S.A.L.T. – PARASHAT KI TAVO

Rav David Silverberg

Motzaei Shabbat

Parashat Ki-Tavo begins with the mitzva of bikkurim – bringing one’s first fruits to the Beit Ha-mikdash – and the associated mitzva of mikra bikkurim, which requires making a special declaration when bringing bikkurim.  In this declaration, the farmer briefly recalls our nation’s humble beginnings as slaves in Egypt and the miracles God performed to bring us out of slavery.

            The Rambam, in his Sefer Ha-mitzvot, lists bikkurim and mikra bikkurim as two separate affirmative commands (125 and 132).  Although they appear to be two components of a single obligation, the Rambam classifies them as independent requirements.  The Ramban, in his critique of Sefer Ha-mitzvot, does not question the Rambam’s classification of bikkurim and mikra bikkurim, but does raise the question of why the Rambam did not follow this model with regard to a different mitzva – Torah learning.  Like bikkurim, Torah study is a Biblical command that is associated with the recitation of a text – birkat ha-Torah, the berakha recited each day before one studies for the first time.  And unlike other berakhot, which were ordained by the Sages, the requirement of birkat ha-Torah is inferred from a verse in the Torah (Berakhot 21a).  Yet, the Rambam does not list the recitation of this berakha as one of the Torah’s 613 commands, and the Ramban speculates that the Rambam viewed birkat ha-Torah as subsumed under the mitzva of Torah learning.  The Rambam perhaps accepted the Gemara’s inference from a verse as establishing the Biblical origin of birkat ha-Torah, but felt that it is included under the command of study, and thus should not be assigned its own entry as one of the 613 commands.  (Several Acharonim indeed follow this reading of the Rambam – the Mabit, in Kiryat Sefer, and the Arukh Ha’shulchan O.C. 47:2.)  But the Ramban disputes this classification, noting the model of bikkurim and mikra bikkurim.  Just as these are regarded as separate, independent commands, similarly, we should classify Torah learning and birkat ha-Torah as independent Biblical commands.

            The Rambam, apparently, distinguished between birkat ha-Torah and mikra bikkurim, viewing the former as integral to the mitzva of Torah learning, and the latter as independent of – albeit related to – the mitzva of bikkurim.  An oft-quoted passage in the Talmud (Nedarim 81a) attributes the fall of the First Commonwealth to Benei Yisrael’s failure to recite birkat ha-Torah before studying Torah.  This comment is generally understood (though in numerous different variations) to mean that the people were involved in study, but lacked the proper perspective toward this engagement.  Reciting a berakha before one learns lends a certain sacred dimension to the activity; it demonstrates one’s awareness of the fact that studying Torah is more than an intellectual exercise, and is rather an endeavor laden with spiritual significance and import.  When we view birkat ha-Torah in this light, we immediately understand its status as an integral component of Torah study.  The mitzva to learn requires more than engaging the brain to absorb and understand the Torah’s words; it also demands a certain mindset and awareness of the spiritual significance of this endeavor.  Hence, the mitzva of Torah learning necessarily includes the mitzva of reciting birkat ha-Torah, whereby one gives expression to this awareness that is integral to the talmud Torah experience.  The relationship between Torah study and birkat ha-Torah is thus fundamentally different than that between bikkurim and mikra bikkurim, which may be seen as two separate obligations which, while performed in the same setting, are not integral to one another.

Sunday

The opening verses of Parashat Ki-Tavo discuss the mitzva of bikkurim – bringing one’s first fruits to the Beit Ha-mikdash.  The Sifrei (to 26:4), and the Mishna in Masekhet Bikkurim (3:8), comment that when people brought their bikkurim to the Mikdash, they carried and presented the fruits in baskets according to their means.  The wealthier ones brought their bikkurim in gold and silver baskets, whereas the poor presented their fruits in baskets woven from willows.

