Parashat Ki Tavo opens with a statement envisioning the future—the time when the people of Israel will live on their land and cultivate its fruits. The commandments mentioned afterwards are the bringing of the first fruits (Bikkurim) to the priest, and the recitation of a text (Deuteronomy 26).
This text, which we also know from the Passover Haggadah, tradition tells us was recited at the time of presenting the first fruits to the priest.
If we set aside for a moment what we already know, and think about the fundamental question—what is the story, what is the text that should be said when bringing the Bikkurim to the priest—what would you imagine it should be? What story do we tell about ourselves and our lives every time we bring first fruits?
In a reality as complex and painful as ours, when almost daily we kill and are killed, reading Parashat Ki Tavo can feel like a moment of harshness, or perhaps a moment of comfort. And this too depends on the story we choose to tell—to ourselves and to the world. Are we in the part of the curses, or not yet? When certain things feel like they are already happening, but not all of them—should we see this as a good sign, because it could be worse, or as a bad sign, because the curses are already descending upon us, and this likely means that those not yet fulfilled will come true soon?
Narrative holds tremendous power. The story we tell ourselves about our lives, about the unfolding of events, about our choices, enables us to cope—for better or for worse—with the course of our lives. A people’s narrative has the power to unify, strengthen, and bind together—or at least that is its purpose. But what happens when the narrative breaks down, or proves problematic? Can we continue to cling to the same story? Might the need to create another or complementary story still enable the shaping of a shared narrative?
The story told at the presentation of the first fruits was not confined to the personal tale of the individual bringing them. Nor was it limited to the settlement of the land after entering it. The story returned to the point of origin: leaving the land, slavery in Egypt, the Exodus, and the return to the land. Even someone living thousands of years after that return continued to tell this story. And we too continue to recount and recall it, even if the context is different.
In the midst of the month of Elul—the month of mercy and forgiveness—we can begin to ask, as individuals, families, communities, organizations, cities, and as a nation: what story will we tell? What stories—what realities—will we agree to hear and to make heard? What is the story that is right and fitting for us?
What is the point of origin from which the whole story develops? Can we find new points of origin? Can we create new narratives? Can we, as the new year approaches, imagine a different story?
Are we content within the story we are telling, or do we feel a desire and need to explore other possible stories? Do we still have the power to create a new story—a different reality—within the madness that surrounds us?
Story, like language, shapes the way we look at life. May we have the wisdom to create the story that is worthy.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Rabbi Noa Mazor was ordained in 2016. Her first rabbinic role was directing the interreligious department at Rabbis for Human Rights. She is an educator and activist, working in various ways to transform social perceptions, with a deep belief in building relationships and bridges between people of different streams, communities, and faiths. She holds a BA in the Ofakim program for Jewish Studies as Culture at Tel Aviv University, and an MA in Pluralistic Jewish Education from the Hebrew University and Hebrew Union College.
This text, which we also know from the Passover Haggadah, tradition tells us was recited at the time of presenting the first fruits to the priest.
If we set aside for a moment what we already know, and think about the fundamental question—what is the story, what is the text that should be said when bringing the Bikkurim to the priest—what would you imagine it should be? What story do we tell about ourselves and our lives every time we bring first fruits?
In a reality as complex and painful as ours, when almost daily we kill and are killed, reading Parashat Ki Tavo can feel like a moment of harshness, or perhaps a moment of comfort. And this too depends on the story we choose to tell—to ourselves and to the world. Are we in the part of the curses, or not yet? When certain things feel like they are already happening, but not all of them—should we see this as a good sign, because it could be worse, or as a bad sign, because the curses are already descending upon us, and this likely means that those not yet fulfilled will come true soon?
Narrative holds tremendous power. The story we tell ourselves about our lives, about the unfolding of events, about our choices, enables us to cope—for better or for worse—with the course of our lives. A people’s narrative has the power to unify, strengthen, and bind together—or at least that is its purpose. But what happens when the narrative breaks down, or proves problematic? Can we continue to cling to the same story? Might the need to create another or complementary story still enable the shaping of a shared narrative?
The story told at the presentation of the first fruits was not confined to the personal tale of the individual bringing them. Nor was it limited to the settlement of the land after entering it. The story returned to the point of origin: leaving the land, slavery in Egypt, the Exodus, and the return to the land. Even someone living thousands of years after that return continued to tell this story. And we too continue to recount and recall it, even if the context is different.
In the midst of the month of Elul—the month of mercy and forgiveness—we can begin to ask, as individuals, families, communities, organizations, cities, and as a nation: what story will we tell? What stories—what realities—will we agree to hear and to make heard? What is the story that is right and fitting for us?
What is the point of origin from which the whole story develops? Can we find new points of origin? Can we create new narratives? Can we, as the new year approaches, imagine a different story?
Are we content within the story we are telling, or do we feel a desire and need to explore other possible stories? Do we still have the power to create a new story—a different reality—within the madness that surrounds us?
Story, like language, shapes the way we look at life. May we have the wisdom to create the story that is worthy.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Rabbi Noa Mazor was ordained in 2016. Her first rabbinic role was directing the interreligious department at Rabbis for Human Rights. She is an educator and activist, working in various ways to transform social perceptions, with a deep belief in building relationships and bridges between people of different streams, communities, and faiths. She holds a BA in the Ofakim program for Jewish Studies as Culture at Tel Aviv University, and an MA in Pluralistic Jewish Education from the Hebrew University and Hebrew Union College.