Fruitful Lessons, Marked Paths: Embracing Destiny and Gratitude
הרב שי טחןטז אלול, תשפה09/09/2025Looking at a tree full of fruits, how would we know which one grew first?
תגיות:ייעודגורלמוסר
The parsha opens with the mitzvah of bringing bikkurim, the first fruits of the seven species of Eretz Yisrael. A farmer brings them to the Beit HaMikdash in a basket, hands them to the Kohen, and recites a declaration recounting the history of the Jewish people—from Yaakov’s descent to Egypt, through slavery and redemption, until reaching the Land of Israel.
Looking at a tree full of fruits, how would we know which one grew first? Rashi explains that when the very first fruit begins to ripen, the farmer ties a string around it so that later he can identify it as bikkurim.
The same idea applies to separating maaser from his animals: The mitzvah of maaser behemah is a Torah commandment to set aside every tenth kosher animal born into a person’s herd or flock each year, whether cattle, sheep, or goats. The tenth animal becomes sanctified and is brought as a korban in the Beit HaMikdash, with certain parts eaten by the kohanim and the rest by the owner in Jerusalem. The method to determine which is the tenth is that as they pass through the pen, the owner counts them one by one and marks every tenth animal with red paint to set it aside as maaser behemah.
Since in ancient times the farmer had in his field both the orchard and the animals, let us imagine the following scenario:
The animals in the farm remember how last year the very first fruit was tied with a string. They recall what happened to the fruits that were marked in that way—the fruit was treated royally. Once ripe, it was placed in a beautifully decorated basket and carried with honor to Yerushalayim. Leading the procession was a bull, its horns covered in gold and adorned with olive branches to symbolize royalty. A man playing the flute walked alongside, escorting the convoy. Everyone who saw it along the way stood up, cheering and singing songs. Upon arrival at the Beit HaMikdash, a magnificent ceremony took place (Mishna Bikurim perek 3).
The following year, one animal is marked with red paint, designating it as the tenth animal to be brought as a korban. Immediately, the animal recalls the glory that befell the fruits selected the previous year, and joy fills its heart as it imagines the same honor awaiting it. What it does not realize is that the mark on its back signifies something very different—it was selected to be slaughtered.
But just as the animal remembers the royal glory of the first fruits, the fruit too has its own memory. The fruit looks back to what happened last year when the farmer marked the tenth animal with red paint. It saw the animal filled with hope and joy, believing it would share in the honor once reserved for the fruits. Yet instead, the animal was led away, before its life ended tragically.
Now, as the farmer ties a string around the first ripening fruit, a shiver runs through it. The fruit trembles at the sight, imagining that the same fate may await it. Its smooth skin seems suddenly fragile, and it clings to the branch as though trying to escape. Every rustle of the leaves sounds like the footsteps of the animal last year, and the fruit’s mind fills with dread.
Each believes that the other’s fate reflects its own. The animal envies the fruit’s beauty and ceremonial honor, imagining that such glory could be his. The fruit, in turn, fears the animal’s marked back, thinking that the same danger may befall it. Yet neither understands that their paths are separate and unique. The joy of one cannot shield the other, nor does the peril of one dictate the destiny of the other. Each has its own role, its own purpose, and its own course, unfolding according to a design beyond their comprehension. What appears as similarity or connection is only surface; the truth is that every being moves along a path set for it alone, incomparable to another’s journey.
Let’s take another example from the previous parasha (Ki Tetse). We learn that one may not put a plow on both a bull and a donkey to plow together. Several reasons are brought by the Rishonim for this, but let’s focus on the explanation of the Tur. The Tur says that the reason is that the donkey sees the ox constantly chewing and becomes jealous, feeling that the ox is receiving more food than he is. But is this correct?
Let us analyze why the cow appears to be chewing all the time. The reason is that he is chewing his cud. According to the mefarshim, this is because he is a domesticated animal that is always alert to danger from predators. When he needs to eat, he cannot spend all the time chewing, so Hashem created a mechanism for him: he swallows the food quickly without chewing it and stores it in a special part of his stomach. Later, when he reaches a safe place, he brings the food back into his mouth and chews it thoroughly.
