And he said to them: “I am a hundred and twenty years old this day; I can no longer go out and come in; and the Lord has said to me: You shall not go over this Jordan. The Lord your God, He will go over before you, and you shall dispossess them; and Joshua shall go over before you, as the Lord has spoken.” (2–3)

And Moses called to Joshua and said to him in the sight of all of Israel: “Be strong and of good courage. For you shall go with this people into the land which the Lord has sworn to their fathers; and you shall cause them to inherit it.” (7)

The Question:

Keli Yekar (Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim Luntschitz, 1550–1619, Prague) articulates our question as follows: “All the commentators were challenged by this “going” because the text does not mention where he [Moses] went . . . ” But before I get to his teshuvah (repentance)-centered interpretation and how it can inform our own behavior as we approach the Days of Awe, I will share the explanations of three other commentators.

Reassuring People

Ibn Ezra (R. Abraham Ibn Ezra. 1089–1164, Spain) explains that “Moses went to each and every tribe to inform them that he was about to die so that they should not fear, and reassured them with his words concerning Joshua, stating that Joshua would lead them into the land and cause them to inherit it.” He infers that Moses literally went/walked to the people by reading 31:1 as if the concluding words “to all of Israel” refer to both the walking and the speaking: “Moses went [to all of Israel] and spoke these words to all of Israel.”

Moses anticipated the reaction of the people to the news that their leader of 40 years would no longer be accompanying them. He proactively took the initiative to allay their fears and reassure them that they would be in the trusted hands of Joshua, designated and supported by Moses. These implied qualities are ones that leaders (and all of us in positions of authority) might wish to emulate: anticipating the needs of others; offering encouragement; taking the initiative to meet people where they are—both literally and figuratively.

Honoring People

Ramban (R. Nahman ben Moses, 1194–1270, Spain) offers a similar interpretation suggesting that “Moses [literally] went from the camp of the Levites to the camp of the Israelites in order to show them honor. Like someone who wishes to take leave of his friend and comes to ask permission of him . . . ”

In addition, Ramban indicates that Moses mentioned his advanced age of 120 years to the people:

to comfort them concerning his condition [his approaching death], as if to say ‘I am old and you have no more benefit from me . . . fear not (v. 6), for the Eternal will go over with you; He will not remove his presence from you on my account [because of my absence] and Joshua will go over before you, in my place . . . ’

Although Ramban’s approach is similar to Ibn Ezra’s, he highlights additional attributes: Moses honors the people he has led by humbly requesting permission, so to speak, before taking leave of them. How much more so should we all be cognizant of the importance of respectfully taking leave of others in a variety of life situations.

Comforting Mourners before One Dies

Ramban also frames Moses’s actions in relation to the mitzvah of comforting the mourners (he actually uses the Hebrew word for engaging in the mitzvah of comforting a mourner, nihum aveilim). However, Moses has not yet passed away, so the people are technically not mourners. Nevertheless, in this psychologically resonant interpretation, we can think of Moses as comforting the mourners to be! We often begin the process of mourning when first receiving news of a person’s impending death—sometimes long before the person passes away. I remember when my mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness, how, in a sense, the mourning process began at that very moment. Just as Moses comforted the mourners before his own death, we may have encountered people who were able to comfort their family members and friends before their own passing, helping them begin the healing process.

Inspiring Others

Shem Mishmuel ( Shmuel Bornsztain, Socachover Rebbe, 1855–1926, Poland) understands Moses’s “going” differently from the preceding commentaries stating that “And Moses went” is not referring to a literal going or walking but rather a spiritual one, i.e., he [Moses] walked into the hearts of Israel and imbued them with the intuitive potential to look at the past and the future with clarity . . . ” and that “one can also say that ‘Moses went’ means that he walked into the hearts of each and every Israelite in those generations ‘and he spoke these words’ which sets the heart right—for speech is suited to arouse the heart/emotions.”&�Բ�����;                                                                         

Shem Mishmuel seems to be suggesting that Moses figuratively walked into the hearts of the Israelites via his words—leaving them with the legacy of his inspiring words to help them face challenging situations in their lives. We, too, should not underestimate the power of our words to inspire and influence others for their benefit.

