Rabbi Shlomo Landau

Picking up the Shovel

In Communist Russia, where winters were brutal, the government enforced strict laws requiring citizens to keep the sidewalks in front of their homes and stores clear. Failure to do so came with steep fines.

To ensure compliance, each neighborhood had an appointed enforcer who would patrol the streets. If snow wasn’t cleared, he issued penalties. No excuses.

Now, no one wanted to shovel. It was exhausting, cold and time-consuming. But they didn’t have a choice. So people adapted. But the shopkeepers developed a clever tactic: instead of clearing the snow right away, they’d wait for foot traffic to pack it down, making the job easier. But they knew they had to be careful. If the inspector showed up and caught them idle, they’d be fined.

So they devised a system. They’d sit outside, chatting, keeping their shovels nearby. The moment someone spotted the inspector, they’d all jump up, grab their shovels, and pretend they were hard at work.

And it worked. After all, how could the officer fine someone who was actively shoveling?

But one storekeeper wasn’t playing along. He watched his peers fake their efforts and decided not to bother with the charade. One day, the inspector came by and fined him on the spot.

“Why me?” the storekeeper protested. “Nobody’s actually shoveling! They’re all just pretending when you show up!” The officer responded simply. “Maybe. But at least they were holding a shovel. You weren’t even trying.”

Rav Chatzkel Levenstein zt”l, the legendary Mashgiach of Mir and Ponovezh, shared this story with a profound spiritual message for Elul.

He quoted the Reishis Chochmah, who cites an astounding concept. When a Jew merely thinks about doing teshuvah—when the thought enters their heart to return to Hashem—that thought alone ascends directly to the Kisei HaKavod, the Heavenly Throne. As it says in Hoshea, “Shuva Yisrael ad Hashem Elokecha—Return, O Israel, all the way to Hashem your God” (Hoshea 14:1).

Even if we haven’t yet acted, even if we haven’t yet changed, the intention to change is immensely precious in Hashem’s eyes. The moment we “pick up the shovel,” even if the snow isn’t yet cleared, we are already reaching the highest heavens.

Elul is not just about massive transformation overnight. It’s about beginning the journey by picking up the shovel, starting to think about change and planning the path forward.

We’re not yet in the thick of Rosh Hashanah or the awe of Yom Kippur. We may still be surrounded by noise, distractions and spiritual clutter. But we have this month of Elul to reflect, to plan and to slowly shift.

Let’s not be the storekeeper who sits idly while others, at the very least, lift their shovels. Let’s not wait until the Day of Judgment arrives to panic and scramble. Let’s start now.  You don’t have to become a tzaddik overnight. Just show Hashem that you’re thinking about coming home.

Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis a”h

Facing the Heavenly Court

We are approaching a day unlike any other: Rosh Hashanah, the Day of Judgment. Not only is our individual fate on the line, but so is the fate of our families, our nation, and indeed, the entire world. This is a court date we cannot ignore. We must prepare and understand what is being asked of us.

But there’s something about Rosh Hashanah that seems, at first glance, illogical.

Rosh Hashanah is the day of Din, of judgment. And yet Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, when we confess, repent, and plead for forgiveness, doesn’t come until ten days later. Shouldn’t the order be reversed? Shouldn’t we begin with forgiveness and only then stand trial?

Even more perplexing is that on Rosh Hashanah, we don’t mention our sins. There is no confession, no Vidui. Instead, we focus on Malchiyos, proclaiming Hashem’s kingship. How do we make sense of this?

Let me share with you a parable.

There is a young man studying at a prestigious university. Unfortunately, he’s been skipping classes, failing exams, and doing poorly across the board. The dean of the university happens to be a close friend of the young man’s father. Troubled and torn, the dean calls the student into his office.

“I’ve reviewed your file,” he says. “Frankly, you’ve failed. But I cannot bear to break the heart of your father, my dear friend. So here’s what I’m offering. I will pass you, but from this moment until graduation, you must give me your very best. No more games. Show me you’re serious.”

This is Rosh Hashanah.

The Dean is Hashem and the university is this world. And we, all too often, have been failing the course: skipping spiritual responsibilities, neglecting our mission. But Hashem’s love for us is deep and eternal. He cannot bear to “fail” the children of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, of Moshe, Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel, and Leah. And so, He gives us a chance. “I won’t focus now on your failures,” Hashem says. “I’m giving you ten days from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur. Show Me who you are. Bring Me your efforts.”

This is why Rosh Hashanah precedes Yom Kippur.

We do not begin with sin. We begin by proclaiming, “Hashem, You are our King.” Because only after we re-establish our relationship, our loyalty, and our identity as children of the King, can we begin the process of Teshuvah.