The different kinds of baskets used by members of the different economic classes bring to mind a different Halakha, one which appears in the Gemara, in Masekhet Mo’ed Katan (27a).  The Gemara there speaks of the food that would be served to mourners in their home after the funeral.  Originally, the Gemara relates, the wealthier visitors would bring the mourners food items in gold and silver utensils, whereas the less privileged would serve food with simple willow baskets – just like bikkurim.  But when it came to the food served to mourners, the Sages enacted a provision requiring everyone to bring food in willow baskets, in order not to embarrass the poorer members of the community.  A uniform standard was established for the benefit of the less privileged who would feel ashamed when their willow baskets contrasted with the golden and silver utensils brought by the wealthier guests.  Surprisingly, no such provision was enacted with regard to bikkurim.  For some reason, Chazal approved of the practice of different pilgrims bringing different kinds of baskets according to their means, without concern for the feelings of the poor.  Why didn’t the Sages legislate that all farmers bringing bikkurim should use simple willow baskets, as they did in the case of mourners?

Malbim, in his commentary here in Parashat Ki-Tavo (26:4), explains that since the kohanim had to eat the bikkurim in a state of ritual purity, the farmers would use brand new utensils to bring their first fruits, to ensure that the fruit remain ritually pure.  The poorer farmers would make their own baskets, whereas the wealthier ones purchased utensils for this purpose.  Malbim claims that the poor did not feel ashamed of their baskets because the baskets were their handiwork, made especially for the purpose of the mitzva.  To the contrary, they felt proud that the utensils they worked hard to produce were used for the mitzva and then given to the kohen as a special gift.

Rav Yehuda Leib Ginsburg, in his Yalkut Yehuda, suggests a different distinction:

In the case of the mourner, they bring [the food] to simple people, who give respect only to the wealthy, and the poor were thus ashamed.  But here, they brought bikkurim before the Almighty, and before Him there is no distinction between one who gives more and one who gives less, as long as one’s intent is for the sake of Heaven.  Hence, there is no reason for the poor to be ashamed before the Almighty for bringing their bikkurim in willow baskets.

In other words, the situation of the mourner’s home is a social context, as the community assembles to bring a mourner food and support during his time of grief.  In such contexts, the poor may indeed feel ashamed by the disparity between their utensils and that of their wealthier neighbors.  When one brings bikkurim to the Temple, however, he comes before the Almighty, who does not regard the rich any more highly than the poor, and he gives no thought to his peers’ impression.  It therefore does not matter to him if the quality of his utensil pales in comparison to that of the wealthier pilgrims.

Interestingly enough, however, with regard to a different aspect of bikkurim, Chazal were indeed concerned to avoid embarrassing pilgrims.  The Mishna (Bikkurim 3:7) records the provision that the Sages enacted that the text of the mikra bikkurim recitation – which everyone bringing bikkurim was required to recite – would be dictated for all pilgrims who brought bikkurim.  Initially, those who were familiar with the text recited it on their own, and assistance was provided for those who were not acquainted with the mikra bikkurim text.  But in order to avoid embarrassing the less educated pilgrims, the Sages enacted that the text would be dictated for everybody as part of the standard procedure.  Although the Sages were not concerned that the poor would be ashamed by their simple baskets, they were concerned about the uneducated who would be humiliated by their ignorance of the mikra bikkurim text.

The Yalkut Yehuda explains this distinction by noting, quite simply, that in the Almighty’s presence, people would feel ashamed by their Torah ignorance, but not by poverty.  Pilgrims who visit the Beit Ha-mikdash and sense the divine presence gain a truer perspective on their lives than that which they might normally have back home, when they are occupied with the day-to-day rigors of life.  From the perspective of the Beit Ha-mikdash, limited financial success is far less a concern than limited success in Torah.  Upon visiting the Temple, a person’s real priorities come into focus, and finances are bumped to the back burner.  Pilgrims thus feel no shame about their meager income, but feel utterly humiliated by their limited Torah knowledge.  For this reason, perhaps, in the context of bikkurim, Chazal felt compelled to enact a provision to protect the dignity of the less educated, but were not concerned about the poor suffering shame.

Monday

            The Torah in Parashat Ki-Tavo introduces the mitzva commonly known as “vidui ma’aser.”  This mitzva requires one to make a verbal declaration every three years avowing compliance with the obligations of terumot and ma’aserot – separating certain percentages from one’s annual agricultural yield.

            Many writers have noted the inherent peculiarity, and irony, of the term “vidui ma’aser,” which is used already in the Gemara (Sota 32b, Megila 20b).  The word “vidui,” as we know from our Selichot prayers and Yom Kippur liturgy, means “confession,” the verbal acknowledgment of wrongdoing.  The “vidui ma’aser” declaration is just the opposite of confession; it is an announcement avowing faithful obedience.  In fact, the text ends with the remarkable exclamation, “asiti ke-khol asher tzivitani” – “I have done all that You have commanded me” (26:14).  Not only does one not confess in this declaration, he proclaims that he has done everything that was asked of him.  Why, then, do our Sages refer to this mitzva with the term “vidui”?

