are. Anything from puppet shows, to dramatic presentations, to completely original narratives are not only allowed, but encouraged by Halacha. The purpose of the Haggadah—literally, “the telling”—is to communicate with maximum immediacy the paradigmatic tale of the Exodus from Egypt. The Exodus has been called “the master story of the Jewish people.” Understood in its broadest sense, it is also the master story of all of humanity everywhere.

So why preserve the original form of the story as the rabbis give it in the Haggadah? For the very reason that this passage appears in the Torah in the first place! Which is to say: it is a precise form of expression that binds us, word for word, breath for breath, and thought for thought, with all past generations of the Jewish people.

This passage was the statement that an ancient Israelite made to the priest when he would offer the first fruits of the harvest (Bikkurim) in the original form of the holiday of Shavuot—the “feast of weeks”—celebrated fifty days after Pesach.

After the destruction of the Second Temple in the year 70, when it was no longer possible to offer Bikkurim, the rabbis transformed Shavuot into the feast of the Revelation of Torah at Mt. Sinai with which we are familiar today. But this newer version of Shavuot was a well-conceived continuation of a very ancient tradition: that of Shavuot as the climax and capstone of Pesach. How so?

Let’s begin with the newer version of Shavuot. If the original Pesach was essentially a slave revolt, a Revolutionary War in which the oppressed rose against their masters and walked away from centuries of oppression, this version of Shavuot celebrated the Constitution—in this case, the Torah—the document that substantiated and codified both the rights and obligations that had been won in the slave uprising.

Pesach without Shavuot, in this sense, would have been terribly incomplete. The slaves may have gone free, but for what purpose? Freedom, without the boundaries imposed by the Torah, would inevitably have led to chaos, destruction, and the death of the Israelites in the desert. A modern example is the Reign of Terror that followed in the wake of the French Revolution.

But the giving of Torah at Mt. Sinai preserved the values of the Exodus in a way through which the Jewish people, as well as the whole of humanity, could be nourished and sustained for thousands of years into the future.

Now, for the original sense of Shavuot as given in the passage quoted above. As he offers the first fruits of the harvest, the ancient Israelite recites the whole spiritual history of the Jewish people, from the time of the patriarchs and matriarchs, to the descent into Egypt and slavery, to the Exodus, to the Promised Land—”a land flowing with milk and honey”. This highly dramatic prelude leads to a powerful conclusion: “Therefore, I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O God, have given me.”

There is a strong sense of completion and fulfillment in this version of Shavuot as well. God led us out of slavery, so that we could become a people of destiny in the land that He promised, many centuries before, to our ancestors Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, and Jacob and Rachel and Leah.

And what is the ultimate proof that God has indeed redeemed us in the precise way He promised our forefathers and mothers? That I planted seeds in this Promised Land; and that God provided soil, sun, rain, and peace enough for those seeds to sprout, grow to maturity, and fulfill their promise. Now, as a token of my gratitude, I offer You, God, the first fruits of this year’s crop at the Holy Temple altar, the place on earth that connects me to You in the most intimate way possible. Surely, this is a fitting climax to the original Exodus from Egypt! A holy people, redeemed by a holy God, living a holy life, from the fruits of a holy land.

It’s interesting to compare and contrast the two types of fulfillment embodied in these two versions of Shavuot. In the original version—Chag Ha-Bikkurim—the Feast of First Fruits—Temple, Land, and produce are all paramount. God’s promise of fulfillment is as concrete as the soil beneath one’s feet. In the newer version, Land and Temple must be relegated to a hope for the future. For now, it will be Torah that provides us with our sustenance, and which allows us to survive two millennia of exile from the Land of Promise.

And so, in the end, the Torah fully deserves its place as the main focus of the fulfillment of Pesach in the newer version of Shavuot. Not that we forget about the Land of Promise! Only that we need a wholly spiritual focus, in the form of Z’man Matan Torah—the Feast of Revelation—to help us survive and thrive until we get can return home once again.

Shabbat Shalom.