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The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Ki Tavo
Deuteronomy 26:1-29:8

In one of the most famous scenes in “Fiddler on the Roof,” the men of Anatevka celebrate in the local tavern the engagement of Tevye’s daughter Tzeitl to the wealthy butcher Lazer Wolf. They whirl and dance and drink lustily, all while singing and shouting “L’chaim! To life!”

The engagement is soon called off in favor of a far better match, and the winds of persecution begin to blow through the town. But the song sums up so much of what it means to be a Jew — to revel in the blessings of life and to always remember that “God would like us to be joyful even when our hearts lie panting on the floor.”

Our hearts are doing more than panting on the floor these days. They’re shredded, numb, devastated and broken. Peace feels unattainable. The brutal murder of completely innocent captives and the specter of continuing bloodshed are unspeakable. The unrest in Israel and the threats to Jews and people who love Israel are frankly terrifying.

How can we be joyful? How can we toast “L’chaim”?

Ki Tavo is a very hard portion. Its litany of nightmarish curses and hellish consequences for failure to live by the covenant with the God of Israel are deal breakers for many Jews. What kind of benevolent deity would threaten such horrific punishments (Deuteronomy 28:15-69) to a flock of flawed and vulnerable people who are so easily led astray?

The Deuteronomic motif of reward and punishment for living or failing to live by the system of Jewish law (changeable as it has been) is a formidable theological challenge. As a pulpit rabbi, I wrestle with it constantly. So many good people suffer, and so many people who perpetrate wickedness go unpunished and are even celebrated and encouraged. As a simple human being of limited understanding, I cannot explain why this is so.

But our tradition is old and wise. Both the sages and we know that striving for a good and decent society gives us the best and only chance of leaving a livable world for our children. And maybe that’s the best we can do. We know — of course we know — that systematic greed, violence, cruelty, neglect of the needy, and abuse of our bodies, our neighbors, our land and our planet will lead to a sick and devastated world. And yet, we seem forever caught in a cycle that sees us hurtling down a path of devastation.

It can feel disrespectful, even sacrilegious, to dance and sing and love and laugh while there is such pain in the world.

Reluctantly, and by obligation, I work my way through the terrors of Deuteronomy 28, searching for signs of hope and grasping for something, anything that can alleviate the pain of the human condition, even a little bit. There, in the depths of the unthinkable curses, we are told that travails inevitably come: “Because you would not serve your God with joy and glad hearts over the abundance of everything you have….” (Deuteronomy 28:47)  

Gratitude. Graciousness. Awe. Amazement. Joy. A glad heart. These are the must-haves of life. Not the material, fleeting, never-enough-ness that the world tries to convince us that we must have in order to be happy. No life is without pain, heartbreak and loss. Does it come because people haven’t been punctilious enough with bringing sacrifices to the Temple or with separating meat and dairy? No, considering that we have been unable to bring sacrifices to the Temple for almost 2,000 years and that the “laws” have morphed and evolved for centuries, with consensus rarely achieved.

It’s not our failure to live by the elusive “letter of the law” that dooms us to a loop of despair and dread. It’s our failure to revel in the magic of life, to mindfully cradle the aching fragility of the world or to cry with joy at the “unbearable lightness of being.” All of those failures rob us of the fullness that our Jewish tradition insists is there to be had, if we would but let it in.

We have the power to turn around. This is the season of turning and returning. The New Year is approaching, and with it, we pray for the gift of a new beginning and to be written metaphorically in the Book of Life for good and for blessing. It takes such immense courage to be joyful in the face of the darkness that we have experienced since Oct. 7, last Simchat Torah, the day of “Rejoicing with the Torah” that became a day of such horrendous and ongoing suffering.

It can feel disrespectful, even sacrilegious, to dance and sing and love and laugh while there is such pain in the world. I know I’ve often struggled with that, battling guilt and even shame when celebrating while others are consumed by grief and anguish.

But the command to give joyful reverence and thanks to the Creator isn’t about being insensitive or uncaring in the face of despair. 

To stave off the curses of hopelessness and paralyzing fear and to fend off the forces that would have us destroy ourselves, we are absolutely bidden to smile, to delight, to praise, exalt and double down on the sweetness of life while we have it. And for that, and so much else, I am amazed again at the power, presence and promise of Judaism.

Our hearts may be gasping for life on the floor of the world. But we are permitted, even dare I say commanded, to pick them up and minister to them and to one another with gentleness, compassion and comfort. May we fill our glasses to the rim and, even through our tears, continue to sing a hearty and joyful “L’chaim! To life!”