Ekev: Leaving Jerusalem

From High Definition to Ordinary Life

A meditation on identity, memory, and the challenge of not forgetting.

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Transcript

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Last week I returned from a month in Jerusalem, and no matter how many times I've been there, no matter how many times I've walked its ancient stone streets, I find that I come alive there in a way I experienced nowhere else in the world. It's more than a feeling, it's a vitality that lives in the geography and in the language. It's in meeting a friend for coffee on Rachel Menu Street or a walk on Rachhovanivim, the street of the prophets, where the words of those prophets still find their way into everyday conversation. It's in the Shmay Israel that still opens the 6 a.m. National Radio broadcast every morning, and in the Friday afternoon rush toward Shabbat when streets are hosed down, cafes and shops close early, and a quiet serenity descends on the city. In Jerusalem, I feel the overwhelming love for a story, a story that continues to be written in sacrifice. It's not a history you learn, it's not a memory preserved in museums, but a story that lives and breathes across time to the present moment. For me at least, every day in Jerusalem is animated by a keen awareness, a deep visceral knowledge of a story we actually inhabit. As always, when I return to my own house, my own kitchen, my own comfortable routines, that high-definition clarity begins to recede. I become preoccupied with mundane matters that command my attention in a way that makes me less alive to the immediacy of my story. The business of ordinary life has a way of making it difficult to sustain that intensity of awareness. And I find that instead of living inside the story, I'm just managing a calendar, commemorating dates and events from a comfortable distance. It's a kind of forgetting, not the facts, of course, but the relationship itself becomes less immediate. And that's what Parshat Akev warns us against. Welcome back to Torah in seven. I'm Bela Olidoard, and this week's episode is dedicated by Rabbi Ben Sion Gyszynsky to the memory of his mother, Rifkadina Bhat Harava Chasid Haravatamim, Zeev Wolf Gyzinsky, on her yard site, 13 Menachim of Parshat Ekiv, a noble woman of great Ms. Nefes. She is remembered for her fierce adherence to Torah and Chabad Chasidut during the darkest days of the Soviet Union. Dedicating an episode of Torah in seven is a beautiful way to honor someone you love. All the information is available on our dedication page at Torahin7.substack.com. In Parshat Akiv, Moshe warns the Israelites about what happens when they settle down into comfortable life in the land. He doesn't describe forgetting as a sudden conscious choice. He describes a process. First you eat and are satisfied, then you build houses, then your wealth grows, and then your heart becomes haughty and you forget the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt. The 16th-century Italian commentator Sforno makes an interesting psychological observation here. He asks, How does a person actually begin to forget? It starts the moment you look around at your comfortable life and think, hmm, I'm good. Look at what I've achieved, look at what I've accumulated. It's another version of Kochiva Ozzem Ya di a Salita Khailaza. My own wisdom, my own efforts built this. It isn't deliberate, it's just self-absorption. When life works, when the pantry is stocked, the house is built, and the routine is smooth. We stop thinking of ourselves as participants in a covenant that spans thousands of years, and we become individuals consumed by the busyness of life. So Moshe isn't worried that the miracles would fade from memory simply because too many years had passed. He's worried that the blessings of abundance and comfort would become so constant, so normal, that we'd begin to take it for granted rather than recognize it as God's blessings. So, how does the Torah protect us from that kind of forgetting? One answer is through mitzvahs specifically designed to interrupt our self-sufficiency and restore our awareness. It's no coincidence then that one of the great antidotes to forgetting appears in this very parsha. The remarkable thing is that it tells us to stop and remember when, not after an earthquake, not after crossing the sea, not after witnessing a miracle, but after the most ordinary act of all, after eating a meal. Just before Moshe warns us, beware lest you forget, he commands us, Vehaltha Visavata Uverata Tashemelokala Artatova, you shall eat and be satisfied and blessed. Think of it as a discipline of memory. But what happens when that discipline breaks down? What happens if you eat a satisfying meal and walk away, forgetting to bless, as sometimes happens? Well, according to some Halachic authorities, you're required to return to the table where you ate, sit back down and say the blessing there. Why? Because forgetting means you've stopped living inside the moment. You consumed, you felt satisfied, and you immediately checked out. And Halaha doesn't treat forgetting as an innocent mistake, so it asks you to retrace your steps because the cure for forgetfulness is to re-enter the story you walked away from, to stay in the relationship. And every relationship depends on both sides remembering. Having just emerged from Tishaba Ava in the nine days, when we mourn the destruction of Jerusalem and the pain of exile, we know what it feels like to think we've been forgotten, especially these days when so many of us feel frighteningly alone, wondering whether we have been left to fend for ourselves. The haftorh for this week's Parsha, the second of the Shiva the Nechemta, the seven haftarot of consolation that we read after Tishaba'av, opens with the Prophet Yishayahu giving voice to that very fear. The Lord has forsaken me, my God has forgotten me. And God answers with words of consolation and tenderness. So the question I'm asking myself now on my return from Jerusalem is this How do I sustain a heightened awareness even in ordinary life where memory fades and identity can lose its sharpness? How do I stay alive to the story that I've inherited? A story that's still being written. That's it for Prashat Akiv. If you'd like to go deeper, you can find more on Torah in seven dot substack.com. Thank you for listening. Shabbat Shalom.