When Pesukim Walk the Streets

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

This week’s parsha of Ki Savo opens with the mitzvah of bikkurim, the offering of the first fruits. Through this mitzvah and the rich symbolism of the words and rituals surrounding it, we are taught how to find real, enduring happiness.

After months of backbreaking labor in his field or orchard, a man sets out on a journey. He selects the very first fruits of his harvest, the choicest of the Shivas Haminim, places them in a basket, and heads for Yerushalayim. There, standing in the holiest place on earth, he meets a kohein and begins to recite a strange passage. Rather than talking about the sweetness of the fruit or the joy of his success, he begins with history.

He starts by reciting “Arami oveid avi,” recalling the golus of Yaakov Avinu under the evil Lovon, the slavery of Mitzrayim, and the harshness of life under Paroh. Only then does he speak of the miraculous redemption, the land flowing with milk and honey, and the gift of the fruit that he brings to the mizbei’ach to present to the kohein.

Only after this entire process does the Torah instruct, “Vesomachta bechol hatov asher nosan lecha Hashem Elokecha- - And you shall rejoice in all the good that Hashem has given you.”

The message is profound. Happiness doesn’t come from having. It comes from remembering. The simcha that the Torah commands is not shallow joy. It is a deep, reflective rejoicing. Real simcha begins only when someone reflects on where he has been and what he has endured - the pain, the waiting, the uncertainty - and recognizes how far he came. For that is the joy that the Torah seeks for us, borne of perspective, context, and gratitude.

The path to fulfillment is rarely smooth. It is often lined with struggle, setbacks, and self-doubt. The farmer, who represents so many of us, works under a scorching sun, fends off insects, waits through droughts, davens through storms, and finally sees fruit. His instinct might be to enjoy the success and to finally relax, but the Torah tells him to pause, remember, and give.

That giving, that hakoras hatov, is the gateway to the simcha the Torah seeks for us.

Too often, we become lost in the negative. We focus on the struggles and become saddened. We become overwhelmed by the difficulties we face. We are not earning enough. Too much is demanded of us.

Yes, making a living is hard, but too often we become trapped in the problems that are part of life and lose sight of the good we have, beginning with life itself. We forget to thank Hashem that we have a job and are able to work. That we are healthy enough to stand, walk, and think. We focus on the negatives of our responsibilities and forget that they are signs of blessing.

The mitzvah of bikkurim is not just agricultural. It’s psychological. It asks us to reframe our lives. The farmer is told to think back to the beginning of the season when he planted and was uncertain if anything would grow. He had no guarantees. And yet, now, he holds a basket of abundance. The Torah compels him to see that and to recognize Hashem’s Hand through the entire process, from root to fruit.

We study this parsha now, just before Rosh Hashanah, because it speaks directly to what is asked of us at this time of year.

During Elul, we look back over the past year. Some parts of the year were hard, perhaps painfully so. Some parts were uncertain. But before we step into the Yomim Noraim days of judgment, we are told to do what the farmer does: reflect, remember and give thanks. To see what Yaakov went through in the house of Lovon and what the Jews endured in Mitzrayim, and then to appreciate the geulah. As we bring and study about bikkurim, we think about the toil and the fruit.

There are times when we feel overwhelmed. We feel stuck and trapped, with no way forward. People can feel crushed under the weight of financial pressure, business difficulties, family struggles, health crises, or inner turmoil. Some give up, thinking that their situation is beyond repair.

But that mindset is not one of Torah.

I have previously recounted this lesson from my rebbi, but it’s worth repeating and remembering. I was speaking with my rebbi, Rav Avrohom Yehoshua Soloveitchik, and he asked me how one of his talmidim is doing.

I answered, “Es geit em shver. He’s having a hard time.”

Rav Avrohom Yehoshua looked at me and said, “Bei dem Ribono Shel Olam, iz gornit shver. For the Master of the World, nothing is hard.”

That short response carries a lifetime of hashkofah.

We think in human terms. We see walls, but Hashem sees doors. We see difficulties, but Hashem sees opportunities. To us, it may seem hopeless. But for Him, nothing is impossible.

We become trapped by the moment and cannot look past it. Although the challenge may seem insurmountable, we must remember that “Bei der Ribono Shel Olam, iz gornit shver.”

