The Space Between The Doors
An exploration of balancing self and selflessness as understood in Parashas Ki Tavo
There’s a curious phenomenon that I’ve noticed in nearly every shul which I’ve had the privilege to attend and that is that the front seats are almost always empty. People generally avoid sitting up front. You can walk into what seems like a packed shul, only to find that most of the action is happening in the back, leaving the front empty. It is as if people are hesitant to go too far in. Maybe they prefer to congregate near the doors, ready to dash out at the last “Amen.” Or, to be dan l’kaf zechus, maybe they’re just too embarrassed to daven up front. It makes me wonder if there’s something deeper going on here.
The Midrash in this week’s parashah, Ki Tavo, sheds light on this phenomenon. It praises those who don’t just linger near the entrance of the shul, but also take those extra steps to go all the way inside. Hakadosh Baruch Hu counts your steps, says the Midrash, and rewards you for each one. You’ve made the commitment to be here—so be here, fully present, fully engaged.
אמר הקדוש ברוך הוא: אם הלכת להתפלל בתוך בית הכנסת אל תעמד על הפתח החיצון להתפלל שם, אלא הוי מתכון להכנס דלת לפנים מדלת, לשקד על דלתי, אין כתיב, אלא על דלתתי, שתי דלתות. ולמה כן? שהקדוש ברוך הוא מונה פסיעותיך ונותן לך שכר.
Hakadosh Baruch Hu says: If you go to daven inside the Beis Knesses, don’t stand at the outer entrance to daven there. Rather, have the intention to enter a “door within a door” — meaning, if there are two doors with a small hallway between them, don’t stop in the hallway; go through the second door into the actual shul. Every step you take further in, you are rewarded for your effort and presence.
But why bring this up in a parasha about Bikkurim, Maaser, and the Tochacha? What’s the connection?
These three parts of Parashas Ki Tavo are all about how we show up in the world.
Last week, we explored the importance of developing a healthy sense of self.1 This week, I'd like to focus on how we utilize that healthy self: How are we meant to act towards others?
As Bnei Yisrael prepare to enter Eretz Yisrael, the parashah guides us on applying our developed selves. Often, we're taught that in order to be part of something bigger, we need to shrink ourselves down. But that's not true. We don't have to lose our identity to connect with Hashem or to grow. In fact, it's precisely because we have a strong sense of self that we can truly give and genuinely serve.
As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote in Morality, "I learn to be moral when I develop the capacity to put myself into your place, and that is a skill I only learn by engaging with you, face to face or side by side."2 This underscores the importance of genuine engagement with others as part of our moral and spiritual development.
This idea is the essence of the parashah. Let's explain each of the three parts.
Bikkurim and Maaser
These mitzvos teach us about gratitude and generosity. Bikkurim represents acknowledging that our success comes from Hashem. Maaser ensures we care for the less fortunate in our community. Together, they encourage us to look beyond ourselves and think about others. Be a mensch—don't jump on others' mistakes or bully them.
Once you've mastered self-respect, the way to maintain it is by giving to others—being kind, thinking about others. When you judge others, make assumptions, or jump to conclusions, you're not bringing bracha upon yourself or the Jewish people. When we are kind—and we are so good at being kind—we can merit all the berachos of this week's parashah.
Charles Dickens aptly said, "No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another." This reminds us that our contributions to others make us valuable, reinforcing the idea that giving doesn't require losing oneself.
In today's world, people often hide behind screens, spewing mean and hurtful comments, forgetting that just as they have a self, others do too. We need to use our seichel and realize how our actions affect us individually and as a nation. We must resist the urge to hurt others.
However, we need to be cautious. Sometimes, we're so focused on giving to others that we become a doormat. We feel stepped on, taken advantage of, burnt out. We should give with wisdom—with proper seichel—so that our kindness builds us up rather than depletes us.
Take Adam Neumann's vision for WeWork—it was beautiful in theory: a utopian community focused on the "We." But in practice, it failed. Why? Because he lost his own sense of self in the process. A selfless approach can lead us to forget who we are as individuals. We become so absorbed in others' needs that we neglect our own, diminishing the very foundation from which we're supposed to give.
Over time, we can become so focused on others that our innate ability to be attuned to our own bodies, minds, and souls diminishes. We stop paying regular visits to ourselves, something we're naturally inclined to do as children. We start to focus more on things outside of our control rather than what's within our control—our inner landscape.
Psychologist Adam Grant writes: "In the eyes of many people, giving doesn't count unless it's completely selfless. In reality, though, giving isn't sustainable when it's completely selfless." It's crucial to balance our generosity with self-care to ensure we can continue to give effectively. As someone once said, "Sometimes you have to be selfish to be selfless."
Just as this is true on an individual level, it's also true on a communal level or within sub-communities within the wider community. We can sometimes be so stuck in our internal community that we fail to see others. Conversely, we might have no sense of self and no community, always reaching out to others and forgetting about ourselves. It's essential to maintain a balance between communal responsibilities and personal well-being.
