Now, this in and of itself, is not what confounds me—we always conclude our holidays and fast days with an evening service that expresses gratitude for the separation between holy and regular time. No, what confounds me is one paragraph in the evening Amidah, which makes complete theological sense on any other evening of the year, but not on the night which ends Yom Kippur.

As in every weekday Amidah, the sixth berakhah asks God for forgiveness, and it is customary to strike one’s breast (as we do throughout the day on Yom Kippur) as we say:

סְלַח לָֽנוּ אָבִֽינוּ כִּי חָטָֽאנוּ מְחַל לָֽנוּ מַלְכֵּֽנוּ כִּי פָשָֽׁעְנוּ כִּי מוֹחֵל וְסוֹלֵֽחַ אָֽתָּה: בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְהֹוָה חַנּוּן הַמַּרְבֶּה לִסְלֽוֹחַ

“Forgive us Avinu, for we have sinned: pardon us, Malkeinu, for we have transgressed—for Your nature is to forgive and pardon.”  

On all other days, this blessing is a powerful reminder of the countless missteps that befall us every day of our lives. And each day, by asking God for forgiveness, we are being conscious and intentional about the types of people we wish to be. We recount—then we recommit. But on motzei Yom Kippur, this blessing makes little sense. Is it possible that I committed a sin in the last thirty seconds since the gates closed at the end of the ����’i������ service? Shouldn’t this be my most blameless moment of the entire year, and yet, here I am, beating my breast and beseeching God for forgiveness yet again?

I believe that possible answers to this theological challenge can be found in this week’s parashah, �Ჹ’a�����Գ�, and in the haftarah for Shabbat Shuvah, which is read on the Sabbath between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

In our Torah portion, �Ჹ’a�����Գ�, we read Moses’s final poem to the People of Israel before his death. The poem serves as God’s anticipatory warning to the nation not to forget or forsake the source of their good fortune. “He who found him in a desert region. In an empty howling waste. He engirded him, watched over him, guarded him as the pupil of his eye” (Deut. 32:10). And yet, despite God’s kindness, God knows that eventually the Jewish people will be led astray. “You neglected the Rock that begot you, Forgot the God who brought you forth” (Deut. 32:18). The poem concludes with God’s promise to bring retribution both upon the People of Israel, and ultimately upon the enemy nations of the world, whom God utilizes as tools of divine punishment.

In our Torah portion we learn the truth, that no matter how blameless and upright we might feel in one instant, life has a way of challenging our unfounded notions of perfection and reminding us that we are works in a constant state of progress. Striking our chests during the Amidah which follows Yom Kippur and proclaiming yet again “Forgive us—God!” is a ritual manifestation of this theology. I may be blameless now, but not for long, not forever.

Our haftarah, from which this Shabbat derives its name, is unique in that it includes writings from three different prophets (Hosea, Joel, and Micah) among the “The Twelve Minor Prophets,” or the “Trei Asar.” The core section, from Hosea, contains a clear message that not only is repentance possible—indeed it is welcomed by God with joy!

שׁ֚וּבָה יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל עַ֖ד יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֑יךָ כִּ֥י כָשַׁ֖לְתָּ בַּעֲוֺנֶֽךָ׃

 Return, O Israel, to the ETERNAL your God, For you have fallen because of your sin. (14:2)

אֶרְפָּא֙ מְשׁ֣וּבָתָ֔ם אֹהֲבֵ֖ם נְדָבָ֑ה כִּ֛י שָׁ֥ב אַפִּ֖י מִמֶּֽנּוּ׃

I will heal their affliction,
Generously will I take them back in love;
For My anger has turned away from them. (14:5)

From the words of Hosea we can understand that despite our regular lapses along our path towards self-improvement, God desires a relationship. But this relationship takes work; it requires maintenance and careful attention to ritual. After all, our relationship with God is not merely an instant in time, it is a constant in time. Therefore, even though we just spent an entire day demonstrating to God how seriously we take this relationship, we are nonetheless obligated to maintain the regularity of the ritual, and show that our commitment is continuous, not contingent on a single day of the calendar year.

In his commentary on the opening word of this morning’s haftarah, Shuvah (Return), the 11th-century Spanish commentator Abraham Ibn Ezra adds the following teaching, and in so doing, builds on the lessons discussed above:

שובה: מעט מעט עד השם

Return: little by little to God.

