As we get ready for Yom Kippur we have to remember that our goal is to bring peace with our neighbors. We should strive to be like Aaron and bring peace.

Now for a quick Devar Torah.

Tonight begins Yom Kippur, and one of the most important ideas in Judaism is that we are not prisoners of fate.

Think about the difference between the Jewish outlook and the world of classical Greek tragedy. In Greek tragedy, a person may struggle desperately to escape his destiny, only to discover that everything he has done has brought him closer to it. His fate has already been determined.

Judaism gives us a very different message.

We believe in teshuvah. We believe that a human being can change. Our past does not have to determine our future. Through repentance, prayer, mitzvot, and changing the way we behave, we can change the direction of our lives.

That is one of the great messages of Yom Kippur.

But there is an important distinction. Yom Kippur atones for sins between a person and God. When it comes to sins between one person and another, Yom Kippur alone is not enough. We have to try to make things right with the person we hurt.

That is why, before Yom Kippur, we traditionally ask people for forgiveness.

But even here we have to use common sense. Suppose you did something wrong to someone, but that person doesn’t know about it. Telling him exactly what you did might only cause him pain, anger, or embarrassment and create a new dispute. The purpose of asking forgiveness is not to make ourselves feel better at someone else’s expense. The goal is reconciliation. Sometimes it is better simply to say, “If I have hurt or offended you in any way, I ask your forgiveness.”

And that brings us to Aaron.

Pirkei Avot tells us to be among the students of Aaron: “Love peace and pursue peace.” Aaron was remembered as someone who tried to bring people together. Where there was anger, he sought reconciliation. Where there was division, he sought peace.

That is something we should think about as we enter Yom Kippur.

We are going to disagree with one another. Jews have been disagreeing with one another for thousands of years. We can argue about religion, politics, philosophy, or almost anything else. But disagreement does not have to become hatred.

Just because another person disagrees with you does not mean that person is bad. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you’re both partly right and partly wrong. The important thing is to remember that the person standing across from you is still your fellow human being—and, within the Jewish community, your fellow Jew.

The Talmud teaches that the students of Rabbi Akiva died because they did not show proper respect for one another. That is a powerful lesson. Even people devoted to Torah can fail if they lose respect for the human being sitting across from them.

So as Yom Kippur approaches, perhaps our task is not only to ask God to forgive us.

It is also to become students of Aaron.

Bring people together. Make peace where you can. Don’t turn disagreements into personal battles. Treat people with dignity even when you strongly disagree with them.

And remember: we are not trapped by what we were yesterday.

We can do teshuvah. We can repair relationships. We can change ourselves.

And by changing ourselves, we can change what tomorrow looks like.

Something to think about.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah.

Lying about people is one of the worse sins that we can commit. It can lead to people being attacked. We Jews have had to deal with this throughout our history. So now that it is happening again we have to stand tall and fight it.

Good morning. Now for a quick Devar Torah.

One of the major themes we confront on Yom Kippur is something we probably don’t think about enough: the power of speech.

Look through the Al Chet, the confession we recite again and again on Yom Kippur, and notice how many of our sins involve words. We confess for falsehood, for gossip, for lashon hara, for things said carelessly and for things said deliberately.

Why so much emphasis on speech?

Because words matter.

We all understand the attraction of gossip. Someone tells us a juicy story about somebody else and immediately we want to hear more. There are newspaper columns, magazines and entire industries built around that human weakness. Sometimes the gossip is malicious; sometimes it isn’t. But we want to know what somebody else did, what somebody else said and what scandal somebody else is involved in.

But there is an even more serious problem: repeating something that isn’t true.

There is a difference between making an honest mistake and saying something we know is false. And there is another danger as well: hearing something so often that eventually we stop asking whether it is true at all.

George Orwell illustrated this brilliantly in 1984. At the end, Winston’s tormentors don’t merely want him to say that two plus two equals five. They want him to believe it. Once we surrender our commitment to truth, eventually we can convince ourselves of almost anything.

This is particularly important when we speak about other Jews and about Israel. Serious accusations require serious evidence. We should not accept a claim simply because it confirms what we already believe, nor reject evidence simply because it makes us uncomfortable. Our obligation is to seek the truth.