Our goodness to each other creates mutual goodwill, leading us to wish only the best for one another and to ask Hashem to shower others with blessings. When we make others feel good thoughtfully, we have the proper means to achieve the ends we desire.
It's interesting that through Bikkurim, we recount our history—we revisit our roots, where we came from, how we developed our own sense of self, and now we're passing it on to others. By telling over our history, we become a people bound by collective responsibility—to one another, to the past and future, and to Hashem. By framing a narrative that successive generations make their own and teach to their children, we're not just strong for ourselves; we become a nation of leaders, strong for each other and the world as well.
Our collective memory as a nation—our history, our story—is what makes us the most unique nation in history. No other ancient nation or empire has survived and flourished the way the Jews have, and that's because we know who we are, where we came from, and where we're going. When you forget where you came from, you forget where you're going. And when you forget where you're going, you lose your true identity. This leads to becoming ideologically lost, which can cause the disintegration of morality—something that has brought down the mightiest empires in history and is happening today in the Western world.
The Focus of the Tochacha
Many of the curses in the Tochacha relate to how we treat one another. The Torah emphasizes that our behavior towards others—especially the vulnerable—directly impacts whether we receive blessings or curses. A healthy self doesn't act out of judgment or aggression; it respects others' dignity and contributes positively to their well-being.
What's fascinating is the combination of sins specified in the Tochacha. While prohibitions against mistreating others are clear, what about sins like insulting one's parents or engaging in illicit relationships? The Torah is telling us that we should have such a strong sense of self that we know our roots—we remember where we came from and understand where we're going.
The Mishnah in Pirkei Avos famously tells us that a person should remember they came from a "tipah seruchah"—a putrid drop. This is generally understood to teach humility, reminding us we're just a small part of the grand scheme. But perhaps we can understand it differently: we come from our parents; we must remember our origins and the efforts of those who came before us—those who instilled in us a sense of self.
We shouldn't tarnish that self by acting in ways that undermine our holy roots—actions that could break the chain from continuing to bear fruit and produce future generations. This is why part of the Tochacha addresses forbidden relationships; we're meant to be tzanua and uphold the sanctity of our relationships.
The only way we can continue and bring forth future generations is by knowing our own self-worth and building upon it to instill the same in the next generation.
3. Moshe’s Final Words
After 40 years in the desert, Moshe's speech reinforces that our survival, growth, and success depend on upholding our covenant with Hashem, which includes our behavior towards others. The use of the word "תשכילו" indicates that true success involves wisdom, particularly in how we interact with one another.
Moshe was known as the most humble of men—a man who reached indescribable heights, seeing and understanding things we can't even begin to fathom. What does it mean that he was humble? His humility was rooted in his knowledge of his own self-worth and his understanding that he needed to elevate himself to grasp new heights. They say that the more one learns Torah, the more one realizes how little they know and how much more there is to learn. Moshe understood this deeply. He used his seichel to delve into the Torah, never forgetting that there is so much more, yet recognizing his own greatness and ability to climb higher without leaving himself behind.
This struggle isn't just external; it's internal as well. As Rav Adin Steinsaltz explains, today's religious Jew often lives in two worlds—one governed by absolute values and truth, and the other by relative, human-centric ideals. The secular and religious worlds are not just different; they often conflict at their core. One measures life by the Almighty's standards, while the other measures by man's. Yet, we find ourselves living in both, torn between these two realities.
This internal conflict can be challenging, creating a sense of division where we feel split, our souls pulled in different directions. We try to bridge these worlds, to make them compatible, but sometimes they pull us apart. The challenge isn't to reject one world for the other but to unify them—to live with integrity so that our secular actions reflect our religious values. 3
We live in a world of confusion about what is good and what is evil. We're surrounded by people who are literal forces of darkness or who seem to have lost touch with the little things that matter. The message of our parashah is that we must maintain our moral clarity and never forget where we came from. We remember who we are as a people through adhering to these small acts of holiness. Each act of kindness and every decision to pursue holiness accumulates spiritual energy within us. This energy transforms us into a beacon of light, guiding ourselves and those around us towards a brighter, more just future.
Now, this Midrash makes perfect sense—why is it in Parashas Ki Tavo of all places? I'd like to suggest that the Midrash is teaching us that in life, we often find ourselves in three places: inside the Beis Knesses, outside the Beis Knesses, and in the lobby.
This illustrates that you can be fully enveloped in the Beis Knesses, fully enveloped in yourself, or be in between the doors—being in both places at the same time. Sometimes you're in a place of self, and sometimes you're in a place of giving. But to be entirely selfless is to negate yourself. You need to take yourself and bring it with you into giving, growing, or reaching another place.
