The Voice of the Lord

Tehillim 29 is the chapter of Tehillim that we recite in shul on Shabbat morning when we return the Sefer Torah to the Aron HaKodesh. In some communities (sometimes including our own) it is sung out loud by the congregation, a hymn of triumphant praise to the God who created the world with ten utterances. Indeed, the constant repetition of the phrase kol Hashem does rather echo the opening pasukim of parashat Bereishit. 

Max Stern set this psalm to music back in 1993 with the title 'Seven Voices of the Divine' and he has shared with us a recording of it that was made in Prague in 1999. The words are sung by soprano Kristyna Valouskova, accompanied by the Talich Chamber Orchestra.

The kol Hashem is depicted here by reference to the seven qualities identified by David HaMelech (1. Upon the waters; 2. Powerful; 3. Full of majesty; 4. Breaketh cedars; 5. Heweth flames of fire; 6. Shaketh the wilderness: 7. Maketh hinds to calve).

You can listen to Max's piece here.

From the Song of History to the Joy of Home

 A Dvar Torah for Haazinu, Sukkot and Vezot HaBracha

As we move from Haazinu into Sukkot and then to VeZot HaBracha, we pass through three very different experiences. Haazinu is a song that surveys the whole course of Jewish history. Sukkot takes us out of our sturdy homes and asks us to live beneath a fragile roof. VeZot HaBracha brings us to Moshe Rabbeinu's final blessing and to the completion of the Torah, only for us to begin again immediately with Bereishit. Rabbi Paul Bloom leads us through this experiential adventure.

At first, these seem like separate themes: history, faith, and blessing. But I believe they form one powerful message. Haazinu teaches us how to understand Jewish history. Sukkot teaches us how to live within that history, even when the future feels uncertain. And VeZot HaBracha teaches us what we must do with the blessing of having survived, returned, and begun again.

The message is especially meaningful in our generation. We have witnessed the return of the Jewish people to Eretz Yisrael, the rebuilding of cities, the revival of Hebrew, and an extraordinary flourishing of Torah. We have also experienced war, grief, danger, and deep uncertainty. The Torah does not ask us to ignore either reality. It asks us to hold both at once: vulnerability and protection, pain and promise, exile and return.

Haazinu as the Song of Jewish History

Shirat Haazinu is far more than a poetic conclusion to Moshe Rabbeinu's final address. It is a prophetic synopsis of Jewish history. It begins with Hashem's choosing of Am Yisrael, describes the blessings He bestowed upon us, recounts our rebellion and exile, and culminates in the promise of ultimate redemption.

Moshe begins, 'הַאֲזִינוּ הַשָּׁמַיִם וַאֲדַבֵּרָה, וְתִשְׁמַע הָאָרֶץ אִמְרֵי־פִי' - Give ear, heavens, and I will speak; let the earth hear the words of my mouth. Heaven and earth are called as witnesses. Why? Rashi explains that Moshe will not always be present to warn the Jewish people, but heaven and earth will remain. They will testify that the covenant is real and that our choices carry consequences.

There is also something deeply significant in Moshe presenting this prophecy as a song. A song is not a collection of unrelated notes. Some notes are high and some are low. Some passages are joyful and others are painful. At the moment we hear a single note, we may not understand its place. Only when we hear the entire composition do we recognize that every movement belongs to one larger whole.

That is how the Torah asks us to hear Jewish history. There are chapters of revelation and chapters of concealment, periods of security and periods of persecution, moments of return and moments of terrible loss. We do not understand every event. We certainly should not claim to know Hashem's calculations. Yet Haazinu tells us that history is not random noise. It is a shirah. It has direction, memory, and ultimately a destination.

Chazal teach that Shirat Haazinu can be divided into six sections. The final section describes the culmination of history, when Hashem will avenge the suffering of His people and bring reconciliation between Am Yisrael and Eretz Yisrael. The Shirah concludes: 'הַרְנִינוּ גוֹיִם עַמּוֹ, כִּי דַם־עֲבָדָיו יִקּוֹם; וְנָקָם יָשִׁיב לְצָרָיו, וְכִפֶּר אַדְמָתוֹ עַמּוֹ' - Sing, O nations, the praises of His people, for He will avenge the blood of His servants; He will bring vengeance upon His adversaries, and He will appease His Land and His people.