That obligation applies to everyone—including people with whom we agree.

There is currently a lyng Israeli documentary called NAZA, a Hebrew abbreviation referring to collateral damage, made by two radical Leftists. It makes extremely serious allegations concerning the conduct of the war in Gaza. Those allegations have been disproved, and the film itself has become the subject of an enormous controversy.

But anyone about the  who knows anything about the IDF and its regulations knows it to be a lie. Remember that I am a veteran of theIDF and know what would have happened if I violated these regulations. There is a larger Yom Kippur lesson here.

Before repeating an accusation, ask: Is it true? What is the evidence? Do I actually know this, or am I repeating something because I heard it from someone whose politics I share? And am I applying the same standard of truth to my own side that I demand from everybody else?

Yom Kippur requires us to examine not only what goes into our mouths, but what comes out of them.

Our words can destroy a reputation. They can spread hatred. They can turn a falsehood repeated a thousand times into something people simply assume is true. And once words leave our mouths—or today, once we post them on social media—we cannot easily take them back.

So during Yom Kippur, when we strike our chests and confess for the sins we have committed through speech, perhaps we should stop and think about what that really means.

Did I gossip?

Did I repeat something without knowing whether it was true?

Did I exaggerate because it helped my argument?

Did I remain silent when I knew something being said was false?

And perhaps most difficult of all: was I willing to discover that something I wanted to believe wasn’t true?

Yom Kippur demands more than simply saying, “I’m sorry.” It demands that we change.

And one of the most important changes we can make in the coming year is very simple:

Before we speak, make sure our words are worthy of being spoken.

Something to think about.

God gives free will. It is up to us to use it responsibly.

Good morning. Now for a quick Devar Torah.

Every morning during this period, we come to the synagogue a little earlier to say Selichot. The word Selichot roughly means “forgiveness” or “pardons.” We are asking God for forgiveness, but we are also doing something else: we are trying to wake ourselves up.

We are looking back at the past year and recognizing that we made mistakes.

We are human. Human beings make mistakes. All of us do. The important question is not whether we made mistakes. The important question is whether we recognize them and what we intend to do about them.

And there is a tremendous lesson here about how we make the world a better place.

We often hear people talk about changing the world. They want to change society, change institutions, change governments, or create some kind of perfect society. But Judaism begins somewhere much closer to home.

If you want to make the world better, begin by making yourself better.

Ask yourself: Where did I fail this past year? Whom did I hurt? Where could I have behaved differently? Where could I have been more patient, more generous, more honest, more understanding? And, most importantly, what can I do differently in the coming year?

We cannot force another person to become better. Judaism places enormous importance on free will. God gives us the freedom to choose between right and wrong.

But freedom is not the absence of responsibility.

In fact, with freedom comes responsibility.

If I have free will, then my choices belong to me. I cannot simply blame someone else for what I have done. I am responsible for my actions, and ultimately I am responsible before God.

Pirkei Avot teaches:

“Know from where you came, where you are going, and before Whom you are destined to give an accounting.”

We came from something insignificant. Eventually, every human being returns to the earth. Yet between those two points, our lives matter enormously.

And perhaps that is the remarkable part.

Compared with the Creator of the universe, what are we? We are tiny. And yet God considers every human being important enough to give us free will—and important enough to hold us accountable for how we use it.

That is what Selichot asks us to think about.

Don’t begin by asking how everyone else should change.

Begin with yourself.

If I become a little kinder, a little more honest, a little more patient, a little more responsible, then I have already made the world a little better. And perhaps someone else will see that example and decide to do the same.

God gives us freedom.

What we do with that freedom is our responsibility.

Something to think about.

One of the most important lessons on Yom Kippur is that we are responsible not only for our own actions but also for the actions of our community.

On Monday we will observe Yom Kippur, and throughout the day we will repeatedly say the Vidui, the confession.

We say Ashamnu—“we have sinned.” And in the Al Chet, again and again we say:

Al chet shechatanu lefanecha—“For the sin that we have committed before You.”

And sometimes you look through that long list of sins and think: Wait a minute. I didn’t do all of these things. Some of them I certainly don’t remember doing. So why am I confessing to them?