            Many theories have been proposed to explain the term “vidui ma’aser.”  One possibility, perhaps, is that acknowledging one’s successes is a critical prerequisite for accepting responsibility for one’s failures.  The term “confession” is often mistakenly understood as simply the recognition that one did something wrong.  In truth, confession – at least from the Torah’s perspective – means more than that; it means recognizing that one did something wrong and could have chosen not to.  The mindset of “I acted wrongly, but that’s just who I am” does not fulfill the obligation of confessing one’s misdeeds.  Vidui requires acknowledging guilt, accepting responsibility, realizing that one willingly chose failure over success.  And, as such, vidui also requires acknowledging one’s potential for success.  In order to confess wrongdoing, one must acknowledge that he is independently capable of avoiding wrongdoing, that he has the potential to do what’s right but chose to squander that potential.

            It is in this sense, perhaps, that the announcement of “asiti ke-khol asher tzivitani” is considered a “confession.”  Once every three years, the Torah requires a farmer to “confess” that he is capable of overcoming his innate egotistical instincts and sharing his wealth with those in need, that he can meet the Torah’s strict demands concerning the management of his hard-earned produce.  And by acknowledging his spiritual successes, he implicitly accepts responsibility for his spiritual failures.  Once we recognize our ability to meet God’s demands, we can no longer enlist the excuse of “It’s too hard” to justify our shortcomings.  We are bidden to recognize what we’ve done right, and thereby take responsibility for those occasions when we acted wrongly.  By recognizing our capacity for success, we put ourselves in a position to sincerely regret and repent for our failures.

(See Rav Daniel Feldman’s “Confessions of a Tzaddik.”

Tuesday

            In Parashat Ki-Tavo Moshe commands Benei Yisrael to conduct a special ceremony at Mount Gerizim and Mount Eival upon entering the Land of Israel, avowing their commitment to the Torah.  A series of blessings and curses were pronounced, including, “Cursed is he who insults in his father or mother” (“Arur makleh aviv ve-imo” – 27:16).

            Citing this verse, the Rambam writes in Hilkhot Mamrim (5:15), “Whoever insults his father or mother, even [merely] with words, and even through gesturing, is cursed by the Torah…”  The Bach (Y.D. 241) explains that this “curse” applies even to the kinds of “insults” that are not included in the standard prohibition of ona’at devarim, which forbids causing people emotional harm through words, and thus even silently disparaging one’s parent, through gesturing, violates the prohibition of “Arur makleh aviv ve-imo.”  The Sefer Ha-chareidim goes even further, listing honoring parents among the Biblical commands that are fulfilled in one’s mind (mitzvot ha-teluyot ba-leiv, 35), as it requires thinking highly of one’s parents.  He adds that one who insults a parent silently, in his mind, even without saying a word or making any outward expression of his belittlement of the parent, violates “Arur makleh aviv ve-imo.”

            The Meshekh Chokhma, commenting on this verse, offers a slightly different insight into the warning of “Arur makleh aviv ve-imo.”  He writes that this prohibition refers to causing one’s parents any sort of anguish or distress.  Although it is of course forbidden to cause any person distress, a special prohibition is issued with regard to parents because of the natural tendency of parents to forgive their children.  Parents are accustomed to tolerating from their children what they would not likely tolerate from others.  The natural, instinctive love felt toward a child leads parents to accept and care for their children despite their wrongdoing.  Children might be tempted to take unfair advantage of this tendency to abuse their parents and mistreat them.  The Torah issues a special warning demanding that we treat parents respectfully despite knowing that they would love and care for us no less if we don’t.  We must not take unfair advantage of the parental instinct, of the natural unconditional love for one’s children.