Rashi explains that, at the time of redemption, the nations themselves will praise the Jewish people. They will recognize that despite centuries of persecution, exile, and suffering, Am Yisrael remained faithful to Hashem. They will say: Look at this nation. Through all the troubles that befell them, they continued to cling to the Holy One, blessed be He, and did not abandon Him.

This is an astonishing prophecy. The final vindication of the Jewish people is not based only on power or achievement. It is based on faithfulness. Empires rose and fell. Ideologies promised to replace Torah. Persecutors attempted to separate the Jewish people from their faith and their destiny. Yet the nation remained. Jews continued to say Shema. They continued to face Jerusalem in prayer. They continued to celebrate Pesach and to conclude, 'Next year in Jerusalem.' They continued to marry under a chuppah, learn Torah, build sukkot, and dance with the Torah on Simchat Torah. Jewish endurance itself became testimony.

The Land and the People

Rashi emphasizes another point in the final words of Haazinu: the inseparable relationship between the Jewish people and the Land of Israel. The verse joins them together: 'His Land and His people.' Rashi explains that Hashem's Land is comforted when His people are comforted. He cites the verse, 'רָצִיתָ ה׳ אַרְצֶךָ; שַׁבְתָּ שְׁבִית יַעֲקֹב' - You have favored, Hashem, Your Land; You have returned the captivity of Yaakov. How does Hashem demonstrate His love for the Land? By bringing His people home.

Eretz Yisrael is not merely a place where Jews happen to live. The Land and the people complete one another. A land can be physically beautiful and still await its purpose. A people can survive in exile and still feel that something essential is missing. The comfort of one is tied to the comfort of the other.

The Ramban views Shirat Haazinu as a remarkable prophetic document. He writes that the Song describes everything that would happen to the Jewish people: Hashem's kindness in choosing us, sustaining us in the wilderness, granting us the lands of powerful nations, and blessing us with prosperity in Eretz Yisrael. It then describes spiritual decline, punishment, and dispersion throughout the world. All these predictions, the Ramban observes, came true.

But the Shirah does not end with exile. Hashem promises that the Jewish people will never be destroyed. The Ramban notes that the final redemption described here is not presented as conditional. The Shirah does not say that redemption will come only if the Jewish people first reach a particular spiritual level. Hashem will rebuke His people, but He will not abandon them. Ultimately, He will show compassion, defend them, punish their enemies, and redeem them for the sake of His name.

This does not mean that our choices are unimportant or that teshuvah is unnecessary. The entire Torah calls us to responsibility. It means something even deeper: beneath all the consequences of our choices stands an eternal covenant. There may be distance, but there will not be divorce. There may be exile, but exile will not have the final word.

The Malbim identifies the final verse with the war of Gog and Magog. He explains that after the Jewish people return and settle in Eretz Yisrael, enemies will gather against them. On the mountains of Israel those enemies will fall, and both the Land and the people will finally be appeased. We must always be cautious about declaring that a particular event is the final fulfillment of prophecy. Judaism does not encourage sensational predictions. But neither should we close our eyes to the extraordinary reality before us.

After centuries in which the return to Zion seemed impossible, the Jewish people came home. They rebuilt Yerushalayim and communities throughout the Land. They revived Hebrew as the language of daily life. They restored batei midrash filled with Torah. A land described by travelers as desolate again produces fruit. Children play in the streets of Jerusalem. Jews arrive from every corner of the earth. These facts do not answer every theological question, but they demand religious attention. Haazinu teaches us to see them as part of a Divine process that began with Avraham Avinu and moves toward redemption.

From Haazinu to the Sukkah

Then, almost immediately, we enter Sukkot. After hearing a song that spans thousands of years, we walk outside and enter a small, temporary dwelling. The roof must be made of natural material. We must be able to see that it is not permanent. The wind can enter. The rain may enter. The sukkah refuses to pretend that human beings possess complete security.

The Torah gives two descriptions of the mitzvah. In Parashat Emor, Hashem commands us to dwell in sukkot so that future generations will know that He caused the Jewish people to dwell in sukkot when He brought them out of Egypt. Rabbi Eliezer teaches that these sukkot refer to the Ananei HaKavod, the Clouds of Glory. Rabbi Akiva understands them as actual booths. The two views may be teaching complementary truths. In the wilderness, our dwelling was physically fragile, but we were surrounded by Divine protection. The structure was temporary; the relationship was enduring.

That is the lesson we need after Haazinu. The Jewish people traveled through history in a sukkah. At many points, our existence appeared fragile. We lacked a country, an army, and political power. Communities could be uprooted overnight. Yet something surrounded us. The Clouds of Glory were not always visible, and Divine protection did not mean an absence of suffering. But the covenant preserved the nation through circumstances that should have erased it.