Engaging with Individuals and Repentance

We return to Keli Yekar for the final explanation of Moses’s “walking,” which combines a literal and figurative reading (the literal walking of Ibn Ezra and Ramban and the “figurative” walking of Shem Mishmuel) and focuses on the power of words:

Moses spoke to all the people concerning matters of teshuvah (repentance) which are dependent on “words.” And since a person never considers himself blameworthy and every sinner and rebellious person will never go to the wise person, the doctor, to request a remedy for the malady of his soul, hopefully he will pay heed when the wise person [takes the initiative] to go to him and speak to his heart to encourage him concerning matters of teshuvah. Therefore, [the Torah] states that “Moses went/walked” meaning that he [literally] went from tent to tent of each one of the Israelites and spoke to their hearts “these words” namely matters of teshuvah which are dependent on words.

Moses was modeling behavior by reaching out to each and every individual. In support of this interpretation, Keli Yekar quotes the rabbis from the Talmud (Yoma 86b): “Teshuvah is so great—that on account of one person’s repentance, both the individual and the entire world are forgiven.” If so, he concludes, “this [figurative] peace that [one brings] to individuals redounds to one’s own benefit” [and the world’s] as well. Therefore, “you must pursue it” [by reaching out to individuals] as did Moses.

At this challenging time for Israel and the entire world, may we merit to bring redemption to the world through seeking out and approaching individuals—one by one.

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

The next verse says: “Even if your outcasts are at the ends of the world, from there the Lord your God will gather you, from there He will fetch you”&�Բ�����;(). There is no place that is too far away for God to reach us, either literally or figuratively. Even those of us who live on the edges of society will be gathered up. In this teshuvah process, God’s passionate commitment to the marginalized is front and center.

The Hebrew reads “biktzeh hashamayim”, the ends of the heavens. How is it that “the ends of the heavens” is translated as “the ends of the world”? In , the sun moves from one end of heaven to the other, crossing the sky in an arch:

His rising-place is at one end of heaven,
And his circuit reaches the other;
Nothing escapes his heat (v. 7).

As the sun moves across the heavens each day, it also moves from one end of the earth to the other. So the ends of the heavens and the ends of the earth are the same. This is a beautiful image of interconnectedness and reconciliation. At the ends—and in the end—the divine world and the human world come together. The outcasts are gathered in. Teshuvah is the space in which out and in are reconciled. The promise that we will be gathered up by God can offer a profound comfort for those of us who experience ourselves in far-flung places, whether emotionally, spiritually, or physically.

If we return to our original verse, we see something interesting in the language. The New JPS translation I quoted earlier says: “He will bring you together again from all the peoples where the Lord your God has scattered you.” But the word that is being translated as “bring you” is actually “veshav”, which means “He will return.” (“Bring you” is the causative form of the same Hebrew root.) The translation skips over the problem, but the rabbis in the Talmud do not.

And when they will be redeemed in the future, the Shekhinah will be with them, as it says, “Then the Lord your God will return [with] your captivity”&�Բ�����;(). It does not say here veheshiv [and He shall bring back] but veshav [and He shall return]. This teaches us that the Holy One, blessed be He, will return with them from the places of exile. ()

The verses in the parashah  seem to convey that we are the outcasts and God is eternally at the center. But this Talmudic midrash complicates the picture. Just as we are outcasts, God is an outcast. Somehow, God, in the form of the Shekhinah, God’s in-dwelling presence, is also in need of return. The image of God returning us, bringing us back, conveys one kind of power. But the image of God coming back with us, alongside us, conveys a different kind of power. I cannot pretend to understand this power fully, but I understand the Rabbis to be teaching us that this power is rooted in connectedness, in being with the outcast, dwelling inside the “not yet.”

There’s something about being joined by the divine in this place on the edge that has the potential to shore us up as we long to return. Perhaps it is the experience of being joined in this way which enables us to open up “with all [our] heart and soul” and return at last.

This commentary originally appeared in 2016.

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

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���� 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���� 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

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���� Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).   

To my surprise, Naftali has become invested in learning the intricacies of which fruits (bikkurim) to bring to the Temple in Jerusalem and how to behave on Hol Hamoed. I was struck that one of his first questions in the class was “What if I got to Jerusalem and realized I had forgotten my bikkurim at home?” We had never spoken about bikkurim in our house, but just by learning about these laws, he felt that they pertained to him. When he learned about the laws of fasting, Naftali was puzzled that so many laws existed that were only for adults. He assumed that if he was learning about these laws, then he too must be obligated to follow them.