And perhaps even more importantly: Why do we say we? Why don’t we say, “For the sin that I committed”?

Because on Yom Kippur we don’t approach Hashem only as individuals. We also approach Him as a community.

There is a fundamental Jewish idea: Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh—all Israel is responsible for one another.

We are responsible for our own behavior, certainly. But Judaism teaches us that we also have a responsibility for the kind of community we create.

There is a fascinating example of this in the Torah. If someone accidentally kills another person, he may flee to a city of refuge, where he remains until the death of the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest.

The obvious question is: What does the High Priest have to do with an accidental death committed by somebody else?

The Talmud explains that the Kohen Gadol should have prayed for his generation that such tragedies not occur. In other words, even the spiritual leader of the Jewish people bears some responsibility for what happens within his generation.

That is an extraordinary concept.

It doesn’t mean that the Kohen Gadol committed the act. It means that leadership—and ultimately membership in a community—carries responsibility beyond ourselves.

That helps us understand the plural language of Yom Kippur.

When we say Al chet shechatanu—“for the sin we committed”—we are not pointing across the synagogue and saying, “I know who that one is talking about!”

We say we.

Perhaps I didn’t commit that particular sin. But did I contribute to an atmosphere in which it became easier for someone else to commit it? Did I remain silent when I should have spoken? Did I laugh at something I should not have laughed at? Did I look the other way? Did my own behavior send a message that something wrong really wasn’t so terrible?

That is a much more difficult form of teshuvah, because now I cannot simply make a checklist of my personal sins. I have to ask what effect I have had on the people around me.

There is a story attributed to the Rambam that illustrates this idea beautifully. A community complained that standards of behavior were deteriorating: children were disrespectful, people were treating one another badly, and the moral atmosphere of the community seemed to be declining.

The response was: Check the butcher.

Why the butcher?

Because kosher slaughter requires extraordinary care and precision. If the standards of an entire community begin to slip, someone who can profit from lowered standards may be among the first places where that deterioration becomes visible.

Whether or not we take every detail of that story historically, the lesson is powerful: moral decline rarely happens in isolation. When a community becomes accustomed to overlooking small things, eventually people begin overlooking bigger things.

And that brings us back to Yom Kippur.

We stand before Hashem and say Ashamnu—we have sinned.

Not “he sinned.”

Not “she sinned.”

Not “those people sinned.”

We sinned.

Of course I have to examine myself. What did I do wrong? Whom did I hurt? Where did I fail?

But I also have to ask a harder question:

What have I done—or failed to do—that has affected the people around me?

What kind of example have I set? What have I tolerated? What have I normalized? Have my actions made my family, my synagogue, my community, and the Jewish people a little better—or have they made it easier for others to go in the wrong direction?

That may be one reason the confession of Yom Kippur is written in the plural.

We come before Hashem as individuals, but we do not stand there alone.

Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh.

We are responsible for one another.

And perhaps real teshuvah begins when, instead of asking only, “What did I do wrong?” we are also willing to ask:

“What can I do to make the people and the community around me better?”

Something to think about.

God wants to help us, but only if we show initiative. The Ten Days of Repentance underlines this. Before we can come before God on Yom Kippur we have to get forgiveness from our fellow man.

Good morning. Now for a quick Devar Torah.

We are in the middle of what are called the Aseret Yemei Teshuvah—the Ten Days of Repentance, the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. At the same time, we are reading Parshat Haazinu.

And I don’t think that’s an accident.

People sometimes ask: Can’t we do teshuvah every day of the year? Can’t we repent whenever we realize that we’ve done something wrong?

Of course we can.

But these ten days are different. They are a special period when we become particularly conscious of the year that has passed. Rosh Hashanah forces us to begin looking at ourselves: What did I do right? What did I do wrong? Whom did I hurt? Where could I have done better?

And then comes Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

But there is an extremely important distinction. Yom Kippur can atone for sins between us and God. When it comes to sins between one person and another, however, we have work to do ourselves. If I have hurt someone, I have to go to that person and ask forgiveness. And sometimes I should ask forgiveness even when I am not aware that I did anything wrong, because I may have hurt someone without realizing it.