Sukkot therefore asks a profound question: Where does security truly come from? All year we live behind solid walls and may imagine that the walls protect us. On Sukkot we leave those walls and place ourselves under s'chach. We discover that a solid roof can never guarantee safety, and a fragile roof does not mean that we are alone. The sukkah is called 'צִלָּא דִּמְהֵימְנוּתָא,' the shade of faith. It is not the shade of certainty. Faith does not mean that we know exactly what will happen tomorrow. It means that we know before Whom we stand, and that our future remains bound to Hashem's covenant.

This helps explain why Sukkot is called זְמַן שִׂמְחָתֵנוּ, the season of our joy. At first this seems paradoxical. Why is the holiday of the flimsy hut the holiday of greatest joy? Because joy does not come from the illusion that we control everything. That illusion is exhausting and ultimately impossible. Deep joy comes when we recognize that we are held by something greater than ourselves. The sukkah strips away false certainty and leaves us with trust.

There is also a national message. The sukkah recalls the journey from Egypt to Eretz Yisrael. The wilderness was never meant to be the destination. It was a passage between slavery and home. During that passage, Hashem taught us dependence, gave us Torah, formed us into a nation, and prepared us to enter the Land.

Exile, too, is not the final destination of the Jewish people. We built remarkable communities throughout the world, produced Torah scholarship, performed extraordinary chesed, and sanctified Hashem's name in countless ways. Yet Haazinu reminds us that Jewish history moves toward the reconciliation of the people and the Land. Sukkot reminds us that the journey requires faith. We should be grateful for every safe dwelling Hashem has given us, while remembering where the national journey leads.

Sukkot also teaches unity. We take four species that represent different types of Jews and hold them together for one mitzvah. We leave our individual homes and enter a space that Chazal describe as capable, in principle, of holding all Israel. A sukkah may be small, but its spiritual capacity is enormous. Redemption is not the achievement of one segment of the Jewish people. We return as a people, with different strengths, levels of observance, backgrounds, and stories, but with a shared covenant and a shared home.

That unity is not sentimental. It demands action. It means seeing another Jew's pain as our pain and another Jew's success as our joy. It means supporting those defending Israel, comforting bereaved families, helping new olim, strengthening communities, learning Torah, and refusing to allow disagreement to dissolve our sense of family. The final verse of Haazinu speaks of 'His Land and His people.' The two are joined, and the people themselves must also be joined.

Vezot HaBracha and the Courage to Begin Again

Sukkot leads to Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah, when we read VeZot HaBracha. Moshe Rabbeinu blesses each tribe before his death. He sees the Land, but he will not enter it. The Torah ends with an incomparable tribute: no prophet ever again arose in Israel like Moshe, who knew Hashem face to face.

Yet the Torah does not allow us to remain frozen at Moshe's grave. The moment we finish the final verse, we begin again: 'בְּרֵאשִׁית בָּרָא אֱלֹהִים.' We move from the death of Moshe to the creation of the world. Our greatest leader dies, but the mission lives. One chapter closes, but the Torah is never over.

That is why the final parashah is called VeZot HaBracha - and this is the blessing. The blessing is not only what Moshe gives each tribe. The blessing is the capacity of the Jewish people to carry Torah forward after Moshe. It is the ability of every generation to receive the same Torah anew and to write its own faithful chapter in the story.

There is a beautiful movement across these days. Haazinu looks across all of history. Sukkot places us inside the fragile journey. VeZot HaBracha gives each tribe its unique task. And Bereishit tells us to begin. First we learn that history has meaning. Then we learn to trust while we travel. Finally, we are told that we are not spectators. Each person and each community has a bracha to bring into the unfolding story.

Moshe's final blessing also returns us to the theme of the Land. The tribes are blessed not as isolated individuals but as parts of a nation that will live its covenant in Eretz Yisrael. Torah is eternal and binds a Jew everywhere, but its national expression reaches fullness when the people live in their Land. There we build a society, establish justice, observe the mitzvot tied to the soil, speak the language of our ancestors, and face together the responsibilities of Jewish sovereignty.

For those who already live in Israel, this message is a call not to take the miracle for granted. Living in Israel is not merely a benefit; it is a responsibility. We must help build a country worthy of its holiness, strengthen Torah and chesed, welcome new olim, and contribute our abilities to the Jewish future.