There’s a famous saying: Be careful with your words—because they become your actions. Be careful with your actions—because they become your habits. And be careful with your habits—because they shape your identity. Hashem, in His infinite kindness, gives us tools to watch our speech. Lips and teeth—two gates before the tongue. We are called to live with consciousness, not compulsion. With intention, not impulse.

We must pause and ask ourselves: Who am I becoming? What am I doing for Am Yisrael? Am I living up to my Jewish soul; this holy soul that I didn’t choose but was lovingly placed inside me by G-d Himself? We didn’t ask to be born Jewish, but we were chosen. We were gifted a legacy, a mission.

We often hear the phrase, “Teshuvah, Tefillah, U’tzedakah—Repentance, prayer, and charity removes the evil decree.” But these terms are often misunderstood:

Teshuvah doesn’t simply mean repentance. It means returning to your truest self. Before you were born, Hashem crafted a beautiful image of what your life could become. That image is hanging in the heavenly gallery. One day, we’ll see both: the image Hashem envisioned and the image we actually lived. That moment, Chazal say, will be Gehinnom itself. It is the distance between who we could’ve been and who we chose to be.

Tefillah isn’t simply saying words. It’s an act of connection, of crying out to the Source of all life. Tzedakah isn’t just giving charity. It’s an act of justice, of living with a sense of debt and recognizing that all we have is a gift from G-d, and we owe it forward.

You want to know where Teshuvah begins? It begins with gratitude. A generation trained to demand rights will struggle to understand responsibility. But the Torah life begins with “Modeh Ani—I thank You.” Before we even stand up from bed, we acknowledge that my life is not my own. Gratitude is the foundation of emunah. And it is what awakens the desire to return to Hashem. When we stand before Hashem on Rosh Hashanah and beg for life, He asks in return, “And what will you do with it? If I grant you health, how will you use it? If I give you wealth, how will you give back? If I restore peace, will you build unity? If I give you time, will you use it with purpose?”

Let us prepare for this awesome day with clarity and with hope. We are not just standing before a Judge. We are standing before our Father. And our Father is waiting for us to come home.

Rabbi Zev Leff

The Foundation

Rosh Hashanah is called "Reishis Hashanah," the beginning of the year, the foundation of everything to come (Rosh Hashanah 16b).

In the Torah, we see a consistent pattern. Hashem places special value on the firsts. We sanctify the firstborn, offer the first shearing of wool, bring the first fruits to the Beis Hamikdash, and dedicate the first moments of our day to tefillah. Why?

At first glance, it might seem like the Torah is suggesting that the first is always the best. But the truth is that the first isn't necessarily the best. Sometimes the second, third, or tenth turns out better. So why does Hashem care about the first?

The answer lies not in the quality of the first, but in its role.

The first sets the pattern. It becomes the foundation upon which everything else rests. And in anything foundational—whether it’s a structure, a seed, or a neshama—even the tiniest flaw can ripple outward. A hairline crack in the foundation of a building can cause the entire structure to collapse. A microscopic mutation in the root of a plant will show up in its branches and fruit. A genetic defect at the level of DNA can affect the development of an entire person.

But a blemish on the third floor? A scratch on a leaf? A freckle on a finger? These don’t undermine the whole. That’s why the Torah teaches us to offer the first to Hakadosh Baruch Hu. The first is the root. The beginning shapes everything that follows. So we give it our fullest attention, our deepest care and our highest devotion.

This concept sheds light on why we act with extra care and intention during the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, the Ten Days of Repentance. You’ll find people during this period who push themselves to daven with more kavanah (concentration), give more tzedakah, and avoid leniencies they might usually rely on.

Take the example of pas palter, bread baked by a non-Jewish commercial bakery. According to the Shulchan Aruch, such bread is permitted if no similar Jewish-baked bread is available, and yet during the Aseres Yemei Teshuva, we strive to avoid it (Orach Chaim 603:1). Why is this? Isn’t this a kind of spiritual posturing? Are we pretending to be frummer than we really are, only to go back to “normal” after Yom Kippur? Is this fooling Hashem?

No. It’s not hypocrisy. It’s wisdom. When someone builds a house, they may not be able to afford top-tier materials for every wall and window. But for the foundation, they use the very best. Because if the base is compromised, the whole house is vulnerable.

That’s the logic of these ten days. Maybe we can’t sustain this level all year. Maybe we’ll go back to our regular pace in tefillah and our usual habits in halachah. But during these first days, we're building the foundation. And that demands more.

We give Hashem our “first fruits, not because they’re the sweetest, but because they’re the first. They define the rest. And so too, the way we begin the year defines the tone of our entire spiritual journey.

Parshas Ki Savo speaks about bringing bikkurim, first fruits, to the Beis HaMikdash. It’s not a coincidence that it coincides with Rosh Hashanah. It’s a reminder that the first always matters and that the first sets the direction. So during these days, don’t be afraid to stretch yourself. Daven a little longer, give a little more tzedakah, speak a little more gently even if you know you won’t keep it all year.