That brings us to Haazinu.

Haazinu is essentially Moshe’s final great address to the Jewish people. Think about what Moshe has experienced. He led us out of Egypt. He led us through the splitting of the Red Sea. He brought us to Mount Sinai. And for forty years he led us and taught us in the wilderness.

Now his life is ending. He knows that he will not lead the Jewish people into the Land of Israel. So he gives them one final warning—and one final message of hope.

Moshe understands human nature.

One of the great dangers he warns about is success. The Torah says:

“Yeshurun grew fat and kicked.”

In other words, when things are going badly, we often remember God. But when things are going well, there is a temptation to say: Look what I accomplished. I did this myself.

Yes, you worked hard. Yes, you deserve credit for taking initiative. Judaism does not teach us to sit back and wait for God to do everything for us.

Quite the opposite.

Think of the famous tradition about Nachshon ben Aminadav at the Red Sea. The sea did not split while everyone stood safely on the shore waiting for a miracle. Nachshon stepped into the water. Human beings had to take the initiative—and then God created the miracle.

And perhaps that is the connection between Haazinu and the Ten Days of Repentance.

God wants to forgive us. But we have to take the first step.

We have to recognize what we did wrong. We have to approach the person we hurt. We have to apologize. We have to decide that we are going to try to do better. Teshuvah cannot simply be something that happens to us. It requires us to act.

And Haazinu reminds us of something else that is especially important during these days: there is always hope.

Moshe warns that the Jewish people will make mistakes. We will forget. We will stray. We will sometimes convince ourselves that we no longer need God.

But that is not where the story ends.

God will not abandon His people. There is always a road back. There is always the possibility of teshuvah. There is always the possibility of rebuilding a relationship—with God and with our fellow human beings.

That may be one of the most important messages of these Ten Days of Repentance.

We cannot change what we did yesterday.

But we can decide what we are going to do tomorrow.

God leaves the door open. We have to take the first step through it.

Something to think about.

We fast in memory of the disaster of Jew against Jew violence. It always leads to disaster.

Good morning. Now for a quick Torah.

As we know, there are certain days on the Jewish calendar when we fast. The most famous, of course, is Yom Kippur, the biblical fast that we will observe shortly. There is also the Fast of Esther, whose background is connected to the events commemorated in the Book of Esther.

But there are four other fast days whose historical context tells a remarkable story. Taken together, they trace the destruction of Jewish sovereignty in the First Temple period.

The first is the Tenth of Tevet. This commemorates the day when the Babylonian army under Nebuchadnezzar laid siege to Jerusalem. It was the beginning of the end.

Next comes the Seventeenth of Tammuz, commemorating the breaching of Jerusalem’s walls. Again, the message was clear: the end was approaching.

Then comes Tisha B’Av, the Ninth of Av, the great day of national mourning on which we commemorate the destruction of both the First and Second Temples.

Finally, we come to the Fast of Gedaliah.

What are we fasting for?

After the destruction of the First Temple, the Babylonians exiled much of the Jewish leadership and many prominent Jews to Babylonia. But they did not completely empty the land. A poor agricultural population remained in Judea.

Nebuchadnezzar appointed Gedaliah ben Ahikam as governor over those who remained. Gedaliah had an extraordinarily difficult job. On the one hand, he had to accept Babylonian rule. On the other hand, he was trying to rebuild what remained of Jewish society after an unimaginable national catastrophe.

Then came Ishmael ben Nethaniah.

Ishmael was of royal descent, and he apparently regarded Gedaliah’s leadership as unacceptable. According to the Book of Jeremiah, Ishmael’s plot was also connected with Baalis, the king of Ammon.

Gedaliah was warned. Johanan ben Kareah specifically told him that Ishmael intended to murder him. Gedaliah refused to believe the accusation.

Ishmael and his men eventually came to Gedaliah at Mizpah, where they ate together. Then Ishmael and his men rose up and murdered Gedaliah.

The consequences were catastrophic.

The surviving Jews feared Babylonian retaliation. Despite the prophet Jeremiah’s warning that they should remain in the land, many eventually fled to Egypt. The fragile Jewish community that had begun rebuilding after the destruction of Jerusalem was shattered.