For those who live outside Israel, the message should not be heard as accusation. The decision to make Aliyah is complex. It touches family, livelihood, education, health, language, and many other realities. But complexity should lead to planning, not to silence. If Eretz Yisrael is the direction of Jewish history, then every Jewish family should at least be willing to ask: What place does Israel have in our future? Is it a dream we have postponed indefinitely, or a goal for which we can begin preparing? What can we do this year - learn Hebrew, visit with purpose, explore employment, speak with our children, meet people who have made the journey - so that the dream becomes a plan?

The Torah does not demand that every person complete the journey today. But it does ask us to hear the song. It asks us not to confuse the temporary stop with the destination. And it teaches that a great beginning is often made of small, faithful steps.

A promise—and a direction

We are living in a generation filled with both blessing and challenge. We have seen the Land welcome its children. We have seen Jewish courage, generosity, Torah, and unity. We have also buried precious souls and watched enemies gather against us. Haazinu does not promise a simple history. It promises that history has a Divine direction and that the covenant will endure.

Sukkot does not promise walls that nothing can penetrate. It teaches us to live under the shade of faith, to distinguish control from trust, and to rejoice in Hashem's presence even while the roof remains open to the sky.

VeZot HaBracha does not allow us to say that Moshe's greatness leaves nothing for us to do. It places the Torah in our arms, invites us to dance with it, and then sends us back to Bereishit. Begin again. Build again. Carry the blessing forward.

Perhaps this is the message of the entire season. We stood on Rosh Hashanah and proclaimed Hashem as King. On Yom Kippur we returned to Him. On Sukkot we learned to trust Him. On Simchat Torah we take His Torah and recommit ourselves to the journey. We leave the Yamim Tovim not only inspired but charged with responsibility.

May we merit to hear the full song of Jewish history, not only its painful notes. May Hashem spread over us the sukkah of His peace, protect the soldiers and people of Israel, heal the wounded, comfort the bereaved, return the captives, and bring security to His Land. May He gather His children from every corner of the earth, strengthen the bond between His Land and His people, and help each of us discover the unique blessing we are called to bring.

And as we finish the Torah and begin it again, may we have the faith to recognize the process, the courage to take our next step, and the joy of knowing that after every exile, every wilderness, and every ending, Hashem gives the Jewish people the power to come home and begin again.

Coming Down From The Summit: Sukkot 5787

This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 25 September 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here.

In 1953, Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay became the first men ever to reach the summit of Mount Everest. Or were they? Almost thirty years earlier, George Mallory and Andrew Irvine had disappeared while attempting the same climb. They were last seen at base camp near the summit. To this day, no one knows with certainty whether they reached the summit before they died.

When Hillary was asked how he felt knowing that two other climbers may have beaten him to the top, he reportedly replied: “I don’t know if we were first to reach the top of the mountain. What I do know is that we were the first to reach the top, and come back down!”

Reaching the summit is only half the challenge. You also have to know how to come back down. Perhaps that is exactly the challenge we face as we move from Yom Kippur into Sukkot.

On Yom Kippur, we ascend. For twenty-five hours we leave ordinary physical life behind. We do not eat or drink. We spend our day in shul, attempting, as far as humanly possible, to live like angels. We reach upwards towards Heaven. But we cannot remain there.

Shlomo Yosef Zevin draws a beautiful contrast between Yom Kippur and Sukkot through two elements: fire and water. Fire naturally rises upwards; water flows downwards. Yom Kippur is the day of fire. At the heart of the Avodah, the Kohen Gadol enters the Kodesh HaKodashim with burning coals and incense. Sukkot, by contrast, is a festival saturated with water: the arba minim depend upon water, we begin praying for rain, and in the Beit HaMikdash there was the joyous Simchat Beit HaSho’eva and the water libation.

Yom Kippur takes us upwards. Sukkot brings holiness back down to earth. This idea  is reflected further in the mitzvah of the sukkah itself. We do not enter the sukkah primarily to pray or study. The mitzvah is teshvu ke’ein taduru -- live there as you normally live. We eat, drink, talk and sleep. Rather than abstain from the physical world, as we did on Yom Kippur, on Sukkot our involvement with the physical world itself becomes mitzvah. The goal, then, was never to remain on the summit.

Sukkot asks whether we can bring the summit home with us -- whether the holiness we encountered on Yom Kippur can enter our meals, our homes, our relationships and our everyday lives. We have reached upwards towards Heaven. Now comes the challenge of bringing Heaven back down to earth.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach!

