Parshas Ki Savo 5784
Imagine walking into a yeshiva and casually dropping a quarter in the pushka located at the entrance. Suddenly, sirens blare and confetti canons explode. The menahel emerges from his office all smiles, pumping your hand vigorously. Classes are all suspended so the children can come out and thank you in person.
And you sheepishly respond, “I’m awfully flattered. But it’s odd, really. You didn’t make nearly this big a fuss the last time I donated to the yeshiva. And that was the check that got my name on the outside of this building.”
The agricultural mitzvos of the Torah are extraordinarily demanding. Two percent of your entire yield goes to Kohanim in the form of terumah. A further ten percent thereafter is given to Leviim. Two years out of every seven years, a yet additional ten percent go to others in need. And then there’s shemittah. And orlah. And challah. And leket, shich’cha, and peiah.
The observant farmer dutifully gives up his hard-grown produce time and time again. And all without fanfare or accolades.
But when it comes to the mitzvah of bikkurim—the presentation of but one early-ripening fruit as an expression of thanks for the entire species growing in the orchard—a veritable ticker-tape parade ensues. Though by far the most meager of any of the compulsory gifts of produce the Torah demands, the celebration—as described by Maseches Bikkurim—are completely over-the-top. Wagons pulled by animals whose horns are embossed with gold leaf. Children let out of school and employees being given leave from work to celebrate the arrival of the farmiers to Yerushalayim. It’s a national holiday with all the trimmings.
Why such a warm welcome for a small basket of fruit, but not the mounds of produce also delivered in the name of the other agricultural mitzvos? Why is the hooplah reserved for the quarter in the pushkah, but not the building dedication?
I once heard a beautiful explanation from Rabbi Jacob J. Schacter. He suggests that the key to solving this puzzle is in considering not what the farmer is giving up, but what he keeps for himself. Yes, terumah, followed by maaser rishon, followed by maaser ani, and all the other obligations amount to an impressive sum. But what the farmer keeps in his own pocket is a far greater sum. He is parting with roughly 20% of his produce at a time when the other 80% is already piled high in the silo.
Not so for bikkurim. Bikkurim are the first fruits, selected for donation by wrapping a small ribbon around the fruit when it first begins to develop, and before any of the others have yet emerged. With the mitzvah of bikkurim, the farmer dedicates the little he has, without holding anything else in reserve.
Which explains the hooplah. The bringer of the bikkurim is demonstrating greater faith in Hashem. Despite leaving nothing behind for himself, he is willing to part with the little bit he’s received as an expression of gratitude and thanksgiving.
But I believe there’s something more. Not only an act of faith, but a critical reframing of the value of giving when resources are scarce. It’s not only that the farmer overcomes his own selfishness and anxieties, he is also learning to value the modest contribution, rather than defaulting to “Why bother? What difference will it make?” And that is something to be celebrated.
Most of life is spent in a position of scarcity. We don’t have enough money, enough time, enough bandwidth, to do all the things we want to do and feel we must do to live by the values we hold dear. We should learn more, should give more tzedakah, and should spend more time with our families. We should cook more meals, make more phone calls, and invite more guests. We should make more minyanim, do more bedtimes, and have more dates with our spouses. And we just can’t. Because resources are scarce. We are so busy juggling—and paying for—all of life’s responsibilities that eeking out time or money for anything more is just not in the cards.
How do we respond when we come to the honest realization that we just can’t be the regular minyan goer, can’t keep the daily chavrusa, can’t maintain the weekly datenight? Bikkurim reminds us not to drop the enterprise entirely. Don’t convince yourself that it’s all or nothing. Don’t adopt the mentality that if you can’t do it in full, then don’t bother with any part of it.
You don’t have a wheelbarrow full of figs? How about just one? That’s something, too. Something great. Give that. And when you do, we’ll celebrate it.
The one-off minyan, the one-off shiur, the one-off date night. These have immense value. They are making the statement that we have our priorities straight, we know what’s important, and we will live by those values to the greatest extent possible.
Moreover, the one-off, the single fig, becomes a placeholder. Giving that lone fruit develops the muscle-memory that begins to blaze a trail that can be widened as we enter a new season of life. Right now I can only give a dollar, can only send that family some cookies rather than a whole meal, can only cover a few lines of Gemara a day before my eyes close. But one day I’ll have more time and money and energy, and when that day comes I’ll have developed good habits. Habits that can be expanded to fit the expansion of resources that may well come our way.
James Clear, the author the excellent book, Atomic Habits, is an avid weightlifter. He was once asked what happens on days that he can’t get in his normal workout routine and responded that he will always opt for frequency over quantity. If the full 45-minute workout can’t happen, he’ll hit the gym for just ten or fifteen minutes, but do everything he can to not miss the day. When we devalue the quantity of what we can offer, we run the risk of abandoning the habit altogether. And that can prove extraordinarily difficult to recover from.
Why celebrate bikkurim more than maaser? Because recognizing the small contribution as a signifcant step forward in character is an achievement definitely worth celebrating. How do you act when you have only one fig? Don’t say it’s not worth giving, you’ll wait until you have more. The ability to give more—to do more, to learn more, to daven more—later on, may well be a function of what you do with that lone fig.
A great message – thank you. I will try to share it in our new neighborhood in Ashkelon.