The cow, therefore, is never having a pleasant meal, because his food has already been partially digested in his stomach. Bringing it back to his mouth to chew it again is not naturally appetizing. Hashem, however, created it so that he does not feel disgust, yet the meal is not truly enjoyable or flavorful.
In reality, the amount of food the cow receives is the same as the donkey’s. The only difference is that the donkey eats it with joy, savoring the taste and eating fearlessly, while the cow must carry it in haste and chew food that is already partially digested. Truthfully, the cow should feel jealous of the donkey’s meal. But animals perceive only the surface of things and cannot understand beyond appearances. The cow sees the ox chewing and assumes it is enjoying more, without realizing the true nature of its own experience.
The lesson is clear: each of us has his own destiny, mission, and challenges. Looking at others can be misleading, because Hashem places every person on a different path with unique tests. For example, while it may seem at first that the neighbor’s grass is greener, we do not know his challenges and hardships.
Moreover, even if it appears that our friends have everything good, we should not be jealous, because what seems beneficial for them might be harmful for us. King Shlomo says: “There is a grievous evil that I have seen under the sun: riches kept for the owner to his detriment” (Kohelet 5:13). Many times, Hashem grants wealth to a person in order to challenge him—and what looks like success may bring suffering. People may lose marriages, children, Torah learning, or peace of mind. When someone makes an amazing business deal and seems to have “made it,” friends may feel envy, not realizing that this very success could be the source of his downfall. The Gra warns in his letter that what brings laughter today may bring sadness tomorrow.
The same is true in the opposite direction. Many times we witness suffering and hardship, not realizing that these very challenges may ultimately be the reason for our growth, strength, and success. Difficulties can refine character, deepen faith, and build resilience that blessings alone could never achieve. What seems like pain or loss in the moment may, in Hashem’s plan, prepare us for greater joy, wisdom, or spiritual elevation. Just as the cow and the donkey, or the fruit and the animal, cannot see the full picture of their own destinies, we too often misjudge the purpose of our trials. True perspective comes from understanding that every experience—whether joyous or painful—is uniquely tailored to our path and ultimate mission.
Looking at a tree full of fruits, how would we know which one grew first? Rashi explains that when the very first fruit begins to ripen, the farmer ties a string around
The same idea applies to separating maaser from his animals: The mitzvah of maaser behemah is a Torah commandment to set aside every tenth kosher animal born into a person’s herd or flock each year, whether cattle, sheep, or goats. The tenth animal becomes sanctified and is brought as a korban in the Beit HaMikdash, with certain parts eaten by the kohanim and the rest by the owner in Jerusalem. The method to determine which is the tenth is that as they pass through the pen, the owner counts them one by one and marks every tenth animal with red paint to set it aside as maaser behemah.
Since in ancient times the farmer had in his field both the orchard and the animals, let us imagine the following scenario:
The animals in the farm remember how last year the very first fruit was tied with a string. They recall what happened to the fruits that were marked in that way—the fruit was treated royally. Once ripe, it was placed in a beautifully decorated basket and carried with honor to Yerushalayim. Leading the procession was a bull, its horns covered in gold and adorned with olive branches to symbolize royalty. A man playing the flute walked alongside, escorting the convoy. Everyone who saw it along the way stood up, cheering and singing songs. Upon arrival at the Beit HaMikdash, a magnificent ceremony took place (Mishna Bikurim perek 3).
The following year, one animal is marked with red paint, designating it as the tenth animal to be brought as a korban. Immediately, the animal recalls the glory that befell the fruits selected the previous year, and joy fills its heart as it imagines the same honor awaiting it. What it does not realize is that the mark on its back signifies something very different—it was selected to be slaughtered.
