Parashat Ki Tavó: Turning Toward the Mountain of Blessing

Parashat Ki Tavó speaks to us about gratitude, memory, and collective responsibility. 

It reminds us that abundance is not a gift for private enjoyment, but a commitment that involves us all. The wealth of the few cannot stand on the hunger of the many, and the freedom we celebrate cannot be sustained by forgetfulness. The Torah makes it clear: share with those who need it most —the stranger, the orphan, and the widow— and never forget that once upon a time, we were slaves.

The parashah begins with the mitzvah of the Bikkurim, the first fruits. The very beginning of abundance was not to be eaten at home or enjoyed in solitude. It had to be placed in a basket, brought to the Temple, and presented before the priest. At that moment, one was to recite the famous declaration —a summary of the people’s memory condensed in just six verses, the same text we recite at the Seder on Pesach:

 אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי, וַיֵּרֶד מִצְרַיְמָה, וַיָּגָר שָׁם, בִּמְתֵי מְעָט; וַיְהִי שָׁם, לְגוֹי גָּדוֹל עָצוּם וָרָב וַיָּרֵעוּ הַמִּצְרִים, וַיְעַנּוּנוּ, וַיִּתְּנוּ עָלֵינוּ, עֲבֹדָה קָשָׁה וַנִּצְעַק אֶל-ה׳ אֱלֹהֵי אֲבֹתֵינוּ; וַיִּשְׁמַע ה׳ אֶת-קֹלֵנוּ, וַיַּרְא אֶת-עָנְיֵנוּ וְאֶת-עֲמָלֵנוּ וְאֶת-לַחֲצֵנוּ וַיּוֹצִאֵנוּ ה׳ מִמִּצְרַיִם, בְּיָד חֲזָקָה וּבִזְרוֹעַ נְטוּיָה, וּבְמֹרָא גָדֹל, וּבְאֹתוֹת וּבְמֹפְתִים וַיְבִאֵנוּ, אֶל-הַמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה; וַיִּתֶּן לָנוּ אֶת-הָאָרֶץ הַזֹּאת, אֶרֶץ זָבַת חָלָב וּדְבָשׁ וְעַתָּה, הִנֵּה הֵבֵאתִי אֶת-רֵאשִׁית פְּרִי הָאֲדָמָה, אֲשֶׁר נָתַתָּה לִּי ה׳ (Devarim 26:5–10)

“An Aramean tried to destroy my father, who went down to Egypt… and the Egyptians dealt harshly with us, oppressing us… and we cried out to the Eternal, the God of our ancestors, who heard our voice… and the Eternal brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm… and brought us to this land, flowing with milk and honey. And now I bring the first fruits of the soil which You, Eternal, have given me.”

This passage is, in miniature, the entire history of Israel: Jacob in Egypt, slavery, the outcry, liberation, the wilderness, the arrival in the Land. A collective biography spoken in the first person. And through that exercise, each individual learns that abundance is not only the result of one’s labor, but also of shared memory and covenant with God.

I think, for instance, of a father listening to his son read from the Torah for the first time, on the day of his Bar Mitzvah. Thirteen years of life flash before his eyes in twenty seconds, just as the Bikkurim condense nearly three hundred years of history into six lines. Gratitude condenses memory, and memory propels us to solidarity. That is why, immediately after Bikkurim, the parashah speaks of tzedakah: gratitude is not a private feeling —it is the seed of justice.

But Ki Tavó goes even further. It speaks to us also about transparency:

וְכָתַבְתָּ עֲלֵיהֶן אֶת-כָּל-דִּבְרֵי הַתּוֹרָה הַזֹּאת, בָּאֵר הֵיטֵב  

“You shall inscribe upon the stones all the words of this Torah, explained clearly” (Devarim 27:8).

Justice cannot remain hidden; it must be inscribed, visible, and public. A just society cannot exist without shared norms, without words that everyone can read and embrace.

And then Ki Tavó offers one of the most powerful scenes in all of Torah. Two mountains: Gerizim and Eival. Six tribes on one, six on the other, and the Levites in between, proclaiming blessings and curses. Life itself is staged so that the people may understand: every decision carries weight. There is no neutral ground. One chooses the path of blessing or the path of curse.

A colleague once cited the mystical rabbi Isaiah Horowitz, the Shelah, who taught that these mountains exist also in the heavens. One is ההר הטוב – Har HaTov, the Mountain of Good, ascended only by those with “clean hands and a pure heart” (Psalm 24:4). The other is הר שעיר – Har Seir, the Mountain of Hair, which looks easy to climb because the wicked imagine they have mastered their impulses, though in reality they fall into the lowest trap. The Shelah concluded with a luminous phrase: “The purpose of Mount Gerizim is to assure us that the lost Paradise is recoverable.”

I hold on to that phrase: the lost Paradise is recoverable. The curse is not eternal. Even when we feel everything is lost, the Mountain of Blessing still stands before us, equal in height to the other. We can change slopes. We can cross the valley. We can choose the summit of encounter instead of confrontation, the summit of tenderness instead of the blow, of sincerity instead of deceit. It is harder, yes. Climbing the Mountain of Good demands greater effort, but its peak is within reach.

And I cannot help but think of our own time. When the war seems endless. When 48 brothers and sisters are still being held hostage in Gaza. When the very same reservists are called back time and again to carry a burden that should be borne by all. When hatred multiplies and the world seems numbed by indifference. In this context, Ki Tavó echoes as a warning: if we let indifference carry us away, no blessing will suffice. But if we choose solidarity, compassion, and active memory, then we can still aspire to a different future.

It is no coincidence that this parashah is always read close to the Yamim Nora’im, the Days of Awe. Whether observant or not, these days confront us with questions we cannot avoid: good and evil, justice and injustice, life and death, transcendence or finitude. However rational we may be, something deep inside us still keeps asking. And the Torah, at this time of year, responds with a dramatic scene: blessing and curse, life and death, two mountains standing before us.

The real question is: from what height will we look at the year that is ending? From the summit of hatred and destruction, or from the summit of blessing we still dare to believe in? I want to choose the slope of encounter, of thoughtful reflection, of humility to begin again. I do not know if we will reach the summit of peace anytime soon, but at least we will be able to say we tried. And if we truly knew that we are not alone, perhaps we would climb with greater strength.

Here is the good news: we are not alone. There are many of us. More than we imagine. Many who still dream of recovering that lost Paradise.

And I want to close with the words of the psalmist, which become our prayer for the coming year:

וִיהִי נֹעַם ה׳ אֱלֹהֵינוּ עָלֵינוּ, וּמַעֲשֵׂה יָדֵינוּ כּוֹנְנָה עָלֵינוּ; וּמַעֲשֵׂה יָדֵינוּ כּוֹנְנֵהוּ.

(Psalm 90:17)

“May the majesty of the Eternal, our God, be upon us; may He establish the work of our hands for us. Yes — establish the work of our hands.”

Shabbat Shalom, and hope to see you all on Sunday at 9am for Slichot, the dedication of our Temple and affixing of the mezuzot, and for the annual ceremony at our cemetery

Rabbi Gustavo Geier