Shabbat Greetings
As we inch closer to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, many of us can sense a quiet, persistent tug—a low hum of spiritual urgency that begins to rise during the month of Elul. Yet this sacred pull often competes with the relentless noise of real life. Schools are back in session. Calendars are filling. The pressure of academic, professional, and personal demands grows by the day. In the midst of all this, the work of soul-searching can easily slip to the bottom of our ever-expanding to-do lists.
It is precisely into this moment that Parshat Ki Tavo(Deuteronomy 26:1–29:8) arrives, not with a whisper, but with a bold and urgent call. Its message is both clear and, at times, deeply uncomfortable. And that is exactly the point.
The portion opens with the mitzvah of bikkurim, the offering of first fruits. The Torah describes how a farmer, having harvested the initial yield of their labor, is to bring these fruits to the Temple and present them with a ritual declaration. But this is not merely a ceremonial gesture of gratitude. The farmer is required to tell a story, a deeply personal narrative that traces the journey from oppression to liberation, from wandering to belonging.
This ritual is an act of spiritual location. The farmer doesn’t just drop off produce and leave; they speak aloud, giving voice to their place in the Jewish story. By doing so, they affirm that their personal success is not isolated but intertwined with collective memory, covenant, and calling.
This act of standing still, reflecting, and articulating one’s journey is the essence of teshuvah, the central spiritual work of the High Holy Days. Teshuvah does not begin with guilt or dramatic transformation. It begins, simply and profoundly, with honesty. It begins with the question: Where am I, really?
The passage about bikkurim is so foundational that it is included in the Passover Haggadah. There too, we are commanded to see ourselves in the story, not as distant descendants, but as active participants. In the same way, as we prepare for Rosh Hashanah, we are invited to find ourselves again in the larger Jewish narrative: to remember where we come from, to consider where we are, and to ask where we are going.
Later in Ki Tavo, the tone of the portion shifts dramatically as we encounter the tochecha, the list of blessings and curses. These consequences are described in searing, poetic detail. At first glance, they may appear to reflect a theology of fear and punishment. But at their core, these passages are not about coercion, they are about choice. The Torah’s message is urgent and empowering: Your actions matter. Your choices shape your life. You are not a passive character in the story of your own existence. You shape your world, your relationships, your inner life, your community, through the moral, spiritual, and personal decisions you make every day.
This is, at its heart, the message of the High Holy Days. We do not approach Rosh Hashanah to be judged against an arbitrary cosmic ledger. We enter this sacred season to reclaim responsibility, to reflect on who we have been, to realign with our highest values, and to return, not to perfection, but to integrity. Teshuvah literally means return. It is not about becoming someone else. It is about becoming more fully who we are called to be.
So what might this look like in our lives? Bikkurim might take the form of a daily moment of gratitude, a conscious pause to acknowledge the good in your life, and to consider its source. Gratitude, after all, is the gateway to awareness and transformation. Teshuvah might look like reaching out to someone you’ve wronged or neglected. A conversation. A message. A sincere “I’m sorry.” Blessings and curses might mean honestly recognizing which habits, relationships, or patterns are nourishing your spirit and which are slowly eroding it. Ki Tavo teaches that life is not neutral. We are always moving, closer to blessing, or further from it. The question is not whether we are writing a story, but whether we are writing it with intention.
Rosh Hashanah is not simply a date on the calendar. It is a wake-up call. And Ki Tavo reminds us that spiritual preparation does not begin in synagogue. It begins now. In our homes, our classrooms, our offices. In our texts and our conversations. In our calendars and our choices. Over the next two weeks, as Elul continues, try to create space not just for productivity, but for inner inventory. Ask yourself: What am I carrying that I need to release? What kind of friend, student, partner, or Jew do I want to be in the year ahead? What “first fruits” of my life—my time, my gifts, my passions—am I ready to dedicate to something meaningful?
May Ki Tavo remind us that even in times of stress, distraction, and uncertainty, we are always capable of return. May we enter this season of reflection with open eyes and courageous hearts. May we not be afraid to face the blessings and the burdens we carry and to choose blessing, again and again. And may this Elul not be merely a countdown to the High Holy Days, but a call to awaken to step into the new year with greater clarity, deeper purpose, and renewed faith in who we are becoming.
SHABBAT SHALOM