The Commandment of Forgetting

On our recent trip to America (from the ex-pat files), my son asked my mom if he could grab a leaf from the basil plant on the patio for a snack.

As it turned out, my mom had already snipped some basil and it was sitting in the kitchen – ready for pesto, pizza, or noshing.

My son was struck by a thought that left him flabbergasted: “Nana! You didn’t take truma and Ma’aser!” (You didn’t take tithes on the basil).

This is the thought process of an Israeli child visiting America. When you come from a land where holiness is rooted in the very fruits and vegetables of the ground, it’s inconceivable that the green basil plant outside bears no obligation to God. This mindset transforms how we see the world – even ordinary moments carry sacred weight. In reading this week’s Torah portion, I was reminded of another instance where even the most mundane plants have holiness. That is the life of living Biblically.

But what happens when holiness emerges not from our careful intention, but from our very human forgetfulness?

Hidden within the agricultural laws of Deuteronomy lies one of the most remarkable commandments in all of Scripture – a mitzvah that cannot be performed on purpose. The Torah commands:

This is shikchah – the forgotten sheaf. Unlike every other commandment that requires deliberate action, this one can only be fulfilled through forgetfulness. The farmer who accidentally leaves behind a bundle of grain in his field has just performed a mitzvah without even knowing it. The moment he realizes his mistake, he faces a choice: retrieve what is rightfully his, or leave it for those in need and receive God’s blessing.

The beauty of shikchah extends beyond grain to encompass all of God’s bounty. “When you beat your olive tree, you shall not go over the boughs again; it shall be for the stranger, the orphan, and the widow. When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, you shall not glean it afterward; it shall be for the stranger, the orphan, and the widow” (Deuteronomy 24:20-21).

Every forgotten olive, every overlooked grape cluster becomes a divine appointment with generosity.

The rabbis understood that shikchah operates within careful boundaries. Only small amounts qualify – two forgotten sheaves invoke the commandment, but three do not. A bundle too large to carry in one trip doesn’t count either, because the Torah says “you shall not go back to take it,” implying something that could be easily retrieved. Even the identity of who forgets matters – the landowner must be the one whose memory fails, not merely his workers.

These details matter because they reveal something striking about God’s economy. The Almighty doesn’t demand our perfection or our flawless memory. Instead, He sanctifies our human limitations and transforms them into opportunities for blessing. The farmer’s momentary lapse becomes the poor family’s provision. His imperfect attention becomes their answered prayer.

Consider the divine irony: most commandments require us to remember – remember the Sabbath, remember what Amalek did, remember that you were slaves in Egypt. But shikchah requires us to forget. It suggests that sometimes our greatest service to God comes not through our careful planning but through our unconscious generosity, not through our religious performance but through our humble acknowledgment that everything ultimately belongs to Him.

The Torah promises that leaving the forgotten sheaf brings blessing upon all our endeavors. This isn’t mere spiritual platitude – it’s economic wisdom wrapped in divine truth. The farmer who can release his grip on what he’s “earned” discovers that God’s provision exceeds his hoarding. The person who trusts God enough to leave abundance for others finds that his own storehouse never runs empty.

Shikchah teaches us that holiness doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes it whispers through a grandmother’s herb garden, through a child’s innocent question about tithes, through a forgotten bundle of grain left standing in an ancient field. In a world obsessed with intention and control, Scripture reminds us that God’s greatest gifts sometimes arrive through the backdoor of our beautiful, blessed forgetfulness.