Parashat Ekev: The Heel That Sustains, the Heart That Feels, and the Memory That Guides

There is something profoundly human about our difficulty in recognizing what truly sustains our lives. So often, we direct our attention toward what is extraordinary, toward what shines, what receives recognition, and we overlook the quiet forces that make everything else possible. 

Parashat Ekev begins precisely by inviting us to look toward the places we usually overlook.

וְהָיָה עֵקֶב תִּשְׁמְעוּן (Devarim–Deuteronomy 7:12)

The word Ekev is usually translated as “consequence”: “and it shall be as a consequence of your listening.” Yet Rashi discovers another layer of meaning by connecting it to עקב, the heel — a word that shares the same root as the name of our parashah.

מצוות שאדם דש בעקביו

“The commandments that a person tramples with their heels.”

The image is powerful. There are aspects of our lives that we do not disregard because they lack value, but because we have grown too accustomed to them. The everyday loses its ability to amaze us precisely because it has always been there. The heel is the part of the body that touches the earth, that carries our weight, and allows us to move forward — yet it rarely receives our attention.

Perhaps Rashi is not speaking only about the seemingly minor mitzvot. Perhaps he is pointing to a much broader human tendency: we assume that what truly matters must be visible, impressive, and extraordinary. We struggle to recognize that a life is also built through what happens away from the spotlight: a timely word, an act of kindness, a lesson passed from one generation to another, a responsibility embraced without seeking recognition.

The contemporary world often measures value by size and visibility. What reaches more people appears more important. What attracts more attention seems to carry greater meaning. Yet the Torah reminds us that what sustains us is not always what we see.

The heel does not lead the body — but without it, we cannot walk.

The same lesson appears when Moshe prepares the people for a new chapter in their journey. Israel is about to leave behind the vulnerability of the wilderness and enter a land where they will build, create, and prosper. And precisely there, at the moment of promise and possibility, comes a warning:

הִשָּׁמֶר לְךָ פֶּן־תִּשְׁכַּח אֶת־ה' אֱלֹהֶיךָ

“Take care lest you forget the Eternal your God.” (Devarim–Deuteronomy 8:11)

The warning is striking because it does not come during hunger or fear. It comes when needs begin to be fulfilled.

While Israel depended on the manna, the well, and the Clouds of Glory, awareness of dependence was unavoidable. The wilderness constantly reminded them that no one walks entirely alone. But abundance brings a different temptation: the illusion that we are solely the product of our own strength.

That is why the Torah imagines a phrase that may arise within the human heart:

וְאָמַרְתָּ בִּלְבָבֶךָ: כֹּחִי וְעֹצֶם יָדִי עָשָׂה לִי אֶת הַחַיִל הַזֶּה

“And you shall say in your heart: ‘My own power and the strength of my own hand have made this wealth for me.’” (Devarim–Deuteronomy 8:17)

The problem is not acknowledging our efforts. The Torah does not deny the value of human work, creativity, or determination. The danger appears when we turn our achievements into the complete explanation of our existence. When we forget that behind every accomplishment there is a story that came before us: a community, a heritage, opportunities we received, and people whose efforts made our journey possible.

Forgetting begins when we stop seeing what sustains us.

And here two additional images emerge: the heart — lev — and memory — zachor.

Moshe asks a question that summarizes Israel’s spiritual mission:

וְעַתָּה יִשְׂרָאֵל, מָה ה' אֱלֹהֶיךָ שֹׁאֵל מֵעִמָּךְ: כִּי אִם לְיִרְאָה אֶת ה' אֱלֹהֶיךָ

“And now, Israel, what does the Eternal your God ask of you? Only to have yirah of the Eternal your God, to walk in His ways, and to love Him…” (Devarim–Deuteronomy 10:12)

The word yirah is often translated as “fear,” but Abraham Joshua Heschel teaches us to understand it as reverence. In his work God in Search of Man: A Philosophy of Judaism, Heschel explains that reverence does not distance us from that which inspires awe; rather, it draws us closer.

Fear makes us withdraw. Reverence allows us to approach with awareness.

Yirah is the ability to restore the proper balance between ourselves and the world around us. It reminds us that we can create, build, and transform, but that we are never the absolute owners of all that exists. It returns us to a sense of wonder before a reality that we did not create and that will always be greater than ourselves.

A life without reverence becomes a life trapped within its own boundaries. Everything is reduced to what we can control, measure, or use. But when we recover our sense of wonder, we rediscover that living is not only about conquering — it is also about receiving.

That is why, immediately afterward, the Torah presents another extraordinary image:

וּמַלְתֶּם אֵת עָרְלַת לְבַבְכֶם

“Circumcise the foreskin of your heart.” (Devarim–Deuteronomy 10:16)

Ovadia Sforno explains that this means removing the prejudices and false assumptions that prevent us from seeing reality clearly. That is the “covering” of the heart that we are called to remove.

The heart can also become covered.

It can become covered by certainties that no longer allow questions. By habits that diminish sensitivity. By such confidence in our own answers that we forget how to listen.

And here we discover a fundamental difference between the heel and the heart.

The heel needs hardness in order to support us.

The heart needs openness in order to preserve our humanity.

The roots of a tree do not exist to prevent it from growing. They exist to give it the strength to reach toward greater heights.

We, too, receive roots. We inherit a history, a tradition, a language, ancient questions, and a responsibility toward those who will come after us.

Zachor — remember.

If the heel represents that which quietly sustains us, and the heart represents that which must remain sensitive, then memory represents the way a person and a people transform experience into responsibility.

That is why the Torah can declare:

לֹא עַל־הַלֶּחֶם לְבַדּוֹ יִחְיֶה הָאָדָם

“Man does not live by bread alone.” (Devarim–Deuteronomy 8:3)

Life is sustained not only by what fulfills our material needs. We also live through the stories we inherit, the words spoken by those who came before us, the traditions entrusted to our care, and the relationships that remind us that our story began long before we entered this world.

May we preserve a firm heel that allows us to walk, an open heart that allows us to feel, and a living memory that allows us to choose wisely — and that reminds us to walk with humility even amid our achievements and our greatness.

Because ultimately, remembering is not merely the opposite of forgetting.

Remembering means living in a way that proves that what we received truly left a mark upon us.

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Gustavo Geier