Nafi’s experience learning Mishnah is a testament to what happens when we expand access to education. There are few opportunities for students as young as Nafi to learn Mishnah, and as I listened in to some of the classes, I learned that this was the first time many of the students had engaged in daily study of rabbinic literature. Rabbi Tucker made the lessons accessible without oversimplifying them. He made them fun with music and polls, and he gave students ample opportunity to ask questions. The pandemic has brought on unimaginable death and revealed the depths of our inequality, and I hope that it teaches us some lessons about how to make our educational systems more equitable.

This week’s parashah offers us some guidance. Nitzavim-Vayelekh is one of Moses’s last warnings to the Israelites. At the very beginning of the parashah, Moses speaks to everyone. “You stand this day, all of you, before the Lord your God—your tribal heads, your elders, your officials, all the men of Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to waterdrawer . . .” (Deut. 29:9–10). All of these people have a choice. They can either choose to love God by obeying God’s commandments, or they can follow other gods, praise idols, and disobey the commandments. The former will result in fertility, food, and prosperity. The latter will result in destruction and exile. The Israelites have heard this refrain throughout the book of Deuteronomy, and even though Moses seems convinced that they will sin, he provides these warnings once again.

Moses insists that these instructions are not so complicated. “Surely this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens, that you should say, ‘Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and impart it to us that we may observe it?’ Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, ‘Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?’ No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it” (Deut. 30:11–14). Moses is pointing out that the laws are accessible. Everyone can know them and everyone can follow them.

Despite Moses’s insistence that the teachings are not that complicated, we have established a norm where we see these laws as, in fact, very complicated. The Rabbis of the Mishnah, Talmud, and subsequent rabbinic literature established a system where they alone were capable of interpreting God’s laws. In “The Oven of Akhnai,” a Talmudic dispute over a point of Jewish law, Rabbi Eliezer calls out to God to affirm his position, while another Sage responds by quoting our parashah, “the Torah is not in the heavens,” meaning God has no role in their disagreement (BT Bava Metzia 59a–59b). This dispute, like all others, would be solved by humans as interpreters of God’s laws.

But the Rabbis didn’t intend for every person to be able to interpret God’s laws. Rabbinic literature has long been seen as the “rocket science” of the Jewish academic world. For most of Jewish history, only men could be rabbinic scholars, but even now, the ability to interpret the laws is reserved for those who have received extensive training. Being knowledgeable in rabbinic literature indicates one’s high academic skill and Jewish literacy. It often also connotes a lineage of ancestors who were also scholars of rabbinic literature.

While this Talmudic story is often brought to authorize the Rabbis as interpreters of God’s laws, Moses understands God’s laws to be already within the hearts and mouths of all of Israel. The laws are not far away across the sea or in the heavens, to be reached and transmitted through interpreters. Instead, Moses says that everyone can access the laws.

To be sure, the audience for Moses’s speech in Nitzavim-Vayelekh is adult men of Israel, as all the other participants are described in relation to adult men. Nonetheless, Nitzavim-Vayelekh can be read as presenting a democratic covenant. The open invitation at the start of the parashah, combined with Moses’s insistence that the laws are not complicated, imply that the Covenant is open for understanding and implementation by everyone. Moses does not distinguish between those who are religious leaders and those who are not. All people are instructed to hear the laws and enter into the Covenant: women, children, and people from different socioeconomic groups. Moses names those in leadership positions and those who are strangers and laborers. Here, all of these people enter into the Covenant; religious leaders and the educated possess no special status or unique access to the laws.

Nitzavim-Vayelekh posits an ideal where all are educated and given the opportunity to participate fully in the community. During the course of Jewish history we lost this egalitarian educational system. Think of all the private Jewish schools that are able to open right now because they have the resources to protect students and teachers from the coronavirus, while the public schools that surround them remain shuttered. The coronavirus pandemic has exacerbated many problems with the American educational system, and I am aware of the immense privilege I have that my children’s education will not suffer at this time. I hope that we can all rethink our educational systems to increase equality and equity inside and outside of the classroom in light of the lessons from this week’s parashah.

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

Even contemplating these questions feels both silly and dangerous; they are too tempting and too trite all at the same time. Of course, it is not really possible to know what will be. We only control our own destiny up to a certain point. Still, it is sometimes hard to resist the power of dreaming happy endings. Many of us would not necessarily want to see our future laid out in front of us, but it does not stop us from fantasizing about things beyond our control.

