• Table For Five

Why is someone else’s wandering animal my problem?

Table for Five: Ki Teitzei

In partnership with the Jewish Journal of Los Angeles

Edited by Nina Litvak & Salvador Litvak, the Accidental Talmudist

You shall not see your brother’s ox or sheep straying, and ignore them. Rather, you shall return them to your brother. – Deuteronomy 22:1

Rabbi Shmuel Reichman
Bestselling Author and Business Coach

Rabbi Akiva famously stated, “V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha, zeh klal gadol b’Torah” – Love your friend as you love yourself, this is a foundational principle in the Torah. And yet, shockingly, this seems to completely contradict another well-known statement made by Rabbi Akiva, found in the following case:

The Jewish Sages discuss the case of two men stranded in a desert with a single flask of water between them, belonging to one of the two men. If the owner of the flask drinks the water, he can survive long enough to make it safely back to civilization. If the men split the water, they will both die. Rabbi Akiva famously stated “chayecha kodmin” – your life comes first; therefore, the owner of the water must save his own life at the expense of his friend’s. If this represents Rabbi Akiva’s view, doesn’t it contradict the principle of loving your friend as yourself?

The answer, however, is quite profound. Putting your life first isn’t a contradiction to v’ahavta l’rei’acha kamocha; it’s a prerequisite for its ideal fulfilment. Only if you first invest in yourself can you then expand outwards and give to others. Only once you embrace your true “self” and discover your potential can you truly fall in love with yourself; and it is only after you love yourself that you can then expand outwards and love someone else. Thus, investing in yourself is the most selfless form of selfishness, as it becomes the very foundation and prerequisite for giving to others.

Rabbi Nicole Guzik
Sinai Temple

While the Torah may be referring to any Israelite’s lost ox or sheep, opening up the conversation about returning lost objects, let’s linger over the word “achicha”—your brother. When a brother or sister loses something, the nature of our relationship may make us more or less inclined to help. Sibling resentment may inhibit the seemingly easy task of returning what is theirs. What if the Torah is demanding equal attention and care to each of our siblings, be it physically returning a lost object or emotionally offering compassion and love even when it’s really hard?

Chizkuni, a 13th-century commentator, teaches that we must not pretend we cannot see the other person’s struggle. In the verse itself, an ox or sheep is just too large to ignore. Likewise, we cannot claim we haven’t seen what hurts our siblings. No matter the complications within the relationship, we are not meant to ignore each other’s suffering, whether in personal or professional struggles, through heartbreak, sorrow and pain.

Childhood rivalries often transform into what feels like irreparable damage to the soul. But the Torah brings us closer, not allowing grudges to block access to return and to repair. By recognizing what may have been lost over time, brothers and sisters may begin to find their way back to one another.

Rabbi Michael Barclay
Temple Ner Simcha; The Rabbi’s Table Radio & Podcast

Given that most of us don’t own oxen or sheep, it might seem as though this verse has no meaning in our modern lives. But the truth is the exact opposite, and this teaching is an important and a powerful statement about Jewish values.

The obvious teaching is that we should take care of others; the exact opposite of “I am not my brother’s keeper”. For in fact, this verse reminds us that we are commanded to take care of others. We must do what is required, but we are also to live in a way “lifnei m’shoret ha’din”… “before the line of the law”. We all know people who follow the law strictly, but are jerks. Going beyond what is legally required is an ethical foundation stone of Judaism.

My friend and teacher Rabbi Elijah Schochet of blessed memory used to tell a story from his childhood. He was walking with his grandfather (it might have been his father), when his grandfather suddenly slowed him down. When they got home, his grandfather asked him if he knew why they had slowed down? He explained to the young Elijah that in front of them, an old man was walking slowly; and they did not need to rush past the man and make him feel even older. It wasn’t required, but it was being a mensch.

This is lifnei m’shoret ha’din. This is taking care of our brother’s oxen. And this is what can bring peace to the world one small action at a time.

Gavriel Sanders
Spokesman – Be A Mensch

The Torah commands us to return a lost animal to its owner. But tucked inside this practical mitzvah is a striking phrase: “You shall not…ignore them.”

In Hebrew, lo tuchal l’hitalem carries an even sharper meaning: you may not hide yourself. You may not see something that requires your attention and then conveniently behave as though you never saw it.

That changes the mitzvah.

A wandering sheep may not be my problem when I wake up in the morning. But once it crosses my path, the Torah says I cannot simply step around it. Someone else has suffered a loss. I am close enough to help. And now, whether I particularly wanted it or not, I have acquired a measure of responsibility.

Notice also whose sheep it is: “your brother’s.” The Torah transforms an anonymous inconvenience into a relationship. This doesn’t belong to some faceless stranger. Something belonging to another member of the human family has gone astray, and I have encountered it.

We live in an age when we see more human need than any generation before us. Our screens can show us a thousand problems before breakfast. Obviously, we can’t repair everything we see.

But perhaps that makes this mitzvah more important.

The question isn’t, “Can I fix the world?” The question is: What has crossed my path? What is close enough for me to actually do something about?

Sometimes the great moral test isn’t what we see.

It’s whether, after seeing it, we choose to look away.

Rabbi Hillary Chorny
Cantor/Temple Beth Am, Los Angeles

I don’t carry cash anymore; I don’t think most people do. That’s why I find it remarkable that we have a cash-only tzedakah box our daily minyan. Dozens of congregants line up to deposit their contribution at the appointed time in the service. Those people were mindful to keep cash on their person so they could perform a charitable act, and many of them take the time to bring smaller bills so they don’t hold up the line while they make change. It’s a mitzvah that takes place in two stages: the planning, and the giving. In Parshat Ki Tetzei, we learn about an unplanned mitzvah: returning a lost object to its owner (Deut. 22:1). In BT Kiddushin 34a, this mitzvah is listed as a quintessential example of a mitzvah that is not time-bound. So much of life as a Torah-informed Jew takes painstaking planning: from registering now for next year’s summer camp to scheduling a meat meal around the next time you want to eat ice cream. But some of the most impactful mitzvot are surprises, like stumbling upon the opportunity to return a lost object. The very people who make sure they have cash for the tzedakah box are the ones who will have cash at the ready when they cross paths with someone on the corner in need of a meal. Being prepared for mitzvot means being prepared for the unprepared—the kind of mitzvot that don’t come around often, and tend to come with a great story.

With thanks to Rabbi Shmuel Reichman, Rabbi Nicole Guzik, Rabbi Michael Barclay, Gavriel Sanders, and Rabbi Hillary Chorny

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