The Torah portion "Ki Tavo" opens with Moses" words to the Children of Israel. When they enter the land, inherit it, and settle in it, they are to bring the first of the first-fruits of their soil to the place that the Lord will choose, thereby expressing gratitude to the Lord. However, bringing the fruits is not all. Every person who brings their first-fruits is also required to recite a few verses known as the "Miqra Bikkurim" (declaration of the first-fruits).
These verses have become one of the best-known passages in the Torah. Although they were originally intended to be recited during the ceremony of bringing the first fruits, from the time of the Sages onward, these verses have become a central part of the Passover Haggadah:
A wandering Aramean was my father. And he went down into Egypt, and sojourned there, few in number; and he became there a nation, great, mighty, and populous. And the Egyptians dealt ill with us, and afflicted us, and laid upon us hard bondage. And we cried unto the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our voice, and saw our affliction, and our toil, and our oppression. And the Lord brought us forth out of Egypt with a mighty hand, and with an outstretched arm, and with great terribleness, and with signs, and with wonders. (Deuteronomy 26:5–8).

Howard Gardner, a professor of education and psychology at Harvard University, argues that leadership is the ability to tell a particular kind of story: a story through which we explain to ourselves who we are, and impart power and resonance to our shared vision. The big questions—Who are we? Why are we here? And what is our mission?—are often answered by way of a story, plot, or narrative.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks views the ritual of the declaration of the first fruits as one of the central foundations upon which Jewish identity rests. This is a ritual that generates a spiritual and historical revolution along three central axes.
1. The national revolution: turning history into a personal identity story.
At the ceremony of bringing the first fruits, one would expect a person to speak about the land, the rain, and the fertility of nature. Yet the verses of the first fruits passage tell a different story: the story of the wanderings, the slavery in Egypt, the cry, the exodus to freedom, and the arrival in the land.
Rabbi Sacks argues that this is not merely a foundational story, but that a profound innovation is created in the connection between the private fruit in the farmer's hand and the entire national history. The farmer does not merely give thanks for his land and his yield, but recounts how his ancestors went down to Egypt, how they were enslaved, and how God brought them out to freedom and brought them to the land. Moreover, he tells the story in the first person: "And they dealt hardly with us," "And we cried," "And He brought us out." Although he himself was not in Egypt, he inserts himself into the story. Thus, national history becomes the personal biography of each and every individual. The past does not remain behind; it becomes part of the identity in the present.
2. Connection to the Haggadah of Passover
The connection between Parashat Ki Tavo and the holiday of Passover is deep and direct, as the verses regarding the bringing of the firstfruits (Bikkurim) stand at the heart of the "Maggid" section of the Passover Haggadah. Our Sages took a text originally intended to be spoken by a farmer bringing the fruit of his land in the Land of Israel, and transformed it into a text that every Jewish family retells on the Seder night, both in the Land of Israel and in the Diaspora. Rabbi Sacks emphasizes that Judaism does not preserve memory merely in history books or museums. It brings it to life through speech, story, ritual, questions, and communal eating. In every generation, we return to the story, place ourselves within it, and pass it on to our children.
This is a dynamic memory: we do not only learn what happened to our fathers and mothers, but we ask what the meaning of the story is for us today. Thus, memory becomes part of the identity and shared responsibility of the nation.
3. The Holiness of Joy and Gratitude
The Torah portion "Ki Tavo" also emphasizes the obligation of joy: "And you shall rejoice in all the good that the Lord your God has given you." Joy is not merely a spontaneous emotion that arises when things are good for us, but rather a commandment and a religious and social way of life.
Precisely in a moment of abundance and success, a person is asked to stop, look back, and recognize that their success is not taken for granted and is not solely their own doing. The declaration of the first fruits is therefore a counterbalance to the mindset of "my power and the might of my hand." It teaches a person gratitude, humility, and the recognition that they are part of a larger story than themselves.
But the joy does not remain the private property of the landowner. The Torah commands: "And you shall rejoice in all the good... you and the Levite and the stranger who is within your gates." Joy is complete only when it includes those who have no land, security, or abundance of their own.

By outlining a narrative framework into which future generations could also insert themselves and pass it on to their children, Moses transformed the children of Israel, in Rabbi Sacks's words, into a "nation of storytellers"—and in a sense, also a nation of leaders. Every person is not only a listener to the story, but becomes responsible for carrying it, interpreting it, and passing it on.
This is a people bound together by mutual responsibility, one toward another, toward the past and the future, and toward its God.

Rabbi Sacks also applies these insights to the modern era, where affluent and successful societies grapple with deep internal crises. He writes about several points we can learn for our own day regarding the biblical ritual of the first fruits (bikkurim):
1. Gratitude versus the "I deserve it" culture: The biblical reading of the first fruits and the remembrance of "A wandering Aramean was my father" teach us that our success is not taken for granted. It relies on grace, the efforts of previous generations, and belonging to a story greater than ourselves. A person who recognizes this becomes more humble, more grateful, and more aware of their responsibility toward others.
2. Resilience versus Loss of Direction: Societies may forget the story that shaped them and the values upon which they were founded. Rabbi Sacks warns that a society that loses its shared narrative may also lose its identity and its ability to defend its values. Active memory, which not only preserves the past but also gives meaning to the present, is one of the sources of national resilience.
3. Social justice from memory: The memory that we were strangers, wanderers, slaves, and powerless is meant to be a moral engine obligating us to care for the stranger, the vulnerable, and those who do not belong to the majority group. It is not enough to remember the story; the question is what the memory gives birth to within us. The value of the national story is tested not only by our ability to preserve it, but also by the way it shapes our attitude toward other human beings.
And here I return to the reality in our country. While preparing the Torah thought, I read a news item that deeply saddened me:
Ultra-Orthodox youths attacked an Arab bus driver on line 2 in Jerusalem and broke four of his teeth. It is suspected that the attack was racially motivated (Srugim website, Aug 2, 2026)
The actions of those boys do not testify to an entire public. And yet, when youths identified with the world of Torah attack a person because of their background, the contradiction screams out. How is it possible to tell over and again that we were strangers, persecuted, and powerless, and at the same time harm another person simply because he is an Arab?
In my view, this is not only a grave act of violence. It is a desecration of the Torah, a desecration of memory, and a desecration of God's name. If Jewish memory does not awaken in us a responsibility toward the other, and if the story of our vulnerability does not teach us to protect the vulnerable in our society—something profound in the meaning of the story we tell ourselves over and over again is lost!
In the spirit of the month of Elul and the process of soul-searching, we must also ask ourselves regarding our own story and that of our family: What stories are passed down in our family from generation to generation? What values and beliefs were instilled in us? How do these stories influence the way we treat other human beings? Are there stories we would like to preserve, empower, and pass on to future generations, and are there stories that it is time to re-examine, change, or tell differently?
Shabbat Shalom!