Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

Your Ancestors Are With You

In his final address to Am Yisrael, Moshe Rabbeinu stands before the entire nation and proclaims: “Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem—You are all standing here today, all of you, before Hashem” (Devarim 29:10).

But he doesn’t stop there. He continues with a cryptic addition. “Not only with you, who are here today, is G-d making a covenant. Soo too with those who are not here.”

Who are these unseen participants in Moshe’s covenant?

The mystical sources explain that “hayom” refers to Rosh Hashanah, the Day of Judgment. On this day, we do not stand alone. We are joined by the souls of our parents, grandparents, and ancestors, who stand beside us in judgment. The neshamos in the Olam HaEmes, the World of Truth, are spiritually present, shoulder to shoulder with us, davening and pleading for our future.

The Gemara (Rosh Hashanah 32b) records a remarkable exchange between the angels and Hashem. “Why,” ask the angels, “do the Jewish people not recite Hallel on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur?” “Is it possible,” Hashem answers, “that the King is sitting on the Throne of Judgment, with the Books of Life and Death open before Him, and Am Yisrael should sing joyous praises?”

The Chasam Sofer offers a deeper layer of interpretation.

When Chazal say, “The Books of Life and Books of Death are open before Hashem,” the “Books of Life” refer to the machzorim, siddurim, and Tehillim that we, the living, pour our hearts into during these holy days. But the “Books of the Dead,” the Sifrei Meisim, refer to the heavenly machzorim of our ancestors. Their souls are also davening on Rosh Hashanah. They are not passive onlookers, but active advocates.

With this, we can understand something profound.

We do not say Hallel on Rosh Hashanah because, as the Pasuk in Tehillim (115:17), says, “Lo ha’meisim yehallelu Kah—The dead cannot praise Hashem.” Since our ancestors are present with us, and they cannot sing Hallel, we too refrain, out of solidarity and reverence for their presence.

There is a moving story about the Chasam Sofer and his son, the Ksav Sofer.

When the Ksav Sofer was just two years old, he became gravely ill and the doctors had lost all hope. The Chevra Kadisha even lit the candles. But that night, the Chasam Sofer locked himself in a room and davened with tears until dawn. In the morning, he emerged and said to his wife, “I secured him another 50 years of life.” And indeed, the Ksav Sofer lived to age 52.

Years later, when the Ksav Sofer was 24, the Chasam Sofer became ill. On his deathbed, he turned to his son and said, “I appoint you as my successor.” The young man was terrified. Replacing the great Chasam Sofer was a monumental burden. But his father reassured him. “Don’t be afraid. Your grandfather, Rav Akiva Eiger, will be on your right. Your other grandfather on your left. Above you will be an angel. And I, your father, will be behind you. You are not alone.”

With those words, the Chasam Sofer returned his soul to its Maker.

That year, on Shabbos Shuvah, the newly appointed Ksav Sofer prepared to deliver his first public drasha, but nothing came to him. He sat the entire night with a blank page, eventually falling asleep in despair.

In a dream, his father appeared to him. “Why are you so upset?” “Because,” the Ksav Sofer said, “everyone will be judging me based on this first speech, and I have nothing to say.” The Chasam Sofer smiled. “Then I will give you a speech.”

That Shabbos, the Ksav Sofer delivered a brilliant drasha, with people coming up to him afterward and praising him. “That sounded like a toldah, a derivative, of the Chasam Sofer,” playing on the double entendre of Av and Toldah, Father and Son, Primary Act and Derivative, as associated with the prohibited laws of Shabbos.

The Ksav Sofer pithily remarked, “No, it was not a toldah; it was an Av Melachah.”

On Rosh Hashanah, the Sifrei Chayim and Sifrei Meisim are open. When we visit the kever of a tzaddik, when we learn their Torah, when we emulate their ways, we are not merely honoring them. We awaken them, and they in turn, become our advocates in Heaven.

We are not alone. We daven with our ancestors beside us. We cry with their tears.

And in the courtroom Above, it becomes not just one generation speaking, but an entire nation of neshamos pleading together.

So stand tall. Stand with dignity. Because this Shabbos, when we say “Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem,” and reflect upon the upcoming days of Rosh Hashanah, we mean all of us. The living. The departed. The entire Am Yisrael, past and present, will stand firm together before the King.

Rabbi Yisroel Jungreis

From Where You Are

Rosh Hashanah is upon us.

It is a time when we crown Hashem as King of the Universe, and therefore a time of awe, renewal, and introspection. And one of the most poignant symbols of this coronation is right before our eyes: the round challah. Why is it round? Because it represents a crown. It is circular, whole, unbroken, symbolizing royalty, eternity, and unity. Hashem is not just our Father; He is our King.

You may have noticed something curious in many shuls on Rosh Hashanah. When the cantor begins the solemn words “HaMelech” at the start of Shacharis, declaring “The King,” he often doesn’t begin from the bimah. He begins from his seat. Why?

