When the kohen received the bikkurim, the first fruits, he would return the wealthy man’s golden basket but keep the poor man’s simple wicker one. Why?
The Absurdity of the Banks
This week I had a conversation with a lawyer who’s dedicated his career to helping the poor and the forgotten. At one point, our discussion turned to bank loans. He told me that his clients often say: sure, slavery was abolished in the United States nearly 150 years ago—but in reality, they feel like lifelong slaves to the banks. Their mortgages are crushing them, and if they ever need a business loan, forget it—it’s practically impossible.
He pointed out the absurdity of it all: those who already have money, good credit, and financial stability get loans easily, with low interest rates and generous terms. But the ones who really need a loan—the struggling families—are the ones squeezed the hardest. If they manage to get a loan at all, it’s under punishing conditions, with sky-high interest rates, because the bank labels them “high risk.”
After laying it all out, he shook his head and said, “It’s just not fair.”
I smiled and told him that the Talmud called out this very absurdity nearly two thousand years ago.
Why Take from the Poor?
This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, describes the mitzvah of bringing bikkurim, the first fruits. Back when the Jewish people lived in their land, anyone who grew one of the seven species that the Land of Israel is famous for was required to gather the very first fruits, place them in a basket, and personally bring them to the Temple in Jerusalem.
It wasn’t just an individual mitzvah—it was a community celebration. Entire villages would travel together in festive processions. As they approached Jerusalem, the city’s residents would come out to greet them warmly. With music and joy, the group would ascend to the Temple and present their baskets to the kohanim, the priests.
Now, there’s an odd detail in the Torah’s wording. The verse says: “The priest shall take the basket from your hand” (Deuteronomy 26:4). Why emphasize the basket? Shouldn’t it say simply “the fruits” or “the offering”? From this, the Sages learned that the kohen didn’t just receive the fruit—the basket itself became his as well. But there was a catch: if someone brought the fruits in a gold or silver container, the kohen would return the container and only keep the fruit.
And here’s where the irony comes in. The wealthy landowner brings his offering in a fancy vessel—and he gets to take his expensive container back home. The poor farmer, who can only afford a basket woven from reeds or palm branches, loses not only his fruits but also his humble basket. The Talmud comments on this with a bitter expression: “Poverty chases after the poor.”
We see the same pattern in life. In the last generation, there were wealthy Jews in Europe who fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They arrived in America, in Israel, or elsewhere completely empty-handed—and yet, within a short time, they were wealthy again. They may have left all their money behind, but somehow their fortune crossed the ocean with them.
On the other hand, those who were poor and struggling back in Europe often carried that same struggle with them to the new world. Poverty seemed to follow them just as wealth seemed to follow the fortunate.
Still, we’re left uneasy. It can’t be that the Torah is simply mirroring an unjust system, reinforcing the harshness of “the rich get richer, the poor get poorer.” To shrug and say “that’s just the way the world works” isn’t satisfying. The question remains: why would the Torah establish a law where the kohen takes even the poor man’s basket? What possible purpose could there be in that?
G-d Loves the Poor More
Some explain that the reason the kohen kept the poor man’s basket was to spare him embarrassment. Since his offering was small and the fruits weren’t always fresh, it would have been humiliating to see them dumped out in public. Instead, the kohen took the basket along with the fruits, honoring the poor man’s gift.
Others see it symbolically. The humble wicker basket represented the bad luck that seemed to follow the poor. By keeping the basket, the kohen was in effect removing that misfortune from the poor man’s life. The wealthy, by contrast, brought their fruits in vessels of gold or silver—symbols of their good fortune. The kohen returned those vessels, blessing them to continue in their prosperity.
But there’s an even deeper way to see it. When the Torah speaks of the offerings of the poor, it uses the phrase: “When a soul brings an offering…” (Leviticus 2:1). Rashi comments: the word “soul” is used only for the offering of the poor, because when they give—even a small gift—it’s as if they are giving their very soul. The Rebbe explains: a wealthy person often brings an offering with a sense of pride—“Look how much I’m giving.” The poor person, by contrast, can’t feel pride in his meager gift. He brings it in humility and brokenheartedness. And that sincerity, says the Torah, is especially beloved by G-d.
The same applies to the bikkurim. From the wealthy, G-d receives only the fruit. But the offering of the poor is so precious that G-d says, “I want not only the fruit, but the basket too.” Because what makes the gift beautiful isn’t its market value—it’s the humility, the heart, and the soul behind it.
The prophets even compare the Jewish people themselves to first fruits: “Like the first ripe fig, I saw your ancestors” (Hosea 9:10). The fruit represents the soul, and the basket represents the body. G-d is telling us: I don’t just want your “soulful” side—the moments you feel inspired or spiritual. I want your whole self, including your body and everyday life. That means making holiness real in your home, your car, your office. A mezuzah on the doorpost. Kosher food in the kitchen. Moments of kindness and purpose in the routine.
In the end, it doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor. G-d says: I want your basket too. Not just your spiritual fruits, but the vessel of your life itself.
(See Likkutei Sichos vol. 29 pg. 541)
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