            The Meshekh Chokhma’s insight might help explain the association between the mitzva of honoring parents, and that of shilu’ach ha-kein – sending away a mother bird before taking the eggs or chicks.  As the Talmud Yerushalmi (beginning of Pei’a) noted, these are the only two mitzvot for which the Torah promises the reward of long life, suggesting some connection between these two commands.  One possible explanation of this connection is the theme of unfairly capitalizing on the parental instinct.  Rav Shimshon Rafael Hirsch, in his Torah commentary (Devarim 22:6), explains that the requirement of shilu’ach ha-kein “assures immunity to a mother-bird while she is engaged in her activities of motherhood, and demands…appreciation of a female creature in her profession from everyone to whom an opportunity occurs.”  The Torah forbids taking a mother bird with her young because this would be taking unfair advantage of the mother’s instinct to stay with and care for its young.  A person who wants to take the mother bird must catch it as it flies, not as it performs its natural duty of caring for its offspring.  As Rav Hirsch later writes:

If then such a pure and ownerless mother-bird is found engaged with her maternal duties on nestlings or eggs, so that you have the opportunity of taking both, you are commanded to take up the mother-bird – so that you see that you could take it – but to let it fly away into freedom.  The fact that it is exercising its function of motherhood protects its independence and freedom.

Similarly, the mitzva of honoring parents serves to “protect” parents from the abuse they might suffer from their children as a result of their unconditional love.  Like shilu’ach ha-kein, the mitzva of kibud av va-eim bids us to respect the natural instinct of parenthood, to recognize the critical role it plays in human life, and to avoid misusing it.

Wednesday

            Earlier this week, we noted the halakha mentioned in the Mishna (Masekhet Bikkurim 3:8) that distinguishes between the rich and the poor with respect to the mitzva of bikkurim – the first fruits that one must bring to the Beit Ha-mikdash.  The rich would bring their fruits in elaborate, pricey baskets, whereas the poor, by necessity, brought simple reed baskets.  Interestingly, the Mishna comments, the kohen receiving the bikkurim would be allowed to keep the baskets of the poor, but had to return the lavish baskets brought by the rich.  Counterintuitive as this may seem, it was specifically the poor who were called upon to surrender both their fruits and their basket.

The Gemara cites this halakha in Masekhet Bava Kama (92a) as a source for the proverb, “Batar anya azil aniyuta” – “Poverty follows the poor” – which refers to the common, unfortunate phenomenon of “the poor get poorer,” that people suffering poverty often find that their condition continually worsens, without improving.  The extra imposition on the poor pilgrim in the Temple is seen as a symbol of the broader phenomenon of poor people falling deeper into poverty.  The Gemara then cites a different Biblical source for this notion, namely, the halakha requiring an individual stricken with tzara’at to publicly announce his status so that people know to keep their distance from him (“ve-tamei tamei yikra” – Vayikra 13:45).  As Rashi explains, this individual must already suffer the effects of tzara’at, and the Torah then instructs him to humiliate himself by announcing his condition to everyone around him.

            Different explanations have been suggested for why specifically the poor must relinquish their bikkurim baskets, whereas the wealthier pilgrims are allowed to keep their baskets.  One simple answer, perhaps, is that if the kohen would take the wealthy visitors’ ornate baskets along with the bikkurim, next time they would bring their bikkurim in simple, inexpensive baskets.  The Sages instructed the kohanim to return the baskets to the wealthy in order to ensure that they would continue bringing bikkurim in lavish, decorative baskets, thereby bringing honor and grandeur to the mitzva.

            Regardless, the question arises as to what precisely the Gemara had in mind by citing the adage, “Batar anya azil aniyuta.”  At first glance, this sounds like a cynical, pessimistic groan about the cruelty with which life appears to treat some people.  What message do Chazal seek to convey by drawing our attention to this proverb?  Aren’t we urged to view life from an upbeat, positive angle, and look to the future with hopeful optimism?  Why does the Gemara seem to encourage despair and negativity, telling us that things always get worse?

            One possible explanation might be that the Gemara warns against the natural tendency among many people to wallow in self-pity and excuse themselves from their responsibilities and obligations on account of their problems.  Chazal here do not give us a gloomy prediction that poverty will always get worse; rather, they admonish us to be prepared for this eventuality, to be ready to make sacrifices even in periods of hardship.  A poor man who had harvested a meager crop must now travel to the Mikdash and part with some of his limited, hard-earned produce.  He might have expected to receive some sort of dispensation in consideration of his plight, that someone, in some way, will “give him a break” and “go easy on him” in light of what he’s going through.  And yet, for whatever reason, the kohen imposes even greater demands on him than on the wealthy pilgrims, taking the fruits and the basket.  The Gemara perhaps saw within this policy a warning to people with problems – meaning, all of us –that they should not expect everyone in their lives to bend over backwards to accommodate their unique circumstances.  Of course, we are obliged to do what we can to help one another, but we cannot always expect special accommodations for our troubles.  Chazal here turn to the downtrodden Jew and warn him that he cannot demand dispensations; to the contrary, sometimes even more is demanded of him than of others.