And here is what makes the Fast of Gedaliah different.

The Babylonians destroyed the Temple. The Babylonians conquered Jerusalem. The Babylonians destroyed Jewish political independence.

But Gedaliah was murdered by another Jew.

That is why this fast carries such a powerful lesson about the danger of internal Jewish conflict. Even after an external enemy had devastated the country, there remained a possibility of rebuilding something. Internal violence helped destroy that possibility.

There is a lesson here that echoes throughout Jewish history.

Think about the Altalena affair during Israel’s War of Independence in 1948. The Altalena was carrying weapons for the Irgun at a moment when the newly established State of Israel was fighting for its survival. A confrontation developed between Menachem Begin’s Irgun and David Ben-Gurion’s government over control and distribution of those weapons.

The confrontation became violent. Israeli forces fired on the Altalena, and the ship burned off the coast of Tel Aviv.

Begin’s followers wanted to fight back.

Begin refused.

Whatever his disagreements with Ben-Gurion—and they were enormous—Begin understood that there was something even more dangerous than losing that confrontation: a Jewish civil war.

He famously insisted that there would be no fratricidal war.

That is one of the great lessons of the Fast of Gedaliah.

We can disagree. We can argue passionately. Jews have been arguing with one another for thousands of years. But there is a line that cannot be crossed. When political disagreement becomes hatred and violence between Jews, history tells us that the consequences can be disastrous.

And perhaps it is no accident that the Fast of Gedaliah comes during the Ten Days of Repentance, immediately after Rosh Hashanah and before Yom Kippur.

Because Yom Kippur is not only about sins between ourselves and God. Before we can truly repair that relationship, we must confront the damage we have done to one another.

The Fast of Gedaliah reminds us that sometimes the greatest danger to a people does not come from the enemy outside.

Sometimes it comes from the divisions within.

Something to think about.

On Rosh Hashana we look back at our actions over the previous year to see how we can improve ourselves and decide to be better.

Good morning. Now for a quick Devar Torah.

Today is Erev Rosh Hashanah, the day before what is commonly called the Jewish New Year.

But Rosh Hashanah is not really the anniversary of the creation of the Jewish people. According to our tradition, it marks the creation of Adam, the first human being. In that sense, Rosh Hashanah is universal. It is about humanity and the purpose and responsibility that come with being human.

The Torah teaches us that human beings have a unique role in creation. We have the ability—and therefore the responsibility—to give moral purpose to the world. We can make the world better, or, God forbid, we can make it worse.

And how do we make it better?

Usually not through some enormous act that changes the entire world overnight. We begin much closer to home. How do I treat my spouse? How do I treat my children, my friends, my neighbors, my coworkers, and even the stranger I encounter during the day?

Am I honest? Am I compassionate? Do I pay what I owe on time? Do I refrain from gossip? Do I help someone who needs help? Do I treat another person’s dignity as seriously as I treat my own?

This is an important way of understanding tikkun olam—repairing the world. Before I demand that somebody else repair the world, I have to ask what I am doing to repair my little corner of it.

Judaism does not separate making the world better from our obligations. The Torah gives us commandments between human beings and God, but it also gives us commandments between one human being and another. Both are part of living a Torah life.

And that brings us to Rosh Hashanah.

Rosh Hashanah asks us to stop and examine the year that has passed. Where did I succeed? Where did I fail? Whom did I hurt, knowingly or unknowingly? What can I correct? And, perhaps most importantly, what can I do differently in the coming year?

Throughout the month of Elul, we have sounded the shofar every morning. The shofar is an alarm clock for the soul. It tells us: Wake up! Rosh Hashanah is approaching. Yom Kippur is approaching. Pay attention to how you are living your life.

And then comes Erev Rosh Hashanah—and suddenly there is no shofar.

After a month of sound, there is silence.

There are traditional reasons for not blowing the shofar today, but perhaps there is also a lesson we can take from that silence.

Sometimes we need to stop talking and start listening.

Listen to our spouse. Listen to our children. Listen to our friends and neighbors. Listen to the person who may be struggling but hasn’t quite been able to say so. And listen to that quiet voice within ourselves asking whether we are really becoming the people we are capable of becoming.