May we all continue our work in progress in the coming year as we return, little by little, to strengthen and deepen our relationship with God.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

Head of the Year:

It is not too late. It is early

and about to grow. Now

is the time to do what you

know you must and have feared

to begin.

Shabbat Shuvah represents the place between hope and fear; between transformation and unrealized aspirations. We may have made big promises on Rosh Hashanah, resolving to make significant changes in our lives, entering the year with a sense of excitement and optimism. But as Yom Kippur draws closer, we become more attuned to our own shortcomings. So much is beyond our control. Changing old patterns is arduous, the path uncertain. Confronting our own limitations, we can feel afraid and alone. The spiritual work of this moment lies in discerning the difference between acknowledging our limitations and succumbing to fear.

In Parashat Vayeilekh, the Israelites stand on the cusp of entering into the Promised Land. Like us, they are full of possibility and trepidation. Moses is running out of time. Without him, the Israelites will have to confront the challenges ahead without their constant guide and intermediary to God. We might imagine them, along with Joshua, who is poised to become their leader, feeling untethered and afraid. Moses offers them comfort and reassurance: they are not alone. Joshua and the Israelites are entering a changed world but, Moses assures them,

ה׳ אֱ-לֹקֶיךָ ה֣וּא ׀ עֹבֵ֣ר לְפָנֶ֗יךָ

God will cross over before you.

Deut. 31:3

Ha’amek Davar, the 19th-century commentary of Naftali Zvi Yehudah Berlin (the Netziv), points out the difference between the phrasing of this verse and a similar verse as the Israelites first left Egypt (Exod. 13:21): וה׳ הֹלֵךְ֩ לִפְנֵיהֶ֨ם יוֹמָ֜ם בְּעַמּ֤וּד עָנָן֙ לַנְחֹתָ֣ם הַדֶּ֔רֶךְ״ “And God went lifneihem (ahead of them) by day in a pillar of cloud to guide them along the way.” The language in Exodus, according to the Netziv, communicates that the Israelites followed behind passively as God split the Red Sea, whereas “God will cross over before you” means that God’s action is entwined with the Israelites’ action. Once they cross into the Promised Land, the Israelites will actively determine their own destiny, as partners with the Divine.

If we are to create real change in our lives, we cannot wait passively for the change to happen to us. Despite loss and disappointment, we must move forward, repairing what is broken in our relationships and our world. In their first steps out of enslavement, the Israelites followed behind an enormous pillar of cloud. Now, as we begin this new year, we must chart our own journey—just as the Israelites did when they prepared to enter the land. We must seek the Divine inside ourselves.

Like the Israelites, as we navigate the challenges of an uncertain future, entering the New Year in yet a new stage of the pandemic, a time of geopolitical and planetary turmoil, an era of significant change for the Jewish people as a whole and, closer to home, for 91�첥 as an institution, we don’t always feel the presence of God. The consciousness of our own limitations and of the very real obstacles in our way can undermine our confidence that we can transform, that we can enter the Land. Fear and self-doubt encroach, making it difficult to remember that we are not alone. Like the Israelites, who when overwhelmed by doubt and fear wished for a moment that they could return to Egypt, there are always those who will wring their hands, saying that our best days are behind us, that we cannot repair what we have broken and move forward. 

Moses seems to have understood this. Facing his own death, and the awareness that he would not reach the land himself, he summons his most powerful rhetoric, leaving Joshua and the Israelites—and us—with a message that continues to accompany us and guide us. He reassures and exhorts:

חִזְק֣וּ וְאִמְצ֔וּ אַל־תִּֽירְא֥וּ וְאַל־תַּעַרְצ֖וּ מִפְּנֵיהֶ֑ם כִּ֣י ׀ ה׳ אֱ-לֹקֶיךָ ה֚וּא הַהֹלֵ֣ךְ עִמָּ֔ךְ לֹ֥א יַרְפְּךָ֖ וְלֹ֥א יַעַזְבֶֽךָּ׃

Be strong and courageous, do not fear or dread them; for it is indeed your God who marches with you: [God] will not fail you or forsake you.

Deut. 31:6

Strength and courage take many forms. According to the 12th-century Midrash Lekah Tov, חזקו ואמצו refers to being strong in Torah and mitzvot, and taking courage in ma’asim tovim (responsible and ethical deeds) and derekh eretz (treating others withdignity and respect).

