By Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D., in El Cajon, California
Couldn’t we all use a little more genuine happiness? As we approach the High Holy Days coming upon us soon, when we naturally look inward and think about the year that has passed and the year we hope is ahead, Ki Tavo gives us a surprisingly practical message: happiness is not simply something that happens to us. It is something we can help create.
The Torah’s blessings and curses remind us, especially before Rosh Hashanah, that our choices matter. The Talmud teaches that we read the curses so that “the year may end along with its curses”—leaving behind our struggles and mistakes and entering the new year with hope and a clean heart.
But there is a deeper lesson: arevut, our responsibility for one another. Judaism teaches that we are not meant to live our spiritual lives alone. When one person struggles, the community is affected; when one person is blessed, the whole community can share in that blessing.
The parsha begins with the words, “When you enter,” Ki Tavo, the Land of Israel. The Israelites are told to bring their first fruits to the Temple and say, in essence, “Thank You.” They are then told, “Then you shall rejoice with all the good that the Lord your G-d has given you and your household.” First, recognize the good. Then give thanks. Then rejoice.
There is something very human about this. We often think, “When I finally have what I want, then I’ll be happy.” When the problem is solved. When the doctor gives good news. When the children are doing well. When the finances are better. When I accomplish what I have been trying to accomplish. Then I’ll be happy. But Ki Tavo asks us to consider another possibility: Maybe happiness begins not with getting more, but with noticing more.
We have a natural tendency to focus on what is missing. Mental health professionals often speak about the brain’s tendency to notice problems, threats, and disappointments. We can have a wonderful day, receive ten compliments, and then go home thinking about the one negative comment someone made. We can have so much, yet our attention goes immediately to what we don’t have. The Torah offers us a different habit: hakarat hatov, recognizing the good.
That is what the first-fruits ritual is really about. The farmer worked hard. He planted, watered, waited, worried, and finally harvested. But when the first fruits appeared, he was instructed to stop and recognize that his success was not his alone. He brought his first fruits to Hashem and said thank you. That is a powerful lesson for us. We should certainly work hard. Judaism does not tell us to sit back and wait for blessings to appear. We are expected to practice hishtadlut, to make our best effort.
But we also need the humility to recognize that our effort is only part of the story. So much of what makes our lives possible, comes from other people, from circumstances beyond our control, and ultimately, from Hashem.
This is especially important when things are going well. It is easy to become proud when we succeed. We can begin to believe, “I did this all by myself.” Ki Tavo reminds us that success should produce gratitude, not arrogance. We can be proud of what we have accomplished while still saying, “Thank You.”
Perhaps this is one of the reasons gratitude is such a powerful psychological practice. When we deliberately look for what is good, we begin to change what we notice. Gratitude does not mean pretending that everything is wonderful. Life can be painful, unfair, and disappointing.
Gratitude simply means refusing to let the difficult things become the only things we see. We can be disappointed and grateful at the same time. We can be worried and still recognize our blessings. We can experience loss and still appreciate what remains. We can have a difficult year and still ask, “What did this year teach me? How did I grow? Who was there for me? What did I learn about myself?”
That may be one of the great challenges of cheshbon hanefesh, the personal accounting we do at this time of year. We are supposed to look honestly at our lives, but that does not mean creating a list of everything we did wrong. We should also ask what we did right. Whom did we help? Whom did we love? Who loved us? What did we learn? What blessings did we perhaps take for granted? Looking inward should not become an exercise in self-criticism. It should become an opportunity for growth.
Ki Tavo also gives us another remarkable message about happiness. In the tochacha, the section of warnings, we are told that one of the reasons for punishment is that the Israelites did not serve Hashem “with happiness and with gladness of heart, when you had an abundance of everything.” Why does the Torah care so much about how we feel? Because Judaism is not only concerned with what we do. It is concerned with how we do it.
We can perform a mitzvah because we feel that we “have to,” or we can begin to see it as something we “get to” do. I have to pray can become, “I get to stop for a few minutes and reconnect with something greater than myself.” I have to give charity can become, “I get to make a difference in someone’s life.” I have to say a blessing can become, “I get to pause and appreciate this food, this moment, this life.” That change in perspective can make an enormous difference.
Rav Mordechai Gifter taught that happiness is not something that simply happens to us; happiness is our choice. Of course, we cannot choose everything that happens to us. We cannot control every disappointment, loss, illness, or difficulty. But we can work on choosing how we respond. We can choose where we put our attention. We can choose whether to remain focused on what is wrong or make room for what is right. In that sense, happiness really is an inside job.
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Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D. prepares a weekly D’var Torah for Young Israel of San Diego, where he and his family are members. They are also active members of Congregation Adat Yeshurun.