Great people, those who live their lives by the sefer Chovos Halevavos and other sifrei mussar, are able to view life not as a string of isolated incidents, but as an evolving story written by the Creator. They don’t see world events as random or personal suffering as meaningless. They see Hashem behind every scene, even the darkest ones.

When the world - or their personal world - turns upside down and the people closest to them abandon them, or their friends mock them, or their chavrusa dumps them in middle of the zeman, they don’t panic during the storm, because they know that Hashem is steering the ship. By living with proper faith, emunah and bitachon in all situations, things will subside and they will see brocha and hatzlocha.

Rav Mordechai Pogromansky, one of the great Torah personalities of pre-war Lithuania, embodied this view. Even as he sat locked in the Kovno Ghetto, surrounded by death and destruction, he radiated calm. People gathered around him not just for Torah, but for emunah.

With the Jews walled into a small area that was constantly patrolled by vicious Nazis, he would tell those who would gather around him that he didn’t see the German beasts who were everywhere. He would say: “Ich zey nisht di Deitchen. Ich zey pesukim-I don’t see Germans. I see pesukim.”

He looked at the chaos and saw Tochacha. He saw the pesukim that we read in this week’s parsha playing out around him. The suffering was not the product of cruel men, but of a Divine system with meaning and purpose.

He wasn’t in denial. He was in tune.

Rav Pogromansky would repeat a teaching that he heard from the Kovno Rov, Rav Avrohom Duber Kahana-Shapiro, who died of illness in the ghetto. Prior to his passing, the Rov said that he was jealous of the kohein who hid the small jug of pure oil during the time of the Chashmonaim. That flask, which would one day ignite the miracle of Chanukah, was set aside during a time of despair, when the Bais Hamikdosh was defiled, churban was everywhere, most of the Jews had become Misyavnim, and the future looked hopeless.

The Kovno Rov referred to him as “der umbakanter suldat” - the unknown soldier. No one knows his name. But his small act of quiet faith changed everything. He knew that a time would come when the powerful Yevonim would be usurped of their power, when churban would yield to rejuvenation and shemen tahor would be needed to ignite the menorah.

While others surrendered to the darkness, he lit a spark for the future. He knew that he wasn’t seeing Yevonim, or Misyavnim, or churban. He was seeing pesukim.

He lived the words of the Orchos Chaim L’Rosh, “Al tevahel ma’asecha.” Don’t panic. Don’t act rashly. Stay steady.

This is classic Kelmer mussar. Clarity and calm, even amidst confusion. But you need not be from Kelm to live it. We can all become that unknown soldier, making small but holy choices even when everything feels bleak.

That’s why in many yeshivos, particularly during Elul, Orchos Chaim L’Rosh is read each morning after Shacharis. In Kelm, they sang it with a haunting niggun. Rav Nosson Wachtfogel would chant it in Lakewood with fiery intensity.

Each day, this reminder: Stay calm. Think long-term. See the pesukim.

Every Shabbos morning, in Nishmas, we thank Hashem for saving us from “cholo’im ro’im v’ne’emanim, evil and faithful illnesses.” What does it mean for an illness to be faithful?

The Tochacha in this week’s parsha (28:59) speaks also of “makkos gedolos vene’emanos, great and faithful blows,” and “cholo’im gedolim vene’emanim, great and faithful illnesses.”

The Gemara in Avodah Zarah (55a) states that before an illness descends upon a person, it must take an oath. It is instructed how long to stay, how much pain to inflict, and when to leave. The sickness agrees and is then dispatched.

That is ne’emanus. Even suffering follows orders. Even pain has a purpose and a limit.

When we’re in the middle of it, it’s easy to believe that things will never change. But nothing is forever - except Hashem’s love and plan.

Monday was a day of heartbreak—in Yerushalayim, in Gaza, and in every Jewish heart.

In Ramot, six holy innocent Jews were torn from this world by cruel, senseless violence. Twelve more were seriously wounded, their lives and families forever altered. The blood of the innocent cries out, and the chain of tragedy grows heavier with each link. Young and old alike, snuffed out in an instant. And for those left behind: darkness and grief. Parents. Siblings. Friends. All thrown into the fire of mourning.