Moses emphatically repeats these key words to Joshua in the next verse, reassuring him and the Israelites. 

וַיִּקְרָ֨א מֹשֶׁ֜ה לִיהוֹשֻׁ֗עַ וַיֹּ֨אמֶר אֵלָ֜יו לְעֵינֵ֣י כׇל־יִשְׂרָאֵל֮ חֲזַ֣ק וֶאֱמָץ֒

Then Moses called Joshua and said to him in the sight of all Israel: “Be strong and courageous.”  

Deut. 31:7

We repeat these words, in Psalm 27, throughout the Days of Awe, a kind of mantra that can steel us and comfort us as we encounter the unavoidable fears and doubts that accompany all new beginnings.

קַוֵּ֗ה אֶל־ה׳ חֲ֭זַק וְיַאֲמֵ֣ץ לִבֶּ֑ךָ וְ֝קַוֵּ֗ה אֶל־ה׳׃

Turn to God; be strong and take courage, and turn to God.

The repetition of “turn to God,” which bookends this verse, draws the attention of the commentaries and the midrash. They admit that we repeat these words at the beginning and end of this verse because sometimes we pray and our prayers are unanswered. The experience of fearing our prayers are unheard, that our path to change and renewal is blocked, is clearly familiar to both classical and contemporary commentators. They tell us to try again. To look deeper. Not to give up hope.

As we stand in this liminal moment, in these in-between days that are filled with awe, in its dual meaning of fear and wonder, each of us can consider the ways in which we can fortify ourselves with hope as we move toward our promised lands.

The lesson of Shabbat Shuvah is to have the courage to keep returning. This season calls us to search for God, not ahead of us, like a pillar of cloud providing obvious and easy markers on our path, but inside of us. We search for all that is entwined within us: for God, for the strength we can draw from our ancestors, and for the courage to change. Only then can we move forward, knowing that change is possible and that we are not alone.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l). 

For the haftarah, Ashkenazi Jews read  and , while Sephardic Jews read  and . The first word of the haftarah from Hosea is “Shuvah” (return) and led to the naming of this Shabbat.

Shabbat Shuvah

The Bluebird Inside Our Hearts (Rabbi Mordecai Schwartz): Connecting Shabbat Shuvah with a Charles Bukowski poem

Vayeilekh

The Courage to Hope (Rabbi Ayelet Cohen): The similarities between the Israelites position before entering the land and our experience between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

Moses’s Journey, And Ours (Chancellor Shuly Rubin Schwartz): Moses’s response to challenge and the future provides an example for a journey of self-reflection for the Yamim Noraim

The Journey of Life (Rabbi Marc Wolfe): Change is a process

Ha’azinu

Finding God and Ourselves Anew (Rabbi Matthew Berkowitz): “Every year, we are given the gift of finding God anew”

A World Without Teshuvah (Chancellor Emeritus Ismar Schorsch)

EXPLORE MORE HIGH HOLIDAY CONTENT

Download To Be Fully Human: Reflections on Hope for the Days of Awe 5786, a curated collection of commentaries by 91�첥 faculty, students, and alumni offering insights into the text, liturgy, and themes of the High Holidays are helping them navigate the challenges of this moment. Designed for printing and bringing to services.

Elul: A Time to Prepare

Getting Ready for the High Holy Days

Learn More

Teshuvah

A Return and Repentance

Learn More

Forgiving

Forgiving oneself and others

Learn More

Rosh Hashanah Liturgy

Scholarly approaches to the New Year

Learn More

Yom Kippur Liturgy

New Insight into Enduring Ritual

Learn More

High Holiday Webinars

91�첥 Faculty offer Insight into the Hagim

Learn More

Rosh Hashanah Torah Reading

Parshat Vayera

Learn More

Shabbat Shuvah Torah Readings

Vayeilekh and Ha’azinu

Learn More

Yom Kippur Torah Reading

Parshat Aharei Mot

Learn More

Chanting the High Holidays

Trope for the Days of Awe

Learn More

Treasures from the 91�첥 Library

Explore Centuries of High Holiday Celebration

Learn More

Time Capsule

What did 91�첥 scholars say about historical events as they happened?