Instead of always asking, “What should the government do?” or “What should society do?” Rosh Hashanah challenges us with a much more difficult question:

What can I do?

What can I do today to help another person? What can I do to repair a relationship? What can I do to fulfill one more mitzvah? What can I do to become a little more honest, patient, generous, and compassionate?

Perhaps that is the message of Erev Rosh Hashanah.

For an entire month, the shofar has been calling to us.

Today it becomes silent.

And now it is our turn to listen.

May we all be written and sealed for a good year—a year of health, prosperity, peace, and, above all, a year in which each of us does our part to make ourselves, our communities, and our world a little better.

Shanah Tovah U’Metukah.

We blow the Shofar throughout the month of Elul to wake us up so that we can correct our mistakes from last year. This is preparing for Rosh Hashana.

Now for a quick Devar Torah.

All month long, during Elul, we’ve been blowing the shofar. Every morning we hear that sound reminding us that Rosh Hashanah is getting closer.

But tomorrow—nothing. No shofar.

So the obvious question is: Why?

We blow the shofar throughout Elul, and then, on Erev Rosh Hashanah, the very day before Rosh Hashanah, we suddenly stop. This year, because the first day of Rosh Hashanah falls on Shabbat, we won’t hear the Rosh Hashanah shofar until the second day.

What is going on?

The shofar blowing during Elul is a custom. It is our spiritual alarm clock. It tells us: Wake up! Rosh Hashanah is coming. The Ten Days of Repentance are coming. Yom Kippur is right around the corner.

For an entire month, we have been practicing—not merely practicing how to blow the shofar, but practicing how to wake ourselves up.

Because we all make mistakes.

I don’t know about you, but perhaps I did one or two things this year that weren’t exactly right.

“No! Impossible!”

Well, maybe.

But that is part of being human. No matter how hard we try, we make mistakes. And very often, the people we hurt are precisely the people closest to us—our spouses, our families, and our friends. You say something without thinking, and suddenly you have an explosion on your hands.

Elul is the time to recognize it.

The shofar says: Wake up. Look at yourself. Where did you go wrong? Whom did you hurt? What can you do differently next year?

And there is another important lesson as we approach Yom Kippur. We cannot simply ask Hashem to forgive us for everything and ignore the people we have hurt. For sins between one person and another, Yom Kippur does not bring atonement until we have tried to make things right with the person we harmed.

That is an extraordinary idea.

Before we stand before God asking for forgiveness, we have to be willing to stand before another human being and say two of the most difficult words in the English language:

“I’m sorry.”

That is what the shofar of Elul has been telling us all month.

Wake up. Think about the year. Maybe you goofed up here or there. We all have. The question isn’t whether we made mistakes. The question is whether we recognize them, try to repair the damage, and resolve to do better.

And perhaps that is why, on Erev Rosh Hashanah, the shofar becomes silent.

The alarm clock has been ringing for an entire month.

Now it is time to get out of bed.

And on behalf of the shul and its leadership, if during this past year we said or did something that offended or hurt someone, it certainly was not our intention. We ask forgiveness and hope that the coming year will be one of greater understanding, patience, friendship, and peace.

The shofar has done its job.

Now the job is ours.

Something to think about.

Next week we change our prayers to reflect the fact that God is our sovereign.

One of the interesting things that happens during the period from Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur is that we change the wording of the Amidah. Instead of saying HaEl HaKadosh—“the Holy God”—we say HaMelech HaKadosh—“the Holy King.”

We do this every year, but it is worth stopping and thinking about what those words mean.

During the Ten Days of Repentance, we emphasize the sovereignty of God. God is not simply our God; He is Melech—King, Sovereign of the universe. Rosh Hashanah, in particular, is filled with this theme of Malchuyot, recognizing God’s kingship.

This idea goes back throughout Tanach. When Gideon was asked to establish a hereditary rule over Israel, he refused, saying, “I will not rule over you, nor will my son rule over you; the Lord will rule over you.” Human rulers may govern, but ultimate sovereignty belongs to God.