I once heard a beautiful explanation.

On Rosh Hashanah, we are not just proclaiming Hashem as King from a stage or elevated platform. Rather, wherever you are in life—emotionally, spiritually, physically—that’s where you must coronate Him. That is your position for the day, your appointed place. And from that exact place—no matter how far or broken or confused—you declare that Hashem is King.

I remember many years ago, one of my children was hospitalized right before Yom Kippur. He had been there for over a week, and miraculously, just an hour before the holiest day of the year began, he was released.

In past years, I always davened at my regular shul with close to a thousand people. The experience was uplifting, majestic. But this time, I was exhausted, emotionally drained, and had no idea where I’d daven. I found a small yeshiva down the block, with barely thirty people. It felt strange, unfamiliar.

But I remembered that insight. Wherever you are, that is your place and that’s where Hashem wants you to declare Him King. And when you embrace the moment with humility and emunah, Hashem brings the beracha.

Let me share a story that captures this truth. A young Torah scholar from Bnei Brak told this story to Rav Yitzchok Zilberstein.

He and his wife had five young children, and they were supposed to eat the first Rosh Hashanah meal at his in-laws, across the city. They planned to leave before Yom Tov, take a cab, and get there in time. But as often happens, the yetzer hara works overtime on the last day of the year.

He said it felt like every challenge came crashing down that day. The children were fighting, one refused to get dressed, another cried that he didn’t want to go. His wife was overwhelmed and time was slipping away. Candle lighting was also fast approaching, and they weren’t close to being ready. He realized he would likely miss the opening prayers of Rosh Hashanah; something he had never missed in his life.

The tension in the house was unbearable. “I knew that any word I said in frustration would be a sword through my wife’s heart,” he recounted.

He paused. He breathed. And then he made a decision:

“This is my avodah right now. This is my position. This is where Hashem has placed me on this Rosh Hashanah. I will not raise my voice and I will not say something I’ll regret. My mission is to preserve shalom bayis, to hold onto my inner calm. And from this place, I will declare Hashem as King.”

Instead of lashing out, he said something kind. He complimented his wife. And though he missed the tefillah he loved so much, he didn’t miss the moment. His home was calm and his children entered Rosh Hashanah in peace.

He later reflected. “That year, everything changed. My children thrived in school, my parnassah flourished, our home was filled with peace. It was one of the most blessed years I’ve ever experienced, and I am convinced it all started because I held back that night. I accepted the position Hashem placed me in, and I crowned Him King from there.”

There’s a final image that ties this all together.

When Moshe Rabbeinu stood before the burning bush, Hashem told him: “Shal na’alecha me’al raglecha—Remove your shoes, for the ground you stand on is holy” (Shemos 3:5).

What does that mean?

Don’t try to step into someone else’s shoes. Don’t imagine that if you were in a different place, you would be holier, more focused, more successful.

The place you’re standing right now, that ground is holy. And from that place—whether it’s in a hospital room, a small shul, a chaotic home, or a place of uncertainty—you have the power to coronate the King.

May we all enter this Rosh Hashanah with the clarity to say: HaMelech, The King... from exactly where we stand. And may Hashem, in turn, shower us with blessings of peace, health, growth, and purpose.

Rabbi Aryeh Kerzner

Escape or Elevate?

As we enter the spiritually charged days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we naturally turn inward seeking to refine ourselves, to deepen our service of Hashem, and to return to Him with renewed authenticity. It is during this season that we ask a fundamental question: how do we confront our Yetzer Hara? Do we engage it directly and transform it into a force for good or do we retreat from it entirely, distancing ourselves from its enticements?

This very question was the subject of a profound dispute among the great Chassidic masters.

The Baal Shem Tov taught that the optimal way to overcome the Yetzer Hara is not to ignore or reject it, but rather to engage and elevate it, and thereby transform our base desires into tools of Avodas Hashem. According to this approach, one channels physical cravings and emotional impulses toward mitzvos and spiritual growth.

In sharp contrast, Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin vehemently disagreed. He warned that confronting the Yetzer Hara directly is too dangerous. Instead, he advocated a strategy of avoidance, wherein one flees from temptation rather than risk being ensnared by it. Better to keep one’s distance from that which is tempting altogether than attempt to sanctify it and fail.

Rav Dessler, in Michtav Me’Eliyahu (Chelek Alef), notes that this dispute is echoed in a surprising place: the Midrashic discussion regarding the mitzvos of Shabbos and Bris Milah.

The Midrash relates a debate between these two mitzvos, each claiming superiority over the other. Ultimately, Milah prevails, as Bris Milah overrides Shabbos if the eighth day falls on Shabbos. This halachic reality serves as proof of its greater status.

But what does this mean?