Learn More

The images on this page are illuminations from the Esslingen Mahzor, the first dated Hebrew manuscript from Germany, which is part of the 91�첥 Library Special Collections. You can learn more here about the intriguing history of the Esslingen Mahzor.

Explore 91�첥’s full archive of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur insights.

Abraham set out on a journey about which he knew nothing, spurred to do so in response to God’s call. Moses’s action of וילך () tells a different story. Commenting on the first verse of our parashah, Seforno (Obadiah ben Jacob, c.1470–1550, Italy) understands וילך משה (“Moses went”) to mean that Moses התעורר לזה (“awakened to it”). This awakening connotes self-drive. While Abraham responded to God’s call with a leap of faith, Moses was motivated from within. Abraham’s journey began without a clear sense of what was to unfold. With Moses, we encounter a leader inspired by a clarity of purpose and mission honed through decades of relationship with both God and his people. He accomplished so much—as his orations that fill the book of Deuteronomy have detailed.

Abraham’s “לך־לך”&�Բ�����;marks the beginning of his journey. Ironically, Moses’s act of “וילך” marked some of the final footsteps of his life. It also has no complement—where did Moses go? The next phrase does not tell us where he went; it tells us what he said:

וילך משה וידבר את־הדברים האלה אל־כל־ישׂראל—“Moses went and spoke these things to all Israel.”

Why then does the parashah begin with the verb of movement? At this moment, as B’nei Yisrael prepares for their long-awaited entrance into the Promised Land, Moses’s journey is marked by a lack of physical movement. He has known for some time that he will not enter the land, the consequence of striking rather than speaking to the rock to extract water. He now must prepare himself to divulge this crucial information to his people. He surely anticipates that they will be frightened, angry, and dejected and that this could turn quickly to self-doubt, as they question whether they are up to this next challenge without him. Moses must undergo an emotional journey, moving past lingering feelings of sadness or bitterness to effect a smooth transition of power and give the people the strength and confidence to continue their journey. Thus, the next verb after “went” is “spoke,” as Moses shares all of this with the people. He confesses that at the age of 120, he can no longer be active and shares the news that he will not cross the Jordan River.

As we know, some of the most consequential journeys we take in life are invisible to the naked eye. This is, after all, our task during the month of Elul and the Yamim Noraim: to do the internal work to manage sadness, disappointment, frustration, and anger, and to reach out to those in our lives with a generous spirit and an eye toward the future.

Shadal (Samuel David Luzzatto, 1800–1865, Italy) makes explicit the connection between the parashah and the Days of Awe, by reminding us that the same verb, לך (go), is also used in reference to the shofar that accompanied the Revelation at Sinai:

 ויהי קול השופר הולך וחזק—“The blare of the horn grew louder and louder”&�Բ�����;().

Several commentators note how this image of increasing, even swelling, sound is unusual, since generally the sound of an instrument grows fainter over time as human breath grows thinner.

This extraordinary image of the shofar blast growing in impact is mirrored by the force of Moses’s message. Rather than dwelling on his own disappointment and brooding over his impending death, Moses addresses the people’s anxiety head on. He publicly appoints his successor, Joshua, reassuring the people that he had been chosen by God. Moses then offers a rousing charge to both the people () and Joshua () to be strong and resolute. Hoping to bolster their spirits and fortify them, he uses the second verb חזק (“be strong”), that describes the shofar in Exodus and adds another, אמץ (“and resolute”). His words instill in Joshua and the people of Israel the courage and stamina to continue the journey without him. The verb לך makes an additional appearance in this narrative, as Moses provides reassurance to his people. Spiritual, emotional journeys can be scary, grueling, vulnerable, but while they can feel lonely, they are not; God will be with the people of Israel, God will go with the people:

 יהוה הוא ההלך לפניך הוא יהיה עמך לא ירפך ולא יעזבך לא תירא ולא תחת —“And God, Godself, will go before you. God will be with you; God will not fail you or forsake you. Fear not and be not dismayed! ()

When we hear the shofar during these Days of Awe, we hope that it will awaken us, just as Moses awakened, according to Seforno, to do precisely the kind of journeying that Moses models—to consider our own paths, how we have fallen short, and how we might still do better for those we love and those in our charge.

