Parashat Eikev: When Torah Makes Us Humble

A D’var Torah for 18 Av 5786, 1 August 2026

A man once came to synagogue after many years away from Jewish life. He stood near the back, uncertain when to sit, when to stand, and where to find the prayers in the siddur. His Hebrew was poor, and more than once he found himself turning pages while everyone around him was already reciting the next prayer. He felt embarrassed and considered quietly leaving.

An older man noticed him struggling. He could easily have corrected him, pointed out everything he was doing wrong, or simply ignored him. Instead, he moved closer, opened his own siddur to the correct page, and quietly showed him where they were. At the end of the service, he welcomed him and invited him to return the following week.

Years later, the man who had once stood lost in the back of the synagogue had become deeply involved in Jewish life. He studied Torah, observed Shabbat, kept kosher, and eventually became one of the people who helped newcomers find their way through the service. Whenever someone apologized for not knowing enough, he would smile and say, “I remember when I did not know where to turn either.”

Whether or not we recognize ourselves in that particular story, its lesson is at the heart of Parashat Eikev. We are commanded to remember where we came from. We are told not to confuse blessing with our own righteousness, not to imagine that our success comes entirely through the strength of our own hands, and not to allow obedience to Torah to become a reason for pride. We are called instead to remember our dependence upon God and, because we remember our own vulnerability, to show compassion toward others.

Parashat Eikev is, in many ways, a portion about obedience. Moshe reminds the people of Israel that blessing is bound up with faithfulness to the covenant. They are called to keep the commandments, to remember what God has done for them, to love Him, to serve Him, and to walk in His ways. Yet beneath all of these instructions runs another message that is every bit as important: Torah observance must never become a source of arrogance. This may be one of the most important lessons for any Jew who seeks to live an observant life.

It is possible to keep mitzvot and still lose sight of what those mitzvot are meant to accomplish within us. It is possible to become knowledgeable in Torah while becoming impatient with those who know less. It is possible to become more careful in our observance while also becoming more judgmental toward Jews who practice differently. We can even begin to imagine that because we are observant, because we study, because we pray, because we keep Shabbat or kashrut, we are somehow more worthy before God than others. Parashat Eikev directly challenges that way of thinking.

As Israel prepares to enter the land, Moshe warns the people not to tell themselves that they are receiving it because of their own righteousness. “Do not say in your heart, when the LORD your God has thrust them out before you, saying: ‘Because of my righteousness the LORD has brought me in to possess this land’” (Deuteronomy 9:4). Moshe could hardly be clearer. Israel is expected to pursue righteousness and remain faithful to the covenant, but faithfulness must never be confused with moral superiority.

In fact, Moshe spends considerable time reminding Israel of its failures. He recalls the Golden Calf, the rebellions in the wilderness, the complaints, the fear, and the stubbornness of the people. The generation standing before him is not being invited to imagine itself as a community of spiritual heroes who earned everything through its own virtue. Quite the opposite. They are there because God remained faithful even when Israel was not. They stand at the edge of the land because of covenant, mercy, patience, and divine faithfulness. That awareness should create humility.

The same is true for us. The observant Jew should be the last person to become arrogant about observance. Every mitzvah we are able to perform is itself an opportunity given to us. Every word of Torah we have learned came through teachers, parents, rabbis, communities, books, and generations of Jews who preserved the tradition before we were born. Every day that we are able to pray, study, give tzedakah, keep Shabbat, observe kashrut, or fulfill another commandment is a gift. Observance should therefore produce gratitude, not superiority.

This is one of the recurring themes of Eikev: remember. Moshe repeatedly tells Israel to remember the wilderness, remember hunger, remember manna, remember rebellion, remember God’s patience, and remember that the land into which they are entering is not simply the result of their own power. He warns them against saying, “My power and the might of my hand have gotten me this wealth” (Deuteronomy 8:17). On the surface, this is a warning about material prosperity, but the principle reaches much deeper. Human beings have a tendency to take credit for what they have become.

We can do the same thing spiritually. We can say, perhaps not aloud but in our hearts, “I know Torah because I studied. I am observant because I made the effort. I keep Shabbat. I keep kosher. I pray. I follow halakhah.” All of these things may be true, and effort certainly matters, but the moment they become reasons to look down upon someone else, we have forgotten the wilderness. We have forgotten that someone else may never have received the Jewish education we received. Perhaps nobody taught them how to pray. Perhaps they grew up in a household where Shabbat was barely remembered. Perhaps Judaism was presented to them through guilt, criticism, politics, family conflict, or institutional hostility. Perhaps they are only now beginning to discover Torah for themselves. We do not know the journey another person has traveled.

The Torah so often commands us to remember our own vulnerability precisely so that we will treat others with compassion. Israel is repeatedly told to remember Egypt because memory is meant to shape behavior. We remember what it was like to be powerless so that we do not abuse power. We remember what it was like to be strangers so that we do not mistreat the stranger. We remember that we were dependent so that prosperity does not convince us that we are self-sufficient.

One of the best-known teachings in Eikev comes from Moshe’s explanation of the manna: “Man does not live by bread alone, but by everything that proceeds from the mouth of the LORD does man live” (Deuteronomy 8:3). The wilderness taught Israel dependence. Bread seems ordinary. We work, earn money, buy food, prepare meals, and eat. It is easy to imagine that our lives are sustained entirely through our own efforts. The manna shattered that illusion. Israel woke each morning and discovered that life depended upon something beyond itself.

