From the first rays of the sun in the morning, through our meals, our chores, our friendships, our studies and our work—we are constantly surrounded by a vast array of fragrances, sounds, visions, and thoughts. Some of them catch our attention. Many slip by unnoticed.
Whether we pay attention to these sensations, whether they awaken gratitude in us, says more about our own spiritual posture than it does about the events themselves. The truth is, daily life is charged with the presence of God. The question is whether we will live as mystics of the ordinary, or sleepwalk through what Abraham Joshua Heschel called “the supreme wonder of existence.”
This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, directs Israel to make a declaration when bringing the first fruits to the Temple. The worshipper proclaims: “My father was a wandering Aramean…”—a reminder that our story begins not in power or permanence but in fragility and wandering. Then, after recounting the deliverance from Egypt, another declaration is made: “I have obeyed the Lord my God… Look down from Your holy abode, from heaven, and bless Your people, Israel.”
The act of bringing first fruits is not simply a ritual—it is a confession of faith. By placing those fruits before the Lord, the worshipper acknowledges that none of what we have is purely of our own doing. It is God’s providence, His deliverance, His faithfulness that sustains us. As the Mishnah (Bikkurim 3:6) explains, the offering of first fruits was accompanied by joy and thanksgiving, with the rich bringing their baskets of gold and silver, and the poor bringing their baskets of wicker. Yet when placed before the altar, all were equal—because the gift was not about wealth but about gratitude.
And notice how the vertical relationship with God immediately turns horizontal. Those offerings were not hoarded by the priesthood but shared with the Levites, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow. Gratitude toward heaven flows into generosity on earth. Rabbi Eliezer taught, “One who has bread in his basket and says, ‘What will I eat tomorrow?’ is of little faith” (Sotah 48b). Gratitude trusts God enough to open the hand.
Gratitude, then, is not an obligation—it is an opportunity. It is the doorway to a gracious soul. To give thanks is to step into a life of freedom: freedom from worry, like the poor widow in Luke 21 who gave out of her poverty with no fear for tomorrow; freedom from needing the approval or gratitude of others, because our eyes are on God; freedom to discover that the deepest joy of life is not in keeping but in giving. Yeshua echoed this when He said, “Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink… but seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you” (Matt. 6:25, 33).
But how do we cultivate such a soul? The sages tell us: “Who is rich? One who rejoices in what he has” (Pirkei Avot 4:1). Gratitude begins with paying attention—pausing to ponder the goodness of life. Every “thank you” primes the pump of gratitude. We learn to rejoice not only in our blessings but in the good fortune of others. And we learn to give not just things, but ourselves—gifts with a face, a name, a person attached. Gratitude moves us from vague sentiment to embodied love.
When we as Messianic Jews celebrate the Passover story, we are not telling two separate stories—Exodus from Egypt on one side, Yeshua’s sacrifice on the other. We are telling one promise with many facets. The deliverance from slavery and the sacrifice of Messiah are not parallel tales, but a single revelation of God’s redeeming love.
And the resurrection is the ultimate horizon of that love. Just as Israel was raised from the death-grip of slavery to new life in the land, so Messiah was raised from death to life eternal. Both proclaim the same hope: that God has the power to redeem, to restore, and to plant us where we belong. And hope, when embraced, becomes vocation.
To love Messiah is not simply to feel warmly toward Him. It is to yield our lives to His purposes, even to the point of Kiddush Hashem, sanctifying God’s name in sacrifice. Rabbi Akiva, at the end of his life, prayed the Shema with joy as he gave his soul to God (Berakhot 61b). Yeshua said something very similar: “Whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” (Matt. 16:25). Both point us to the same truth—that real life is found not in clinging, but in giving ourselves away.
And in truth, this vocation is not new. It has always been in our DNA. It is the legacy of a wandering Aramean who discovered that the hand of God was upon him, even in exile. The greatness of God does not look like Pharaoh’s might or Caesar’s throne. It looks like daily bread, like first fruits brought in humility, like the quiet splendor of creation. And the best news is that this splendor is abundant—there is enough of God’s goodness to go around.
God does not really want our sacrifices or our money. What He wants is us—unencumbered by the very gifts He has given us. As we approach His table each day, let us do so with the freedom and liberty of access that He has offered. Like the poor widow, let us abandon all we have to the King, trusting that He will meet our needs daily and sustain us with His gracious provision.
Heschel once wrote: “Great is the challenge that we face every moment, sublime the occasion, every occasion. Here we are contemporaries of God, some of His power at our disposal.”
That is our calling: to live awake to the wonder of daily life, steady in the hope of resurrection, faithful in the vocation of gratitude. To be, in the best sense, normal mystics—wandering Arameans who have found their home in the God who blesses, redeems, and provides.