In this way Moses’s—and Abraham’s—legacies continue to endure through the strength of each generation of Jewish journeyers. The shofar blast is the call to Abraham to set us on our journey; it’s also the reminder from Moses that we have the strength and knowledge within us to continue to progress in our life’s journey. Our task is not only to listen to the shofar, but to become the shofar—growing stronger in our conviction, and more resolute in our work of building and rebuilding a better world. When we do that, God will go with us.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

The piyyut (liturgical poem) Vekhol Ma’aminim—written by Yannai, the 7^th century master of classical piyyut—features straightforward Hebrew, a regular meter, and, often, upbeat melodies, such that people might end up singing it enthusiastically without reflecting deeply on its content.

And all believe that God is faithful.
And all believe that God is good to all.
And all believe that God is omnipotent.
And all believe that God answers the silent prayer.
And all believe that God is just and righteous.
And all believe that God’s work is perfect.

This text celebrates universal faith in a beneficent God. But is it really true that “all believe” these statements? While some might experience this piyyut as a jubilant affirmation of their theology, its words might stop others in their tracks. After all—it’s not even the case that “all believe” in God at all. Even putting aside people with entirely different religious beliefs, or those with no interest in religion—the fact is, even those committed to attending High Holiday services do not “all believe” each of the claims of Vekhol Ma’aminim, and the other texts of the mahzor that proclaim and assume complete and perfect faith.

While many people feel firmly anchored in religious belief, and see their own faith reflected in the liturgy, there are also many people who bring questions about their faith with them to High Holiday services. Many have had life experiences that awakened a powerful, instinctive belief in God; and yet, they also hear a different voice inside asking if this liturgy can be taken at face value. Most of us—even as we follow some intuitive or learned impulse to attend Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services—have had at least some moments of doubt.

What does it mean to sing Vekhol Ma’aminim and similar texts knowing that there are people around you whose faith waivers? Who sometimes doubt God’s omnipotence, or goodness, or very existence? What does it mean to sing this piyyut if you are one of those people yourself?

The Maggid of Mezritch, an 18th century Hasidic leader, taught: “When a person says the words of prayer so that they become a throne for God, an awesome silent fire takes hold of him . . . as he ascends beyond the world of time.” What a powerful image of prayer! But how often—even on the holiest days of the year—does any of us experience such all-consuming spiritual connection when reciting the words of the mahzor? What if we don’t feel that our words “become a throne for God” when we pray?

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote:

“Faith will come to him who passionately yearns for ultimate meaning, who is alert to the sublime dignity of being, who is alive to the marvel of the matter, to the unbelievable core within the known, evident, concrete . . . By foregoing beauty for goodness, power for love, grief for gratitude, by entreating the Lord for help to understand our hopes, for strength to resist our fears, we may receive a gentle sense of the holiness permeating the air like a strangeness that cannot be removed. Our crying out of pitfalls of self-indulgence for purity of devotion will prepare the dawn of faith.” (Man Is Not Alone, 89-90)

But is it not true that one can follow all of these prescriptions and still struggle intensely to find and keep faith?

The private writings of Mother Teresa, published posthumously in Mother Teresa—Come Be My Light: The Private Writings of the “Saint of Calcutta,” reveal her desperate struggle to find the faith that she professed and embodied, but did not always feel. “I call, I cling, I want, and there is no one to answer, no, no one. Alone. Where is my faith? Even deep down . . . there is nothing . . . I am told God loves me, and yet the reality of the darkness and coldness and emptiness is so great that nothing touches my soul.” Mother Teresa—a paragon of religiously-inspired service, who thought of humans as “pencils in the hand of God”—could not have followed Heschel’s instructions more completely. If even she failed in her quest for faith, where does this leave us?

Perhaps we should flip the question and ask: Is doubt really a bad thing? Or, is doubt potentially healthy and productive for one aspiring to faith? From the biblical Moses to Moses Maimonides, some of our greatest leaders have wrestled with faith. Maybe being a person of faith goes hand in hand with being a person of doubt.

In fact, some of our earliest texts seem to take for granted the phenomenon of failing to find God. We see this in the Psalms. “My God…why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my call?…I cry…but you do not hear” (22:2-3). And in Psalm 27, recited throughout the High Holiday season: “Do not hide your face from me; do not thrust aside your servant in anger… Do not forsake me, do not abandon me.” The Bible seems to understand a despairing, futile search for God as a commonplace, even fundamental, human experience. Perhaps the compilers of our liturgy, who paired Psalm 27 with this time of year, felt that giving voice to the tenuousness of faith was critical to this season.

