Dvar Torah for Parshat Ki Tavo (Deuteronomy 26:1–29:8) given August 29, 2026 by Christy Cook-Schwartz
Parshat Ki Tavo finds the Israelites near the end of their journey. We are almost to the Promised Land, and Moses is telling us what will be expected of us once we arrive. Among all these commandments is one that, on the surface, sounds like another line in the biblical tax code:
“When you have set aside in full the tenth part of your yield...you shall give it to the Levite, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow, that they may eat their fill in your settlements.” —Deuteronomy 26:12
But, as is so often the case with Torah, this commandment is about much more than it initially appears. It is telling us how to build a holy community. The Torah does not say: give something away if you happen to have extra.
It does not say: help the widow, the orphan, and the stranger if you are feeling particularly generous. Instead, care for those who are vulnerable is built directly into the structure of the community. A portion of what we produce is never entirely ours; from the beginning, some of it is meant for those who need it.
And notice the Torah’s goal: “that they may eat their fill.” The obligation is not simply to give enough so that we can say we gave. The goal is for the person in need to actually have enough.
This idea appears again and again throughout Torah. Deuteronomy tells us that God “upholds the cause of the orphan and the widow, and befriends the stranger,” and then commands us, “You too must befriend the stranger,for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Deuteronomy 10:18–19).
The Torah does not allow us to think of vulnerable people simply as other people whom we generously choose to help. We are asked to remember that vulnerability is part of our own story.
We were strangers. We were vulnerable. We know what it means to depend upon the choices of people with more power than we have. Perhaps this is why Torah gives us not only the tithe, but also commandments like pe’ah and leket. Farmers are told not to harvest the edges of their fields and not to gather every stalk that falls during the harvest. Those portions are left “for the poor and the stranger” (Leviticus 19:9–10). Deuteronomy extends the same principle to forgotten sheaves, olives left on the branches, and grapes remaining on the vine. Leave them for “the stranger, the orphan, and the widow” (Deuteronomy 24:19–21). These commandments ask us to resist the instinct to take everything to which we might technically be entitled.
The Torah teaches us to leave margins. Most of us no longer have fields whose corners we can leave unharvested. But we can still ask the question behind the mitzvah: What are the corners of our fields today?
Maybe they are the portion of our income we intentionally set aside fortzedakah, not only when disaster strikes, but as a regular practice. Maybe they are groceries contributed to a food pantry or meals preparedfor someone going through a difficult time.
Maybe caring for the stranger means supporting refugees and immigrants navigating unfamiliar communities and complicated systems. Maybe caring for the widow and orphan means noticing those around us who are moving through the world without the networks of support many of us take for granted. And sometimes the mitzvah asks more of us than meeting an immediate need. Giving someone dinner matters. So does asking why they cannot afford dinner in the first place. Caring for vulnerable people can mean volunteering and donating, but it can also mean advocating for systems that protect people from hunger, homelessness, exploitation, discrimination, and displacement. Feeding someone tonight and working toward a world in which they will not be hungry tomorrow are both acts of tzedek—justice. It is as though Torah is asking us: Instead of telling Me how faithful you have been, tell Me how the vulnerable people in your community are doing.
That is a challenging standard. But I also think it is a hopeful one, because I have seen what it looks like when a community lives this teaching. In the last few months, my family and I have been the recipients of exactly this kind of generosity and compassion. We were vulnerable. And the community responded.
You brought us meals — robust meals that allowed us to eat our fill – often more than once. But it wasn’t just gifts of food. We were given gifts of spirit and community as well.
You have sat with me in hospital rooms and infusion centers. You have watched our kids. You have carried my name in your prayers. You have checked in, shown up, and reminded us again and again that we are not alone.
You have done these things because we are all part of a holy community, and when someone among us is vulnerable, our collective memory tells us how to respond.
We dig deep. We show up. We give.
Not simply because we are commanded to, but because our tradition teaches us that none of us moves through life entirely on our own. One day we may be the ones with enough to share; the next we may be the ones who need a corner of someone else’s field.
That, I think, is part of the wisdom of Ki Tavo. The Torah does not divide theworld permanently into those who give and those who receive. The widow, the orphan, and the stranger are not some distant category of “other.” Vulnerability is part of being human. And that is why our collective memory matters so much. Again and again Torah tells us: Remember that you were strangers. Remember that you were vulnerable. Remember that you depended on others. Memory is meant to shape what we do when we encounter someone else in need. And when we respond, we create another kind of memory, too.
My family will remember the meals. My children will remember the people who cared for them. I will remember the people who sat beside me, the prayers offered on my behalf, and the countless ways this community carried us through a time when we needed to be carried.
Those memories become part of the story we take with us. And someday, when we encounter someone else who is vulnerable, that memory will tell us what to do:
Dig deep. Show up. Give.
