Eikev
Deuteronomy 7:12–11:25

Jen Smith – Guest Torah Blogger

There’s an old Jewish tradition that suggests we should all carry two slips of paper in our pockets. On one, it says, “The world was created for me,” and on the other, “I am but dust and ashes.” This wisdom, attributed to Reb Simcha Bunem, an 18th-century Hasidic rebbe, is a reminder to balance our lives. When we’re feeling down or insignificant, we can pull out the first slip to remind ourselves that we matter. When we’re feeling a bit too full of ourselves, the second slip brings us back to earth—literally. It’s all about finding that sweet spot between self-worth and humility.

But these sayings go deeper, especially in a world where individualism often leaves us feeling isolated. “I am but dust and ashes” isn’t just about staying humble; it’s a call to reconnect with the very earth we come from. The phrase “From dust we came, to dust we shall return” is often quoted at funerals to remind us of life’s fleeting nature. But think about what dust really is—it’s not just a symbol of death. Dust is alive; it’s made of particles from the earth, from wind-blown soil, volcanic ash, even from stars. Dust is a piece of the garden floating in the sky, a tiny mirror reflecting the universe. So if we’re dust and ashes, then we’re also buds and mud, dew drops and daffodils, raindrops and redwoods. We’re connected to every living thing that breathes life into us.

Sure, “dust and ashes” might sound like a reminder that we’re nothing special. But it’s also a reminder of our deep connection to the world around us—the billions of things that make life possible. We’re made in the image of a God who said, “I will be what I will be.” That means we’re not just a finished product; we’re part of an ongoing process, a system that’s always alive and changing. So instead of humbly mumbling, “I am but dust and ashes,” maybe we should proudly declare, “But dust and ashes I am!”

True humility isn’t about lowering ourselves; it’s about realizing how deeply connected we are to the world and everything in it. What if, instead of a slip of paper, we carried a small reminder of the earth in our pockets? Maybe a seashell, a clump of soil, a seedpod, or a stone—something that grounds us, that reminds us of our place in the cosmos and our connection to everything around us.

When we realize that “The world co-creates me, and in every moment, I am a part of co-creating the world,” we don’t need the extreme of “The world was created for me” to find our sense of self. The world that’s created for us is the same one that welcomes us back, dust and ashes, into the cycle of life. It’s like joining a line for another turn, where the two sayings are knitted back together in the fabric of life.

In this week’s Torah portion, Eikev, the Israelites continue to prepare enter the Land of Milk and Honey, a place they’ve been journeying toward for generations. It’s a land full of blessing, just like all land is, in its own way. But God warns them: “Beware lest your heart grow haughty…and you say to yourselves, ‘My own power and the might of my own hand have created this wealth for me.’” (Deuteronomy 8:14,17). It’s not just a warning against pride—it’s about the loneliness that comes when we lose our sense of connection to the greater whole. Maybe it’s when our hands aren’t holding human-made tools or clutching slips of paper, but instead are outstretched into the soil, reaching toward the stars, or reaching out to each other, that our hearts become full—not of ourselves, but of love and connection to the vibrant web of life that’s the truth of who we really are.