Contemporary scholars have noted the centrality of doubt for people of faith. American writer Mary Gordon, a practicing Catholic, spoke about the value of doubt on Bill Moyers’s Genesis series: “The ability to question, the ability to take a skeptical position, is absolutely central to my understanding of myself, and my understanding of myself as a religious person.” She even argues that “faith without doubt is just either nostalgia or a kind of addiction.” When asked if doubters have anything to offer believers, Gordon responded: “If it weren’t for atheists and agnostics, there would be no Enlightenment, for example. … Many of the ideas which I most prize as an American, as a woman, as somebody living in a relatively free society have come to me from people who were agnostic or atheist.”

John Cornwell, an English scholar of religion and a Christian, describes the inevitability of doubt for those aspiring to belief. Reflecting on his own struggles with faith, he writes: “Faith is a journey without arrival, complicated by false turns, breakdowns, dead ends and wheel-changes. Faith, like love, is seldom entirely constant; nor is it irrevocable.” () He prefers the novelist Graham Greene’s articulation of faith as “doubt of doubt,” rather than faith as an unshakeable certainty.

If doubt is an integral part of religious life, then, perhaps passages like Vekhol Ma’aminim are not the uncomplicated declarations of faith that they seem to be; maybe their inclusion in the mahzor is meant to validate and address our intense need for assurance in the face of our doubts. For all we know, when Yannai was writing back in the seventh century, belief in God was no less difficult or complex than it is today.

Still, the endless God-language of the mahzor may overwhelm, exhaust, or push away someone who finds themselves in a less faith-full place in their lives. In such a situation, how might we approach High Holiday services without putting on ourselves the burden of expressing a faith that we may not always feel?

Heschel offers an alternative understanding of faith that may answer that question. “To believe is to remember,” he writes. We can look to our prayer services to access not a bedrock of perfect faith, but rather echoes of the moments in our lives that made faith seem possible—even if only momentarily:

“In every man’s life there are moments when there is a lifting of the veil at the horizon of the known, opening a sight of the eternal. Each of us has at least once . . . experienced the momentous reality of God. . . . But such experiences . . . are rare events. To some people they are like shooting stars, passing and unremembered. In others they kindle a light that is never quenched. The remembrance of that experience and the loyalty to the response of that moment are the forces that sustain our faith. In this sense, faith is faithfulness, loyalty to an event, loyalty to our response.” (loc. cit. 165)

How do we access the power of our past “events” of faith, Heschel asks? Not just through private reflection, but by coming together in community. We gather on the High Holidays to remember together the possibility of faith. To create sacred space, sacred time, and a sacred assembly—a mikra kodesh, in the words of the Bible—that lets us reaffirm, collectively, the parts of ourselves that want to believe.

“Not the individual man, nor a single generation . . . can erect the bridge that leads to God. Faith is the achievement of ages, an effort accumulated over centuries. Many of its ideas are as the light of a star that left its source centuries ago. Many songs, unfathomable today, are the resonance of voices of bygone times. There is a collective memory of God in the human spirit, and it is this memory of which we partake in our faith.” (loc. cit. 161)

The Rosh Hashanah liturgy quotes the prophet Isaiah: “A great horn shall be blown; and they shall come that were lost in the land of Assyria, and they that were dispersed in the land of Egypt; and they shall worship the Lord in the holy mountain at Jerusalem.” (27:13) Today, too, we return from our dispersal when the horn, the shofar, is blown. We gather in our synagogues to lift one another up spiritually and give each other permission to pray with our complete selves—both the faithful and doubtful parts of us. The High Holidays, then, are the very time for us to wrestle with our faith, to acknowledge and give space to our doubts, rather than shying away from them as we so often tend to do.

May we each find ourselves in a High Holiday community that allows us to simultaneously hold our doubts and also the faith and traditions that are so dear to us. May it be a season of forgiving ourselves for the doubts we may have—and of celebrating those doubts for giving us the opportunity to nuance our faith, so that we may rediscover it time and again when we least expect it.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

I agree that the desire to say only what you mean is positive, even admirable, in most situations. Yet, I also think that religious language is a different kind of language that should not be understood literally. Religious language expresses something that does not neatly correlate with the laws of physics that define our world. It captures something that we intuit about our world and our place within it, but that we do not know. Given this, religious language is, and should be, imprecise and poetic. When we speak as religious people, we are speaking metaphorically, choosing a language that is expansive and elastic—one that is multidimensional and not flat. This is the language of the holy texts and prayers of our tradition.