But then, God’s words in this week’s double parashah, Nitzavim-Vayeilekh, seem to violate these rules we have about how the universe works. We are not supposed to know what could be. But as the Israelites stand on the shore of the Jordan River about to cross into Israel, they are offered a look at their potential futures. In some ways, the picture painted of the future in the Land reflects the Israelites’ present in the wilderness. Just as they had fallen into a cycle of rebellion and idolatry in the desert, God warns of the terrible things that will happen to the Israelites when they fall away from God and the life of mitzvot that they are supposed to be living in Israel. But there is also the promise of blessings and abundance when they follow mitzvot and strengthen their connections with God. Their potential futures have been outlined and the formula is simple. Do good and you will be rewarded with good, blessings, and closeness with God. Do evil and suffer deeply in the hands of your foes, in famine and in spiritual isolation.

But then, most strikingly, once God tells the people what could be, it is no longer in God’s hands. God says, “I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day: I have placed before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life” (Deut. 30:19). The significance of God’s statement is profound. Up to this point in the Torah, the Israelites have received 611 mitzvot from God. 611 times, God has told the Israelites what to do. But now, with life—the biggest thing there is—at stake, God does not command. Instead, the Israelites are required to choose, one by one, who and what they want to be.

But are the Israelites strong enough? They have played child to God’s parent through the last three and a half books of the Torah. They have grown and regressed; they have worshiped idols and moved closer to God. The moment of entering the Land, then, represents a major step toward accepting personal responsibility and accountability. They seem to be moving away from a life where their day-by-day affairs are controlled by God, away from divinely imposed reward and punishment. God, of course, will still be with the Israelites when they enter Israel, in some ways more than ever before. But they will lose Moshe before they cross the Jordan, and they will gradually forget the intensity of the community they had built together while living in the wilderness. Now, they have received the formulas that will determine their future, but they get to decide which one they will follow. And so they need to learn how to push their relationship with God to a new level even as they experience such dramatic changes in their lives. The Israelites will have to find the resolve to choose life even as they encounter uncertainty.

It is not difficult to relate to the Israelites’ insecurity. We live in a world that is too familiar with change, with uncertainty. Somehow, in this moment, the Jewish people, America, the world—they all seem vulnerable and fragile. It feels as if our ability to choose life, both collectively and individually, is being challenged.

We are not the first to face these sorts of challenges, and we will not be the last. In some ways, in the face of such difficult things, it is comforting to know that others have faced this radical uncertainty. While our ancestors might have faced different anxieties, their process of transitioning from the certain to the unknown feels familiar. Just as the choice between life and death, blessing and curse, lay before them, so too it is for us.

The Israelites did not always make the right choice, but over and over, they are given a chance to choose blessing. The easy choice is not always the right one, but in our hearts, we know which choice to make to choose life, and be offered the hope of abundance and promise that can grow out of us. And so, in this moment, just as it was for the Israelites in the wilderness, we are at a crossroads. God, our communities, the world—they have placed before us life and death, blessing and curse. Which one will you choose?

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

The opening verses of this week’s parashah pronounce that the entirety of Israel stands before God to enter into the covenant: the leaders, the elders, the officers; every man, child, woman, and convert, as well as the “woodcutters and water drawers” (Deut. 29:9–10). Unlike some other Torah excerpts that clearly demarcate mitzvot reserved for a particular classification of people, all people are told to show up in this moment. They are beckoned to view themselves as integral parts of an expansive and inclusive community.

To deliberately and mindfully stand before or with anyone, we need to first make the choice to show up, and to be aware that our presence will be noticed and make a difference. In the moment of Israel standing before God, everyone counts— those with prestige and honorifics, and those who may be debased by others on any other ordinary day for not being “enough.” They all show up.

Troubled times can feel especially isolating; as our social media newsfeeds are saturated with images of terror and destruction, even those of us who live in safety and security can spin a narrative that we each stand alone. Yet, I am struck by the plentiful photographs of the people who show up—not because they are required to do so, but because they feel called to do so. Because they view themselves as part of something bigger—as connected to fellow humans in need. The image above—of plainclothes rescuers in Hurricane Harvey—encapsulates this goodness. Who are these people behind the images? We don’t know. They may be leaders, officers, woodcutters, or water drawers. Possibly simply neighbors who heard cries of terror and leapt to action. They felt that they were a part of something larger. We honor them for showing up.