But just as the animal remembers the royal glory of the first fruits, the fruit too has its own memory. The fruit looks back to what happened last year when the farmer marked the tenth animal with red paint. It saw the animal filled with hope and joy, believing it would share in the honor once reserved for the fruits. Yet instead, the animal was led away, before its life ended tragically.
Now, as the farmer ties a string around the first ripening fruit, a shiver runs through it. The fruit trembles at the sight, imagining that the same fate may await it. Its smooth skin seems suddenly fragile, and it clings to the branch as though trying to escape. Every rustle of the leaves sounds like the footsteps of the animal last year, and the fruit’s mind fills with dread.
Each believes that the other’s fate reflects its own. The animal envies the fruit’s beauty and ceremonial honor, imagining that such glory could be his. The fruit, in turn, fears the animal’s marked back, thinking that the same danger may befall it. Yet neither understands that their paths are separate and unique. The joy of one cannot shield the other, nor does the peril of one dictate the destiny of the other. Each has its own role, its own purpose, and its own course, unfolding according to a design beyond their comprehension. What appears as similarity or connection is only surface; the truth is that every being moves along a path set for it alone, incomparable to another’s journey.
Let’s take another example from the previous parasha (Ki Tetse). We learn that one may not put a plow on both a bull and a donkey to plow together. Several reasons are brought by the Rishonim for this, but let’s focus on the explanation of the Tur. The Tur says that the reason is that the donkey sees the ox constantly chewing and becomes jealous, feeling that the ox is receiving more food than he is. But is this correct?
Let us analyze why the cow appears to be chewing all the time. The reason is that he is chewing his cud. According to the mefarshim, this is because he is a domesticated animal that is always alert to danger from predators. When he needs to eat, he cannot spend all the time chewing, so Hashem created a mechanism for him: he swallows the food quickly without chewing it and stores it in a special part of his stomach. Later, when he reaches a safe place, he brings the food back into his mouth and chews it thoroughly.
The cow, therefore, is never having a pleasant meal, because his food has already been partially digested in his stomach. Bringing it back to his mouth to chew it again is not naturally appetizing. Hashem, however, created it so that he does not feel disgust, yet the meal is not truly enjoyable or flavorful.
In reality, the amount of food the cow receives is the same as the donkey’s. The only difference is that the donkey eats it with joy, savoring the taste and eating fearlessly, while the cow must carry it in haste and chew food that is already partially digested. Truthfully, the cow should feel jealous of the donkey’s meal. But animals perceive only the surface of things and cannot understand beyond appearances. The cow sees the ox chewing and assumes it is enjoying more, without realizing the true nature of its own experience.
The lesson is clear: each of us has his own destiny, mission, and challenges. Looking at others can be misleading, because Hashem places every person on a different path with unique tests. For example, while it may seem at first that the neighbor’s grass is greener, we do not know his challenges and hardships.
Moreover, even if it appears that our friends have everything good, we should not be jealous, because what seems beneficial for them might be harmful for us. King Shlomo says: “There is a grievous evil that I have seen under the sun: riches kept for the owner to his detriment” (Kohelet 5:13). Many times, Hashem grants wealth to a person in order to challenge him—and what looks like success may bring suffering. People may lose marriages, children, Torah learning, or peace of mind. When someone makes an amazing business deal and seems to have “made it,” friends may feel envy, not realizing that this very success could be the source of his downfall. The Gra warns in his letter that what brings laughter today may bring sadness tomorrow.
The same is true in the opposite direction. Many times we witness suffering and hardship, not realizing that these very challenges may ultimately be the reason for our growth, strength, and success. Difficulties can refine character, deepen faith, and build resilience that blessings alone could never achieve. What seems like pain or loss in the moment may, in Hashem’s plan, prepare us for greater joy, wisdom, or spiritual elevation. Just as the cow and the donkey, or the fruit and the animal, cannot see the full picture of their own destinies, we too often misjudge the purpose of our trials. True perspective comes from understanding that every experience—whether joyous or painful—is uniquely tailored to our path and ultimate mission.
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