This Shabbat is Shabbat Shuvah, the Shabbat of Return, which falls between the holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and is named for the first words of the special haftarah that we read from the prophet Hosea: “Return, Israel [שובה ישראל], to the Lord your God, for you have stumbled because of your sin” (Hos. 14:2).

I find that there is a mixture of heaviness and lightness to the time between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. As we move from the celebration of the Rosh Hashanah to the solemn introspection of Yom Kippur, we consider our year and ourselves, and think about the blessings we experienced, the trials we faced, and the wrongs we have done.

In the spirit of Shabbat Shuvah, I consider three metaphorical ways the Torah speaks about sin—sin as weight, debt, and stain. My goal is not to increase the heaviness of this time, but rather to show the rich expansiveness of metaphorical language. I suggest that the various metaphors for sin in the Torah capture different aspects of sin and have different implications. They make it clear that there are multiple ways to understand sin, to experience sin, and, most importantly, to move beyond sin so that we can realign ourselves with our community and with God.

The perception of sin as a weight to be born is evident in the common biblical expression “to carry sin” (נשא עון) and in passages like Isa. 5:18 that describe sinners as hauling the burden of their sins as if hauling a cart with ropes. The Yom Kippur ritual described in Lev. 16 also suggests that sin is a weight to be born. In this ritual, the high priest transfers the weight of Israel’s sin onto the scapegoat who bears the burden and carries it into the wilderness.

I relate deeply to the metaphor of sin as weight. Sin feels like it has weight to me. At times, it feels like an unbearable burden. Yet, I also recognize how this metaphorical depiction of sin conveys hope. Burdens can be lifted. They can either be released or removed. Perceiving sin as weight allows for these different paths to relief. Relief can come from your own actions—confession, the release of the burden—or from the actions of others—forgiveness, the removal of the burden.

The image of sin as debt is found Jer. 16:18, where God threatens to pay Israel doubly for its sins. The prophet Isaiah affirms that God indeed paid Israel double for its sins in Isa. 40:2. Like the image of sin as weight, the image of sin as debt captures the heaviness of sin. Debt is a type of burden. And, as with the image of weight, the image of debt also holds the possibility of relief. Debts can be repaid.

What I appreciate about this metaphorical understanding of sin is that it conveys exactness. Guilt, as we all know, can seem bottomless, but debt is precise. There are limits set to what you must pay. Once paid, you are free of debt and free of guilt. I also like how this metaphor places more responsibility to make amends on the one who wrongs than on the one who is wronged. Sometimes debts simply need to be paid.

The image of sin as stain is found in Psalm 51:4, where the psalmist begs God: “Wash me thoroughly of my iniquity.” In Isa. 1:16, God begs Israel to wash itself clean and then promises in Isa. 1:18: “Be your sins like crimson, they can turn white like snow. Be they red as wool, they can become like fleece.”

I find the metaphor of sin as stain to be the most powerful metaphor of all. For me, it captures how deeply sin penetrates one’s self and alters one’s being. Like the other metaphors, the metaphor of sin as stain also conveys hope. Yet with this metaphor, the possibility for relief comes only and miraculously from God. Stains are lasting, if not permanent. Yet, as Isa. 1:18, one of the highlights of the Yom Kippur liturgy, proclaims, red can become white. There is no unforgivable sin.

Each of these metaphors for sin in the Torah captures something different and specific about the nature of sin and the possibilities of its removal. Sin can feel heavy or dirty. To find relief, sins may be lifted, paid for, or cleaned. Relief may be more or less left up to the one who wrongs, the one who is wronged, or to God. The metaphors for sin in the Torah capture all these possibilities and demonstrate the richness of religious language.

I appreciate people who say what they mean and mean what they say. Yet, when I engage with religious language, I do not want to, nor can I, speak literally. Instead, I speak metaphorically and value language that is imprecise, poetic, and expansive—language that captures more than what we can ever know to be true.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

In our present-day communities, where we finish the Torah every year, the section of Leviticus that includes the curses naturally falls before Shavuot. Parashat Ki Tavo in Deuteronomy—where Moshe again offers the blessings and curses to the Israelites before they enter into the Land—also naturally falls before Rosh Hashanah in the calendar.