Business as Usual? Shabbat Shuva 5787

 This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 17 September 2026. Thanks to ChatGPT you can also read it in Hebrew, here.

Shabbat Shuva occupies a unique place in the Jewish calendar: a brief pause between the two great days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, giving us an opportunity to reflect on where we have been before taking the next steps of the journey. And perhaps there is a message for this moment hidden in a seemingly strange detail of the Torah reading we heard just a few days ago.

On the second day of Rosh Hashanah, we read the story of the Akeidah. We understand why. Avraham’s willingness to sacrifice his beloved son represents an almost unimaginable act of faith and devotion. We follow Avraham and Yitzchak up the mountain; we hear the angel call, “Avraham, Avraham,” and command him not to harm his son; and we see the ram caught in the thicket, offered in Yitzchak’s place.

Surely that is where the reading should end. Instead, we continue with what seems like an entirely mundane list of births in Avraham’s extended family: “Utz his firstborn, Buz his brother…” until eventually we are told that Betuel fathered Rivkah. Why include these seemingly irrelevant verses in the public reading of this auspicious day?

Rav Soloveitchik offered a powerful explanation. The Akeidah had just taken place. It was an earth-shattering event, an encounter of extraordinary spiritual intensity. We might imagine that after something like that, the world could never simply return to normal.

And yet it did. Utz was born. Then Buz. Then Kemuel. Another child, another day. Life carried on. For everyone else, it was business as usual. That, Rav Soloveitchik suggested, is precisely why we read these verses on Rosh Hashanah. The greatest danger of the Yamim Noraim is not that we will fail to be moved. The tefillot, the shofar and the atmosphere almost inevitably affect us. The danger is that, after being moved, we remain exactly where we were before.

On Shabbat Shuva, that challenge becomes urgent. The prophet Hoshea calls to us: “Take words with you and return to Hashem”. Do not come empty-handed. Perhaps that is also the challenge of Haazinu. Moshe Rabbeinu calls upon us not merely to hear his words, but “Take to heart all these words” (Devarim 32:46). Hearing is not enough. Inspiration must become transformation.

As Yom Kippur approaches, each of us can ask one simple question: What am I taking with me? One commitment, one relationship to repair, one area of tefillah or Torah to strengthen, one concrete step that will ensure that when these extraordinary days have passed, life will not simply return to business as usual.

The Yamim Noraim should move us. But even more importantly, they should move us forward.

Shabbat Shalom, Gmar Chatima Tova!

Ha'azinu set to music

From our own archive we are proud to bring you Max Stern's Ha'azinu. This piece, which has already been viewed more than 12,000 times, lasts around half an hour and Max -- a leading Israeli classical composer and a long-standing member of Beit Knesset Hanassi -- is playing the double bass in it. 

The link is on YouTube is here.

First posted 30 September 2024.

Ha’azinu and the Return to our Homeland

Shirat Ha’azinu is far more than a poetic conclusion to Moshe Rabbeinu’s final address. It is a prophetic synopsis of Jewish history. It begins with Hashem’s choice of Am Yisrael, describes the blessings He bestowed upon us, recounts our rebellion and exile, and culminates in the promise of ultimate redemption. Because we are living in a generation that has witnessed the return of the Jewish people to their homeland, it especially behooves us to study this Song carefully and seek to understand its message. Rabbi Paul Bloom helps guide us through it.

Chazal teach that Shirat Ha’azinu can be divided into six sections (Rosh Hashanah 31a). The final section describes the culmination of history, when Hashem will avenge the suffering of His people and bring reconciliation between Am Yisrael and Eretz Yisrael. The Shirah concludes:

“Sing, O nations, the praises of His people, for He will avenge the blood of His servants; He will bring vengeance upon His adversaries, and He will appease His Land and His people” (Devarim 32:43).

Rashi explains that, at the time of redemption, the nations themselves will praise the Jewish people. They will recognize that, despite centuries of persecution, exile, and suffering, Am Yisrael remained faithful to Hashem. They will say: “See how praiseworthy this nation is. Through all the troubles that befell them, they continued to cling to the Holy One, blessed be He, and did not abandon Him”.