Modern life makes that lesson especially difficult to remember. We have supermarkets, refrigerators, bank accounts, technology, medicine, transportation, and countless systems that encourage the illusion of self-sufficiency. Yet Judaism constantly interrupts that illusion. This is one reason blessings are so important. Before we eat, we stop and acknowledge the Source of our food. When we awaken, we give thanks for life. When we experience something beautiful, we recognize the One who made it possible. When we perform a mitzvah, we recognize that we stand within a covenant far older and greater than ourselves. Jewish practice teaches us to remember that life is received, not merely achieved.

Perhaps nowhere is the inner purpose of Torah expressed more powerfully in Eikev than when Moshe says, “Circumcise therefore the foreskin of your heart, and be no more stiff-necked” (Deuteronomy 10:16). Torah cannot remain merely external. There are commandments that govern food, clothing, festivals, worship, business, agriculture, family relationships, charity, courts, and virtually every aspect of human life. These commandments matter. Judaism is not simply an abstract spirituality or a collection of uplifting ideas. Torah gives us concrete obligations. Yet Eikev reminds us that outward observance must also reach inward. Something hard within us must be removed.

That hardness may take many forms. It may be pride, stubbornness, cruelty, selfishness, resentment, or our tendency to judge others too quickly. It may be the quiet certainty that we alone are righteous and that those who live differently are beneath us. If our observance makes us harsher, more arrogant, more contemptuous, or less compassionate, then something has gone wrong. Torah should refine the person who practices it. The purpose is not merely to create people who know the rules. The purpose is to create a holy people.

Moshe makes this even clearer in the verses that immediately follow. He describes God as the One who “executes justice for the fatherless and widow, and loves the stranger, giving him food and clothing” (Deuteronomy 10:18), and then commands Israel, “Therefore love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Deuteronomy 10:19). The movement from theology to ethics is immediate. Who is God? He is the One who cares for those without power. What, then, should Israel become? A people who care for those without power.

To walk in God’s ways cannot mean ritual observance alone. It means learning something about God’s character and attempting to reflect it in our own relationships. God loves the stranger, therefore we must love the stranger. God defends the vulnerable, therefore we must defend the vulnerable. And once again, the reason is memory: you were strangers. Remember what it felt like to be outside. Remember what it felt like to be powerless. Remember what it felt like to need someone to show you kindness.

This is particularly important within the Jewish community. We should remember the Jew who walks into a synagogue and does not know the prayers. We should remember the Jew who cannot read Hebrew, the Jew who has never kept Shabbat, the Jew who knows little about kashrut, the Jew who is returning after decades away, the Jew exploring observance for the first time, and the convert who is learning how to build a Jewish life. We should remember the person who walks through the door unsure whether they will be welcomed at all. A Torah community should never make such people ashamed because they began their journey later than others. We should simply be grateful that they have come.

Moshe eventually offers one of the great summaries of Jewish religious life when he asks, “And now, Israel, what does the LORD your God require of you, but to fear the LORD your God, to walk in all His ways, and to love Him, and to serve the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul” (Deuteronomy 10:12). This is beautiful because it refuses to separate observance from character. Fear God, walk in His ways, love Him, serve Him, and keep His commandments. These things belong together.

Torah observance without love can become cold. Religious passion without commandments can become ungrounded. Knowledge without humility becomes arrogance. Tradition without compassion becomes exclusion. And openness without Torah can lose the covenantal path that gives Jewish life its distinctive shape. We need all of these together. Faithfulness and compassion are not opposites. They are meant to strengthen one another.

For those seeking to return to a more observant Jewish life, Eikev also offers an important encouragement. We should not imagine that we must become perfect overnight. Israel itself learned Torah through a wilderness journey. There were failures, arguments, fears, rebellions, and repeated new beginnings. Yet God continued teaching them. Jewish growth is also a journey. One person begins lighting Shabbat candles. Another begins studying Torah every morning. Another begins keeping kosher at home. Another returns to synagogue. Another learns the Shema for the first time. Another begins putting on tefillin again after thirty years.

These steps should be encouraged. Not because partial observance is necessarily the final destination, but because every sincere movement toward Torah deserves support. Our task is to teach clearly without humiliating, to encourage without coercing, and to uphold Torah without turning it into a weapon against those who are still finding their way. This is an essential part of Judaism: fidelity to Torah joined with compassion toward people.

Perhaps, then, the deepest word in Parashat Eikev is simply this: remember. Remember who gave you life. Remember who brought Israel out of Egypt. Remember the wilderness. Remember your failures. Remember God’s mercy. Remember that prosperity can disappear. Remember that knowledge is a gift. Remember that righteousness does not entitle us to arrogance. Remember the widow, the orphan, and the stranger. Remember the Jew who is struggling to reconnect. Remember the person who has only just begun.

And above all, remember that the purpose of Torah is not merely to mark us as people who observe more commandments than someone else. The purpose of Torah is to teach us how to live before God. The more Torah we learn, the more humble we should become. The more mitzvot we observe, the more compassionate we should become. The closer we draw to God, the more carefully we should treat those created in His image.

That is the challenge of Parashat Eikev. Not simply to obey Torah, but to allow Torah to shape the heart of the person who obeys it.

Shabbat Shalom.

The opening story also gives the later discussion of the newcomer in synagogue a deliberate echo, tying the entire dvar Torah together around the command to remember where we ourselves once stood.