However, for the Jews of the Land of Israel, who in ancient times completed the Torah in three years, Ezra’s decree must have been quite jarring. Presumably, these communities would have had to take out a second Torah scroll and read the curses in addition to the parashah of the week on the Sabbaths before Rosh Hashanah and Shavuot.

At any rate, Ezra’s mandate presents us with a question: Why did Ezra believe it was critical that the Jewish people read the blessings and curses before Rosh Hashanah? Asked differently, in what ways might hearing this section of the Torah be important for our spiritual work during this season?

On the most visceral level, reading the blessings and curses at a time when we are focused on imagining new and nobler versions of ourselves and our communities highlights the stark consequences of our choices. If we make good choices, good things will happen. If we make poor choices—well, less good things await us. Our behavior and choices really do have consequences in the world. Using the liturgy to confront the darkness that is promised if we do not choose well may keep us on the right path. I think there is something to this, but I believe there is a richer and more meaningful connection between the blessings and curses and Rosh Hashanah.

The Talmud—in the name of Abaye—suggests a more optimistic answer to our question: “So that the year may end along with its curses.” As we finish the year, we read all of the curses—putting them behind us, as if to say, so should our troubles be behind us. Then we can begin the new year with a clean slate, fresh for our new ways of being in the world, without any negative baggage. Indeed, this is a lovely framing for the end of one year and the beginning of another. But I still believe there is more behind Ezra’s insistence on reading the blessings and curses in public as our communities move into Rosh Hashanah.

A curious geonic (7–10th century) tradition referenced by Maimonides provides deeper insight into Ezra’s decree. Most often, when we read the blessings and curses of Deuteronomy we experience them as promises of reward for loyalty to the Covenant and threats of violent consequences for rejecting God. However, Maimonides shares a tradition that conceptualizes the blessings and curses in a completely novel way.

Maimonides suggests that hearing the blessings and curses in Parashat Ki Tavo, which come when the Israelites are about to enter into the Land of Israel before the original conquest, constituted the fulfillment of an actual mitzvah! (Kelal shelishi in Sefer Hamitzvot) This is a startling assertion, transforming the blessings and curses from a series of promises and threats to the level of commandment. But what was this mitzvah?

In a very provocative remark, the Talmud suggests that prior to entering into the Land of Israel, the nation as a whole was held accountable only for the public misdeeds of individuals. If a person sinned in private, only the individual who misbehaved was held accountable. But as the nation prepared to cross the Jordan River, something changed. From that moment onward, the entire community of Israel became culpable for even the private misdeeds of other people (BT Sanhedrin 43b)! We are commanded to recognize our interconnectedness. Blessings would be earned and experienced by the group. Communal calamity would be the price for individual destructive decisions. Thus when the Israelites stood at Mount Gerizim and Mount Eval, they heard the blessings that await those who listen to God’s commandments and the punishments promised to those who disobey—but they also heard a message that transcended all of these specifics. The entire nation was asked to understand itself as radically interconnected and to appreciate the imperative that emerges from this realization.

The mitzvah embedded in these verses of the promises and curses, then, is the mitzvah of arevut: seeing the profound interconnectedness of the Jewish people. Each Jew is the “guarantor” (arev) of every other Jew. That is, each Jew is fundamentally responsible for all other Jews. Through the blessings and curses of Parashat Ki Tavo, the Torah is saying, we are in this project of living together.

Areveut—feeling and acting on a sense of responsibility for those around us—in Judaism does not fall under the category of altruism. Helping someone else is not an act of kindness. It is bound up in a fundamental responsibility that we must all feel toward others. Just as I am responsible for my own ethical life, I am responsible for that of others as well. If my neighbor falls and fails, it is my pain and my failure too. And if I receive blessing, it is not simply because I as an individual have earned it; the group also shares responsibility for my success.

I like to think that these ideas stand behind the reasons for Ezra’s decree to read the blessings and curses before Rosh Hashanah. At a time when many of us are focused on our own individual growth and betterment, we are reminded of the profound interconnectedness of all our communities and lives. I can’t be a better person if I ignore the state of the individuals in my community. This is the mitzvah of arevut that I personally need to hear as I move into this holiday season.

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).