Rashi also emphasizes the inseparable relationship between the Jewish people and the Land of Israel. The verse states that Hashem will appease “His Land and His people.” Rashi explains that Hashem’s Land is comforted when His people are comforted. Eretz Yisrael reaches its fulfillment when the Jewish people return to it. He cites the verse, “You have favored, Hashem, Your Land; You have returned the captivity of Yaakov” (Tehillim 85:2). How does Hashem demonstrate His love for the Land? By bringing His people home.

The Ramban views Shirat Ha’azinu as a remarkable prophetic document. He writes that the Song describes everything that would happen to the Jewish people. It recounts Hashem’s kindness in choosing us, sustaining us in the wilderness, and granting us the lands of powerful nations. It describes the prosperity we enjoyed in Eretz Yisrael, followed by our spiritual decline, punishment, and eventual dispersion throughout the world. All of these predictions, the Ramban notes, came true.

Yet the Shirah does not end with exile. It promises that Hashem will ultimately take vengeance upon those who persecuted His people. The nations attacked Israel not merely out of political ambition, but because of their hatred of Hashem and of the people who represent Him in the world. The final verses therefore refer to a future redemption that had not yet occurred in the Ramban’s time.

The Ramban further observes that this promise is not presented as conditional. The Shirah does not say that redemption will come only if the Jewish people reach a certain spiritual level. Rather, it testifies that, although Hashem will rebuke and punish His people, He will never destroy them. Ultimately, He will show compassion, defend them, punish their enemies, and redeem them for the sake of His name.

The Malbim goes even further and identifies the final verse with the War of Gog and Magog. He explains that after the Jewish people return and settle in Eretz Yisrael, their enemies will gather against them. On the mountains of Israel, those enemies will fall, and both the Land and the people will finally be appeased.

This prophetic scenario is difficult to ignore. The Jewish people endured centuries of persecution, yet returned to their ancestral homeland. They rebuilt cities, revived the Hebrew language, restored Torah life, and transformed a desolate land into a flourishing country. At the same time, enemies continue to surround Israel and openly seek its destruction.

We must be cautious about declaring that any specific event is the final fulfillment of prophecy. Nevertheless, Shirat Ha’azinu teaches us to view Jewish history through the lens of faith. Our return to Eretz Yisrael is not an accident. It is part of a Divine process that began with Avraham Avinu and will culminate in redemption.

May we merit to see Hashem avenge the blood of His servants, comfort His people, restore peace to His Land, and fulfill every word of this sacred Song, speedily in our days.

The Life and Death of Gedaliyah ben Achikam

Today we fast to mark the death of a leader whose name is better known than his deeds. Why do we fast, when we have lost many other leaders in tragic circumstances. What singles him out for special treatment? Here's a brief biographical note of a life that should never have been taken.

Gedaliyah ben Achikam stands as a pivotal though often overlooked figure in the turbulent period following the destruction of the First Temple in 586 BCE. A member of a prominent Judaean family loyal to the prophet Yirmeyah, Gedaliyah was the son of Achikam ben Shaphan, who had famously protected Yirmeyah from execution decades earlier. His lineage, rooted in piety and moderation, shaped his political approach during the kingdom ofJudaea’s final, fragile years.    

After Babylonian forces under Nebuchadnezzar razed Jerusalem, exiled much of its population, and destroyed the Temple, Judaea was left leaderless and demoralized. Rather than annihilating the remaining Judean presence, the Babylonians appointed Gedaliyah as governor over the small remnant of people who had not been deported. He established his administrative centre at Mitzpah, just north of Jerusalem, where he sought to stabilize the shattered community.

Gedaliyah pursued a policy of cooperation with Babylon, recognizing that survival required accommodation rather than rebellion. He encouraged displaced Judaeans, including farmers and soldiers, to return to the land, cultivate fields, and rebuild a modest social fabric. His call was met with a measure of success: groups of refugees, hearing of his governance, returned and began to restore economic life. Gedaliyah’s leadership thus represented a glimmer of continuity and hope in an otherwise catastrophic era.

Yet his conciliatory stance also made him vulnerable. Elements within the Judaean elite, still committed to resistance against Babylon, perceived him as a collaborator. Chief among them was Yishmael ben Netanyah, a descendant of the Davidic line. In the seventh month of Gedaliyah’s governorship Yishmael, likely encouraged by external powers such as Ammon, orchestrated an assassination. Gedaliyah and many of his supporters were murdered at Mitzpah.