The day had begun like any other in Yerushalayim. The sun rose over the golden city, casting light on people going about their morning routines. And then gunfire.

Panic. Screams. Chaos. People running for their lives.

When will it end?

That same day, far away in Gaza, four young Jewish soldiers—boys, really—were killed in their tank by Hamas terrorists. They never had a chance. Four more families shattered. Four more names added to the growing list of holy souls lost. Hy’d.

When Hashem decrees it, no border fence can stand in the way. No tank, no technology, can offer protection. When Heaven speaks, the illusion of control disappears. Pesukim are seen in the streets.

We see virtually the entire world lining up against us, preparing for a grand ceremony at that bastion of justice, the United Nations, where once-great nations of the West will join forces with Israel’s traditional enemies and recognize a non-existent state for a fictional nation. Anti-Semitism increases and no place is considered safe from the vile hate. Israel’s war with the forces of terror continues into its third year, as its hostages hover near death, and legions of marchers, propagandists, politicians and media mainstays accuse and convict Israel of genocide.

When we hear what is happening inside Eretz Yisroel, it can feel demoralizing. We see the rightist government on shaky legs, with the left flexing its might, putting together new coalitions comprised of old enemies, determined to squash us.

None of what is happening is new. None of it is unprecedented. The ongoing battles over yeshivos, over halacha, and over the soul of our people have been waged since the beginning.

The battles that are being waged now have been fought before. Ever since the founding of the state, the status of bachurei yeshiva and the role of halacha have been points of contention. Just as our spiritual fathers triumphed, just as yeshivos rose from the ashes and continued to grow, and just as the Torah community defied the predictions and prognoses of its demise and thrived, so will the good times return.

In this country, as well, we face multiple challenges in our communities, schools, shuls, neighborhoods, housing, and children. Costs are rising everywhere. As some wring their hands in despair and despondency, others see it all as birth pangs.

We have always survived. More than that, we have flourished.

The Torah world rose from the ashes of Churban Europe. It was rebuilt by people who saw the pesukim and did not panic. We must continue their legacy. The good times will return - for those who don’t give up.

Yaakov Avinu, as he descended to Mitzrayim, brought along cedar trees - arozim - that would later be used to build the Mishkon. Why? Because he knew. He knew that golus would come. He knew that slavery would follow. But he also knew that redemption would follow that - and that those very trees, planted in a period of darkness, would be used to build a house for Hashem that would be a source of light and holiness.

Yaakov wasn’t just bringing wood. He was bringing a message: The darkness won’t last. Prepare for the light.

That is why we read the parsha of bikkurim now.

Elul is not just about fear. It’s about faith. It’s about saying: I will plant. I will strive. I will plan my walk toward Yerushalayim with my fruit, even if I don’t yet see them. And Hashem, in His love, will grant me what I need and welcome me to the mikdosh through his emissary, the kohein.

The Ribono Shel Olam says, “Pischu li pesach kefischo shel machat, open for Me a door the size of a needle’s eye, v’Ani eftach lochem kepischo shel ulam, and I will open for you the entrance to a grand hall.”

Elul is about taking the step. That first step is hard, just like the first steps of a child. It’s hard to get off the floor, to forsake our sins, large and small, those that bring us joy and those that lead to depression. It takes faith and strength to take that first step. But when we do take it, Hashem will do the rest.

We live in turbulent times. Spiritually, socially, and politically, we feel the shaking beneath our feet. But we must respond the way Jews always have: with faith, with effort, and with gratitude.

We must examine our deeds, remember our history back to Yaakov and the times he suffered, recognize our geulah, and move forward.

Hashem saved Yaakov from Lovon and saved us from Mitzrayim. He will save us again - if we don’t give up. If we walk, He will carry. If we cry, He will listen.

The struggles we face are real, but so is the love of the Father who placed them in our path.

May we merit to be among those who bring our bikkurim with joy, even after a year of toil. May we learn from the unknown soldier. May we see our struggles not as dead ends, but as pesukim in progress.

May we all be inscribed for a year of light, clarity, peace, and revealed goodness.

Kesivah vachasimah tovah. Shnas geulah v’yeshuah.