That brings me to something interesting that I have noticed over many years of traveling. Americans frequently speak about our “God-given rights.” That language is deeply embedded in the American political tradition. The Declaration of Independence says that human beings “are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights.”

The government does not create those rights. If they come from the Creator, government is obligated to respect them.

This provides an interesting contrast with the Torah.

American political thought frequently speaks in the language of rights, with obligations implied alongside them. The Torah generally approaches society from the opposite direction. It speaks primarily in the language of obligations.

I am obligated not to steal. Therefore, you have a right to your property.

I am obligated to pay my worker on time. Therefore, the worker has a right to receive his wages.

I am obligated not to oppress the stranger, widow, or orphan. Therefore, the vulnerable have a right to protection.

The Torah does not need to begin by saying, “You have a right.” It begins by telling the other person, “You have an obligation.”

And even the king is subject to those obligations.

Throughout Tanach, the prophets confront kings. Nathan confronts David. Elijah confronts Ahab. The king cannot simply answer, “I am the king, therefore whatever I do is right.” There is a law above the king because there is a Sovereign above the king.

That is one of the great messages of Rosh Hashanah.

When we change the words of our prayers and say HaMelech HaKadosh, we are reminding ourselves that ultimately we are not sovereign. God is.

And if God is sovereign, then the question during these days is not simply, “What am I entitled to?” It is also, and perhaps more importantly, “What am I obligated to do?”

What obligations have I fulfilled this past year? Where have I failed? Whom have I hurt? What responsibilities have I neglected? And what can I do differently in the coming year?

Recognizing God as King is not merely a theological statement. It places demands upon us.

During these days leading from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur, we acknowledge that we are not completely in control. What we can control is how we respond to the responsibilities God has placed before us—and whether we make the effort to become better people in the year ahead.

Something to think about.

While Nisan is the beginning of the Jewish people, Tishei reminds us that we are responsible for our actions as a free people.

Good morning. Now for a quick Devar Torah.

As we know, Rosh Hashanah is approaching. But there is something very interesting about the way the Torah describes the Jewish calendar.

The Torah refers to Nisan as the first month, while Tishrei—the month in which we celebrate Rosh Hashanah—is actually the seventh month.

So how can the Jewish New Year begin in the seventh month?

It sounds like a contradiction, but in actuality it teaches us something very important.

The Mishnah tells us that there are four Jewish New Years. I want to concentrate on two of them: Nisan and Tishrei.

Nisan represents the birth of the Jewish people as a free nation. It is the month in which God took us out of Egypt. And significantly, one of the first commandments given to the Jewish people as a nation was the commandment to establish our own calendar.

Why is that so important?

Because one of the hallmarks of freedom is control over your own time.

A slave does not control his time. His master tells him when to work, when to rest, where to go, and what to do. His time belongs to somebody else.

A free person controls his own time.

So in Nisan, God tells the Jewish people, in effect: You are free. Your time now belongs to you.

But that raises another question: Freedom to do what?

Freedom does not mean that we can simply do whatever we want. Freedom without responsibility can quickly become chaos.

Fifty days after leaving Egypt comes Shavuot, when we receive the Torah at Mount Sinai. We have been given freedom, but now we are given law. We are taught how free people are supposed to live together and how to build a moral and ethical society.

And eventually we arrive at Tishrei and Rosh Hashanah.

If Nisan represents freedom, Tishrei represents responsibility.

Rosh Hashanah reminds us that because we are free human beings, we are responsible for the choices we make.

That is why Rosh Hashanah begins a period of judgment, reflection, and ultimately Yom Kippur. We look back over the past year and ask ourselves: What did I do with the freedom God gave me? What choices did I make? Whom did I help? Whom did I hurt? Where did I succeed, and where must I do better?

There is a progression here:

Nisan says: You are free.

Shavuot says: Here is the law that teaches you how to use that freedom.

Tishrei says: Now you are responsible for what you have done with it.

Perhaps that is why there is no contradiction between Nisan being the first month and Rosh Hashanah occurring in the seventh.

Nisan marks the beginning of our national freedom.

Tishrei marks the renewal of our personal responsibility.

Freedom and responsibility are two sides of the same coin. We cannot truly have one without the other.

Something to think about as we approach Rosh Hashanah.