The assassination proved disastrous. Fearful of Babylonian reprisals, the surviving Judaeans fled en masse to Egypt, despite Yirmeyah’s warnings. This flight effectively extinguished organized Jewish life in Judaea for decades, deepening the exile’s trauma. In later Jewish memory, Gedaliyah’s death became a national tragedy. The fast of Tzom Gedaliyah, observed annually on the third day of Tishrei, commemorates not only his murder but also the collapse of Jewish autonomy and the further dispersal of its people.

Gedaliyah ben Achikam remains emblematic of a statesman who sought peace and pragmatic survival in the face of imperial dominance. His life and untimely death highlight the tensions between accommodation and resistance, and the fragile fate of leadership amid the ruins of a fallen nation.  

Hannah's Song of Thanksgiving

Hannah's prayer from the Book of 1 Samuel is read as the Rosh Hashanah Haftarah: its themes of longing, heartfelt supplication, and the promise of dedicating a child to God's service resonate with the spiritual focus of the High Holidays. Hannah’s prayer exemplifies the need to approach God with deep sincerity, pouring out one's true desires and struggles, even when feels that one is submerged in a quagmire of unending disappointment.

In setting this prayer to music, our member Max Stern describes it as “ a paroxysm of praise and ecstasy filled with awe, wonder, love, and visceral confidence by a woman, joyous beyond her senses at the birth of a son”. It is, he maintains, the most important prayer uttered by a woman in the Bible.

This recording was made almost exactly 30 years ago, on 13 September 1995 at the Maisel Synagogue, Prague. The musicians are Kristyna Valouskova (soprano) and Yuri Likin (oboe).

You can listen to this intense, emotionally charged composition here. 

First published 21 September 2025

More than an Echo: Rosh Hashanah 5787

 This piece was first published on Thursday 10 September 2026 in the Hanassi Highlights. You can also read it in Hebrew here, thanks to ChatGPT.

Rosh Hashana is known in the Torah as Yom HaZikaron—the day of Remembrance. We speak of Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov. We recall the Akeidah. In Zichronot we ask Hashem to remember the covenant with our ancestors. Even the shofar itself recalls the ram offered by Avraham in place of Yitzchak. Yet the question can be asked: why does memory play such a central role on the day of judgement? We stand before Hashem and ask to be inscribed for another year of life. Why, at precisely that moment, do we spend so much time recalling the past and remembering those who lived thousands of years ago? Surely the question ought to be about us: Who are we? What have we done? What kind of year have we lived? 

Perhaps the answer is alluded to in a fascinating halacha concerning the shofar. The Mishna teaches that השומע קול הברה לא יצא—one who hears merely an echo of the shofar has not fulfilled the mitzvah. It is not enough to hear a distant reverberation of a sound that originated somewhere else. We must hear the voice of the shofar itself.

Illustration: 'Sounding the Shofar in Jerusalem' by Alex Levin

Maybe when it comes to the memory of our ancestors, the same lesson can be applied. The merit of our ancestors cannot simply be an echo from the distant past. We cannot stand before Hashem and rely solely upon the greatness of Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov while remaining unchanged by the values for which they lived. Their merit becomes our merit when their voice continues to live through us.

That is the challenge of Jewish memory. We do not remember simply to preserve the past; we remember in order to shape the present. Avraham’s chessed, Yitzchak’s gevurah, Yaakov’s truth: these are not merely stories about our ancestors. They are part of the inheritance they entrusted to us.

Rosh Hashana therefore asks us not only what we remember, but what we will continue. Which values received from generations before us will find expression in our homes? What will our children and grandchildren see us prioritise? What kind of Jewish life are we building for those who come after us?

The shofar cuts through the noise and asks us to listen. Not to an echo, but to a living voice—one that has travelled through generations and has now reached us. Our task is always to ensure that it does not stop here.

Shabbat Shalom and Ketiva veChatima Tova!

Those vows: why do we annul them—and how?

 Hatarat Nedarim (Annulment of Vows) is a widespread custom that deserves to be properly understood.  For some people this is an opportunity to obtain release from obligations and commitments made during the year, and especially ones they've forgotten about, before standing before Hashem in solemn judgment. For others it's a chance to be a dayan, if only for a few short minutes. Here, in English, is a helpful and well-referenced account for you of what Rabbi Eliezer Melamed has to say about it in his Peninei Halakha (vol. 11, chapter 5) :

Hatarat Nedarim 

There is a universal Jewish custom to annul vows on Erev Rosh Hashanah in order to enter the holiday free from the serious sin of unfulfilled vows (Shlah, Masekhet Yoma §2-4; Ḥayei Adam 138:8). Some also annul vows before Yom Kippur. The recitation of Kol Nidrei at the start of Yom Kippur is directed toward this goal as well.