Because this is the root. This is the reishis. And from a strong beginning, everything becomes possible.

Rabbi Daniel Glatstein

The Coronation of the King

On May 6, 2023, the world watched as King Charles III was formally crowned the King of England. It was a ceremony filled with grandeur, wealth, history and pageantry. At the time, many of us reflected on the imagery as a way to visualize what the coronation of Melech HaMashiach might one day look like; an event of even greater splendor and spiritual significance.

But now, as we stand just days before Rosh Hashanah, there is something else we can learn from that royal event; something timely and deeply meaningful.

One of the most striking features of King Charles’ coronation was the sounding of trumpets. They were not merely decorative or traditional. They served a specific, powerful purpose: to declare, to announce, and to proclaim the arrival and sovereignty of the King.

Rav Saadya Gaon famously offers ten reasons for the mitzvah of Tekias Shofar. The very first, as quoted by the Avudraham, is that Rosh Hashanah is the anniversary of creation, the day on which Hashem became the King of the world.

And what do you do at a coronation? You sound the trumpets.

“Bachatzotzros v’kol shofar hariu lifnei HaMelech Hashem – With trumpets and the sound of the shofar, call out before the King, Hashem” (Tehillim 98:6). Rosh Hashanah is not just a Day of Judgment. It is the Day of Coronation. On this day, we don't merely observe Hashem as Sovereign; we actively proclaim it.

At times, people feel unsure how to emotionally respond during Tekias Shofar. Are we supposed to be solemn, afraid, inspired, hopeful?

The Vilna Gaon, in Sefer Kesser Rosh, provides an answer that might surprise us: "Tzarich l’hiyos b’rov simcha u’chedvah—One must feel great joy and happiness at the sound of the shofar.” Why? Because it's a coronation.

Just as the citizens of a country rejoice on the day they crown their king, so too we, Klal Yisrael, rejoice as we declare Hashem Melech HaOlam. The Gaon’s own student, Rav Chaim Volozhiner, recorded how his Rebbe was filled with joy during Tekias Shofar. The Gra experienced the Shofar not with anxiety, but with exaltation. We are not only subjects. We are children. And when we blow the Shofar, we affirm our bond with the King Who is also our compassionate Father.

So this year, as the Baal Tokeia lifts the Shofar to his lips, picture the royal scene in Westminster Abbey. Imagine the solemn majesty, the reverent silence, the thunder of trumpets, and then imagine something infinitely more powerful.

Not a human king. But Avinu Malkeinu.

Our King. Our Father.

And we are not distant spectators. We are loyal subjects, beloved children, and active participants in the coronation of the King of Kings.

Rabbi Etiel Goldwhicht

I’m In

A couple walks into a marriage counselor’s office, visibly tense. Within moments of sitting down, they begin arguing, their voices raised, emotions flaring.

“This is how he talks to me!” “How can I not react when she says things like that?!”

The counselor gently interrupts. “Before we go any further,” he says, “I need to ask you something. Why are you here?”

The woman replies, “We want to know… is our marriage beyond repair?” The counselor pauses, then asks a single question: “Are you in?”

They look at him, puzzled.

“I mean it,” he continues. “People come to therapy for one of two reasons: either to find a peaceful way to separate or because they truly want help. But being help begins with one essential step: both people must be in. Fully. Committed to the relationship.”

There’s a long silence.

The man looks up and quietly says, “I’m in. I want to make this work.” His wife looks at him, then lowers her eyes. Slowly, she says, “I’m in too.” The counselor smiles. “Then we have something to build on.”

This, in essence, is what Rosh Hashanah is all about.

It always puzzled me. Why does Rosh Hashanah come before Yom Kippur? Wouldn’t it make more sense to first cleanse ourselves through atonement, and then stand before Hashem in judgment?

But the answer is deeply relational.

Rosh Hashanah is not the day we declare our perfection. It's the day we declare our commitment. It’s the moment when we show up and say to Hashem, “I’m in.”

Yes, we may have made mistakes. Yes, we still need to have our “counseling sessions” over the next ten days: our self-examination, our Yom Kippur, our teshuva. But none of that matters if we’re not first willing to recommit.

When we blow the Shofar, we’re not presenting a resume of good deeds. We’re sounding a primal cry from the depths of our soul, proclaiming: “I’m proud to be part of this relationship. I want this connection. I’m still in.”

And that changes everything.

Because once we declare our willingness to grow, to return, to reconnect, then there is hope, there is space, there is love. So this Rosh Hashanah, before the self-judgment, before the reckoning, take a quiet moment and ask yourself: Am I in?

If the answer is yes, then you’ve already taken the most important step toward a sweet, meaningful, and renewed year.