Many people, when they come to shul, walk through one door, but not the second. They're willing to commit themselves—but only to a point. They'll be there—their body, mind, and spirit—but keep their identity to themselves because they don't want that identity to be too deeply shaped by the experience.4
A friend shared with me an idea from psychologist Carl Rogers, who divided the self into two categories: the ideal self and the real self. The ideal self is the person you would like to be; the real self is the person you actually are. Rogers emphasized the importance of achieving consistency between these two selves. This is the space in between the doors.5
I heard from Rav Moshe Taragin: “People who have integrity are never sure of themselves; they are always doubting themselves.” Perhaps there's an advantage to being fully in the Beis Knesses, but there's also an advantage to being between the doors—where you're fluctuating between your sense of self and going above and beyond the self. But when you bring that self into the Beis Knesses, you must always be conscious that you are there too; you're not fully in Hashem's realm—your feet are still on the ground.
As the Sefer HaChinuch6 teaches, Hashem desired that we be trained to always focus on ways to emulate Him by developing a selfless, compassionate, magnanimous personality. When one is a benefactor, Hashem in turn bestows His largesse upon them.
This is not about being insignificant; rather, your very significance plays a role in the significance of those around you.
In his fascinating explanation of the Alef-Beis based on Rav Kook's Reish Millin, Rav Joey Rosenfeld discusses the letter Tes. He explains that individuality and particularity are only irreducible when it comes to the individual vis-à-vis themselves. In our interactions with others and with the world, it's challenging to identify our fundamental individuality—the necessity of our unique personalities. But when a person is alone within themselves, contemplating in that holy loneliness, they can discern the light of individuality7. This individuality is only recognizable within itself when there's tzniut, when the vav bends its head into the tes to remain concealed.
This concept closely relates to the idea of "אני ואין בבת אחת" ("I and nothingness simultaneously"), which Rav Joey often refers to based on the teachings of his great rebbe, Rav Yitzchak Meir Morgenstern, shlita. This idea suggests that we exist both as individuals and as part of a greater nothingness—a unity with Hashem—at the same time.
We must go through both doors to return and function in between; we need to hold onto the self while transcending the self. As Rav Joey wrote: "The ani (self) is always working to reveal a higher level of ayin (nothingness), but the process is infinitely ascending without ever arriving at its completion point because His holiness is always above ours. So it's ultimately about refining the self to the degree of revealing the Higher Self, which is the shlichus (mission) from Hashem—where the strength of self emerges."
We're not meant to be stuck within ourselves, nor are we meant to be lost in the clouds. We must have our feet planted firmly on the ground while our heads reach towards the heavens. We need to understand the grander scheme—that there's so much more to ourselves—yet remain grounded, never forgetting our roots, where we are, and where we're going. We should see each other, listen to what others are feeling, be present, and also be able to reach higher and keep growing. Even in spiritual matters, we must realize that contemplating Hashem isn't confined to heavenly thoughts; it can be done even with our feet firmly on the ground.
Perhaps we mistakenly yearn for the Geulah as a time when we'll be beyond who we are now, seemingly transformed into something different. But maybe the secret to the Geulah is understanding that we can indeed change and transform without negating ourselves. We need to bring ourselves into it. This is the secret of teshuvah and any other action of reaching higher beyond oneself—but with oneself.
Don't be selfless. Be self-full.
This brings us back to the Midrash about entering the shul. It's about being fully present—not standing halfway in, halfway out. Sometimes, to be truly present for others, we must take care of ourselves first. It's like they say on airplanes: secure your own oxygen mask before helping others. When we're balanced and whole, we can give with a full heart and open hands.
When we reach this point—when we're able to give from a place of true self-worth—we fulfill our side of the bris (covenant). That's when we can look up to Hashem and say, "Hashkifa mim'on kodshecha—look down from Your holy dwelling—see that we're acting like You, giving to others without negating ourselves." And it's with this that we receive the ultimate bracha.
This is the challenge and the beauty of Ki Tavo: to show up fully, to give fully, and to be fully present—self and all. It's not about losing ourselves in the process; it's about bringing all of who we are to the table and transforming the world—not despite our identity, but because of it.
By embracing who we are and engaging fully—both in physical spaces like the shul and in our spiritual and communal lives—we can truly make a difference. The Midrash teaches us to step all the way in, to be fully present.
So step in fully, take those extra steps, and let your presence light the way. Don't be selfless. Be self-full.
Page 59
This idea is inspired by Rav Moshe Taragin, drawing from the teachings of the Sfas Emes and Rav Amital. - see here
Mitzvah 66
as described earlier by Rav Kook.
"Don't be selfless. Be self-full."
Central thesis of a sefer I saw.
(To explain to any third parties... Years ago R Shui Haber's esteemed father, Rav Yaakov shelita, had him push me to put my thoughts about the introduction to Shaarei Yosher down in a book. It took me years, but the result was Widen Your Tent (Mosaica Press, 2019). In that introduction, Rav Shimon Shkop tells you to base your Loving kindness not on self-negation, but on realizing that we are all one. Not to look at it as doing for another, but as doing for me and mine. Just as it is easier to sacrifice for one's children than for a stranger, it is easier to sacrifice for that "stranger" the more one sees their connection to that person.)
Beautiful!