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In Parshat Ki Tavo, the Torah describes the farmer bringing the first fruits, the bikkurim, to Jerusalem, and making a remarkable declaration:
“My father was a wandering Aramean, and he went down to Egypt” (Devarim 26:5).
These words, which we know so well from the Pesach Haggadah, are simple on the surface yet mysterious in meaning. Who is this “Aramean”? What does it mean that “my father was lost” or “sought to be destroyed”? Why is this the passage chosen to sum up Jewish history at such a moment of joy and gratitude?
The Ramban explains that the verse speaks about Yaakov Avinu himself. Arami Oved Avi means: “My father was a wandering Aramean” — a poor, vulnerable, exiled man who had nothing. Yaakov left his home with only the staff in his hand, fled from his brother’s anger, was deceived again and again by Lavan, and lived as a stranger in a foreign land. According to the Ramban, the Torah emphasizes how close the Jewish story was to ending before it began. Yaakov could have been swallowed by exile. And yet, from that place of near-destruction, God raised a nation, rescued us from Egypt, and brought us to our land. The Ramban’s message is clear: to stand in Israel with fruits in hand is to remember the fragility of our beginnings and to give thanks for God’s deliverance.
The Sforno, however, reads the verse differently. He argues that the “Aramean” was not Yaakov but Lavan, who sought to uproot him. Arami Oved Avi therefore means: “An Aramean tried to destroy my father.” The point, for the Sforno, is not only that we were once poor and wandering, but that our very existence was constantly threatened by those who sought our destruction. Jewish history has never been straightforward. Our survival has always depended on God’s protection against enemies stronger and more numerous than us. Thus, the bikkurim declaration is not just an expression of gratitude for what we have, but an acknowledgment of the constant peril we faced and the Divine Hand that preserved us.
Lastly, the Chassidic masters take the verse one step further. The Sefat Emet, for instance, reads Arami Oved Avi as a description not only of external history but of inner spiritual struggle. The “Aramean” is not only Lavan or Yaakov but a force within the human soul — confusion, distraction, assimilation, the impulses that threaten to unravel our inner connection to God. Avi — “my father” — represents the root of the Jewish soul, the point of holiness within. And yet, it is always in danger of being Oved, “lost, diminished, forgotten.” Thus, the farmer’s declaration becomes a spiritual act: when he brings his fruits and proclaims Arami Oved Avi, he testifies that his abundance, his survival, even his very identity, come from God Who saved him from both external enemies and internal collapse.
These three perspectives — the Ramban, the Sforno, and the Sefat Emet — are not contradictory but complementary. Together, they paint a multi-layered portrait of the Jewish story. The Ramban reminds us of our fragile beginnings, when all we had was God’s promise and care. The Sforno reminds us of the constant threats to our existence, the Lavan of every generation. And the Sefat Emet reminds us that the greatest struggle may be inside — the temptation to lose ourselves, to forget who we are, to allow the “Aramean” of confusion and forgetfulness to undo us from within.
And so, the farmer, standing with his first fruits, does more than thank God for a successful harvest. He rehearses the entire drama of Jewish history: from wandering to belonging, from danger to protection, from inner exile to spiritual rootedness. To say Arami Oved Avi is to say: “We could have been lost. But You, God, saved us.”
That is why this passage sits at the heart of both the bikkurim and the Haggadah. Gratitude is not naïve joy. True gratitude is born from remembering how precarious life is, how often it could have turned another way, how easily the story might have ended. Gratitude is not only for the fruits in hand but for the miracle that we are here to bring them at all.
Every Jew can say Arami Oved Avi. My ancestors wandered. My people were threatened. My soul has known exile. And yet here I stand, rooted, alive, with gifts to bring before God. That recognition is the essence of Jewish gratitude — and the foundation of our covenant with Him.
Shabbat Shalom!
-Rabbi Dan
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