            As mentioned, the Sages inferred this lesson from the laws of tzara’at, as well.  The individual might perhaps think to himself, “I’ve already got enough problems to worry about.  I shouldn’t have to worry about making sure people stay away from me to avoid becoming tamei.”  But the Torah indeed places this responsibility on him, not others.  It goes without saying that people must treat him with sensitivity and consideration, and make every attempt not to exacerbate his condition.  But he, for his part, may not seek to shirk his responsibility in light of the situation he is enduring.

            This might be the message of “batar anya azil aniyuta.”  When we go through situations of “anya,” during the difficult periods of life, we must still be prepared to accept and meet responsibilities, and to extend ourselves on behalf of others.  We cannot use our problems as a basis for making demands of others while excusing ourselves from responsibility.  Even if we have only a meager assemblage of “fruit,” we must be prepared to give the “basket,” as well; our sense of responsibility and self-sacrifice must continue even in periods of difficulties and hardship.

Thursday

            Toward the end of Parashat Ki-Tavo, Moshe briefly describes Benei Yisrael’s miraculous existence during their years of travel through the wilderness: “I brought you through the wilderness for forty years; your clothing on your back did not become worn, and your shoes on your feet did not wear out; you did not eat bread or drink wine or other intoxicant” (29:5-6).

It emerges from Moshe’s description that Benei Yisrael did not have access to wine throughout the forty years of desert travel.  This verse thus calls into question the well-known view in the Midrash that Rashi cites in his commentary to Sefer Vayikra (10:2) attributing the death of Nadav and Avihu to their entering the Mishkan in a state of “shetuyei yayin” – intoxication from wine.  How do we reconcile this account with Moshe’s explicit statement that Benei Yisrael did not have wine throughout the forty-year period of desert travel?

One answer emerges from a remarkable passage in the work Midrash Talpiyot cited by Rav Yosef Engel in his Gilyonei Ha-shas (Berakhot 58b). The Midrash Talpiyot relates that Nadav and Avihu did not actually drink wine, but rather drank water from the miraculous well that accompanied Benei Yisrael during their travels in the wilderness.  Just as the manna could be tasted as any food a person wished, the water in the well could similarly assume the taste of any beverage one desired – and this was the “wine” that Nadav and Avihu drank.  This surprising account of Nadav and Avihu’s “intoxication” easily answers the question that arises from Moshe’s statement in the verse here in Parashat Ki-Tavo. 

Incidentally, Rav Yosef Engel observes that the Midrash Talpiyot considered Nadav and Avihu guilty of entering the Mishkan after drinking wine event though they did not actually drink wine, but rather drank water from the well and tasted wine.  We might infer from this passage, Rav Yosef Engel adds, that if a person in the wilderness ate manna thinking that it should assume the taste of bread, then he would be considered as having eaten bread and would thus be obligated to recite birkat ha-mazon.

A different answer emerges from the Ramban’s commentary to the verse here in Parashat Ki-Tavo.  The Ramban writes that Moshe did not mean to say that Benei Yisrael had no bread or wine at any point during the forty years of travel.  After all, the Gemara comments in Masekhet Yoma (75) that Benei Yisrael occasionally purchased food products from traveling merchants during this period, and thus they clearly had access – albeit severely limited – to food and drinks.  The Ramban therefore explains Moshe’s comment to mean that Benei Yisrael did not have access to a quantity of food and wine on which they could subsist, and were rather sustained miraculously by God.  According to this reading, then, it was certainly possible for Nadav and Avihu to drink some wine on that day when they offered incense in the Mishkan.