Rav Dessler explains that Shabbos represents the worldview of the Baal Shem Tov—kedushas ha’taiva, the sanctification of physical pleasure. On Shabbos, we delight in food, rest, and comfort, but all in the service of Hashem. It is about embracing the physical and channeling it toward the spiritual.

Bris Milah, by contrast, symbolizes the ideology of Rav Tzadok: shviras ha’taiva, cutting off desire at its root. Milah removes the orlah, physically and spiritually, signifying the subjugation of human passion to Divine will. It is not about elevating taiva, but about suppressing and transcending it.

Thus, Milah overriding Shabbos is not merely a halachic ruling, but a theological declaration. When weighing the two approaches, the Torah sides with caution: it is safer to subdue the Yetzer Hara than to risk sanctifying it and being consumed by it. As Rav Dessler concludes, in theory, elevating taiva is a loftier path, but in practice, avoidance is often wiser.

This dialectic is also reflected in a curious Gemara in Chullin (91a). When Yaakov wrestled with the Sar Shel Eisav, the angel appeared either as a Talmid Chacham or as an idol worshipper. Why such vastly different images?

One interpretation, as offered by Rav Moshe Aaron Friedman, is that the Yetzer Hara wears two disguises. At times, he comes like a brazen sinner, attempting to lure us into open transgression. But at other times—far more dangerously—he cloaks himself in the garb of piety and logic, like a talmid chacham. He manipulates Torah concepts, offers sophisticated rationalizations, and tries to convince us that an aveira is actually a mitzvah.

This duality is captured in Yaakov’s tefillah: “Hatzileini na miyad achi, miyad Eisav—Rescue me from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Eisav” (Bereishis 32:11). Why the redundancy? The Beis HaLevi explains that Yaakov feared two manifestations of Eisav: one as the external, antagonistic enemy, and one as the friendly “brother” seeking to influence him subtly and draw him away from truth.

We can now reinterpret the two opinions about the angel’s appearance.

The opinion that the Yetzer Hara appeared as a Talmid Chacham aligns with the Baal Shem Tov’s view that taiva can be engaged and transformed. This is the Yetzer Hara that enters our minds, encouraging us to integrate, elevate, and spiritualize our desires.

The opinion that he appeared as an idolator reflects Rav Tzadok’s position that taiva is an external danger to be avoided, a foreign force that does not belong in the Jewish soul, and must be resisted or escaped.

Both strategies are true. Both are valid. The challenge lies in discerning which to apply, and when.

As we approach the Yomim Noraim, let us take both messages to heart.

There are times when we must run, like Yosef fleeing from Potiphar’s wife. And there are times when we must engage, like Dovid HaMelech, who said, “Libi chalal bekirbi—My heart is hollow within me,” (Tehillim 109:22) meaning he had slain his Yetzer Hara and now used his passions to serve Hashem.

The ideal is to sanctify desire, to elevate the physical and draw it into the realm of holiness. But when that is too risky, the wise choose retreat. We must be humble enough to know which battle we are fighting.

May we all merit to stand before Hashem with clarity, honesty, and courage, engaging when we can, escaping when we must, and knowing the difference.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

Unlock the Gates

Parshas Nitzavim is always read on the Shabbos before Rosh Hashanah, wherein the Torah reminds us that “the matter is very close to you” — accessible, attainable, and ready for you to perform. The Ramban explains that these words refer specifically to the mitzvah of teshuvah.

Yet when we study the classic works on repentance, the task seems almost overwhelming. The weight of repairing every misdeed, every flaw in character, feels far beyond our reach. And yet, still, the Torah insists that teshuvah is not only possible; it is within our grasp.

Consider a businessman overwhelmed by crushing debt. His accounts are overdrawn, his obligations insurmountable. One option is to declare bankruptcy, and legally, the courts may absolve him of his debts. The problem is that the resentment of his creditors linger. And so, an honest businessman avoids this course. Instead, he pleads for time, negotiates reduced payments, or offers partial repayment as a sign of good faith.

So too with teshuvah. As Rosh Hashanah approaches, a person looks honestly at his life and feels crushed beneath the weight of his shortcomings. Overwhelmed, he may despair and declare “spiritual bankruptcy,” abandoning the effort altogether. But that only inflames the disappointment of his true “Creditor,” Hashem.

There is, however, a better way. Even if full atonement seems impossible, a person can still take one step as a “token payment.” By choosing one area to repair, one behavior to change, he demonstrates sincere resolve. That first step invites Rachamim, Divine compassion. Hashem, seeing the honest desire to improve, may reduce the debt or forgive it entirely. This is the meaning of Ki karov eilecha — the mitzvah of teshuvah is genuinely within our reach.

The secret lies in beginning. In a hotel, there are only two who hold the master key to every room: the owner and the cleaner. If we wish to unlock all the gates of Heaven, we must begin by cleaning ourselves. The key to everything is simply to start.

Because when we take that first step, we will open the door to success.