            The Ramban’s comments to this verse also answer the question of how Benei Yisrael fulfilled the weekly obligation of kiddush during their sojourn through the wilderness.  If we assume that the Torah obligation of kiddush requires reciting the berakha over wine (which is the view of Tosefot and the Ran in Pesachim 106a), then we might wonder how Benei Yisrael fulfilled this mitzva during the forty years when they had no access to wine.  Rav Chayim Kanievsky (cited in Derekh Sicha, vol. 2, p. 216) suggested that they recited kiddush over manna, just as Halakha allows reciting kiddush over bread if wine is unavailable.  (It should be noted, however, that this answer would not accommodate the view of Rabbenu Tam cited by Tosefot in Masekhet Pesachim 106b, that the mitzva of kiddush cannot be fulfilled over bread.)  According to the Ramban, however, Benei Yisrael did, in fact, have wine in the wilderness that they could have used for kiddush, and Moshe here describes the inadequacy of their rations, not the complete inaccessibility of bread and wine.

(Taken from Rav Chayim Eisenstein’s Peninim Mi-bei Midresha, Parashat Ki-Tavo)

Friday

            The opening section of Parashat Ki-Tavo discusses the mitzva of bikkurim, requiring one to bring his first fruits that ripen to the Mikdash, and to approach “the kohen who will be at that time” (26:3).  Rashi, citing from the Sifrei, comments, “You have only the kohen of your time, whatever he is.”  According to Rashi, the Torah emphasizes “who will be at that time” to instruct that one brings his bikkurim to the kohen regardless of his stature, even if it pales in comparison to that of the kohanim of generations past.

            The Ramban raises the question of why one would have thought not to bring bikkurim to the kohen of his time.  Earlier in Sefer Devarim (17:9), the Ramban notes, the Torah uses this phrase – “who will be in your time” – with regard to the judges of the Sanhedrin to whom legal and halakhic questions must be brought.  In that context, it is to be expected that people might hesitate to bring complex halakhic queries to judges whom they consider less competent than those of earlier generations.  But when it comes to bikkurim, the Ramban writes, there seems to be no reason for a farmer to refuse to bring his bikkurim to the kohen of his day.

            The Taz, in his Divrei David, suggests that one might have refused to bring bikkurim to a kohen he deems unworthy because of the special declaration that is made when presenting the fruits.  As the Torah commands in this verse, a farmer bringing his bikkurim must approach the kohen and declare, “I have come forth to the Lord your God, for I have entered the land…”  The farmer refers to the Almighty as “the Lord your God” – meaning, the kohen’s God – and he might therefore have assumed that this ceremony requires a kohen of a high spiritual stature.  After all, not everybody can necessarily be given the distinction of having God referred to as “his God.”  For this reason, the Taz explains, the Torah emphasized that one brings his bikkurim to the kohen of his day, regardless of his inferior stature in relation to the kohanim of bygone eras.

            We might suggest another dimension to the meaning of Rashi’s comment.  The mitzva of bikkurim is intended as an expression of gratitude to God for giving us Eretz Yisrael and, more generally, for all He has done for the Jewish nation.  As the mishnayot describe in Masekhet Bikkurim, this was an especially festive event, as the Jerusalemite shopkeepers would line the streets to welcome and congratulate the procession of pilgrims bringing their bikkurim to the Beit Ha-mikdash.  This was an occasion of celebration, thanksgiving and festivity, as the Torah indicates in its conclusion to this section: “You shall rejoice in all the goodness that the Lord your God has bestowed upon you and your household…” (26:11).  The Sifrei’s comment – “You have only the kohen of your time” – was perhaps intended as a warning to the pilgrim not to poison the festive atmosphere by grumbling about the shortcomings of the kohanim.  It would take just a brief cynical remark – “Look at these lousy kohanim whom we’ve come all this way to bring our produce to!” – to undermine the aura of joyous gratitude and thanksgiving to God.  To be sure, it could be frustrating and potentially distressing to see a decline in the stature of the kohanim serving in the Temple.  But the bikkurim celebration was not the time or place to kvetch.  It was an occasion to celebrate all the goodness that God has showered upon His beloved nation, and to express sincere gratitude and appreciation – in spite of the problems besetting the nation, even if these include a decline in the quality of religious leadership.

            And this is perhaps part of the Torah’s message when it commands, “You shall rejoice in all the goodness that the Lord your God has bestowed upon you and your household.”  The Torah teaches us to avoid the cynical tendency to focus our attention exclusively on what’s not right, to lament and bemoan the current state of affairs.  This focus undermines our ability to recognize and appreciate “all the goodness that the Lord your God has bestowed upon you and your household.”  There is much goodness in our lives for us to celebrate and feel grateful for, and we must not allow it to be overshadowed by the problems that abound.