This annulment is effective for vows that a person forgot having made. It is also effective in annulling the obligation to continue performing a positive custom that one performed three times without stipulating that it does not have the force of a vow. It also annuls commitments to voluntary mitzvot that one undertook without specifying that it does not have the force of a vow. In contrast, if a person remembers making a specific vow, he is not released from it until he details it before three “judges,” who can release him based on a loophole and his regret (SA YD 228:14).

The annulment entails appearing before three men and asking them to release him from the vow. Even three hedyotot (regular people, non-rabbis) can release him, as long as they can understand the words of Torah and grasp the meaning of annulling vows. (See ibid. 228:1.) To release him, the three men say three times: “It is permitted to you,” “It is allowed to you,” or “You are forgiven.” Siddurim have a standard formula for requesting and granting annulment.

Since this annulment is not considered judgment, it may be done at night, and the three people on the “court” may be related to one another or to the person asking for the annulment. Accordingly, three brothers may annul the vow of a fourth brother (ibid. 228:3). However, if a woman requests a vow annulment, her husband may not be one of the three (ibid. 234:57).

The person asking for an annulment customarily stands, while the three people granting the annulment sit, as a court would. Many people may stand before the “court” at once and ask that their vows be annulled, and the annulment may be extended to the whole group at once. Nevertheless, some are careful to annul the vows of one person at a time (Mateh Ephraim 581:49).

If one dreamed that he made a vow, some say he should have it annulled. Some even say that this annulment requires a panel of ten. Though most poskim do not require any type of annulment for a vow made in a dream, as it is not real, le-khatḥila we defer to the stringent view (SA YD 210:2). If he cannot easily find a group of ten, he may request an annulment before three, as one normally does for vows (Rema ad loc.).

Women effectively annul their vows with the recitation of Kol Nidrei. For this reason, they make sure to attend services on the night of Yom Kippur. A married woman can appoint her husband as her agent to annul her vows when he annuls his own. Since the two of them are like one unit, when he stands before the “court,” it is as if she is with him. However, an unmarried woman cannot appoint an agent (male or female) to act on her behalf and annul her vows (SA YD 234:56; Taz ad loc. 46; Rav Pe’alim OḤ 4:34).

Source: https://ph.yhb.org.il/en/15-05-11/

Tashlich: a short explanation

What is Tashlich? One of Rabbi Wein zt'l's favorite reminiscences from the days of his childhood in Chicago was that of a vast crowd of maybe 40,000 Jews turning out en masse to symbolically cast away their sins.  Here’s a helpful note prepared by the OU back in 2006, explaining the background and reminding us that we don't do Tashlich on Shabbat. The original version of this note can be found here.

 The word “Tashlich” means “You will cast away.” In this context, it refers to a custom dating from at least as early as the fourteenth century, but probably much earlier, based on the last verses of the Book of Michah (Micah) 7:18-20, shown below:

“Who is a God like You? You forgive sins and overlook transgressions for the survivors of Your People;

He does not retain His anger forever, for He loves Kindness;

He will return and show us mercy, and overcome our sins,

[Note: The Prophet has switched, grammatically, from addressing God in the “second person” [using “You”] to addressing Him in the “third person” [using “He”]. This may have to do with the difficulty finite man has when addressing his infinite Creator, and comes up again in connection with the topic of Blessings. Anyway, back to Michah:]

And You will cast into the depths of the sea all their sins;

You will show kindness to Yaakov and mercy to Avraham,

As You did promise to our fathers of old.”

Consequently, Jewish communities have for many generations gathered on the First Day of Rosh Hashanah at bodies of water and recited the Tashlich prayer, which consists of certain chapters of Tehillim (Psalms) and the verses shown above, to symbolize our wish to get rid of our sins, and to be forgiven by God.

Some people have the custom to throw crumbs, but some authorities say that one shouldn’t; each person should act according to his/her minhag.

Historically, Jews would sometimes be instructed by their own community leaders to seek out bodies of water not near the center of town, so as not to be seen during Tashlich by their non-Jewish neighbors, for fear of a “poisoning the wells” accusation. This was certainly true if actual food was thrown into the water, but even if not, they would be accused of mumbling curses and poisoning the wells by witchcraft.

If the first day of Rosh HaShanah falls on Shabbat , Tashlich is said on Sunday, the second day. If it cannot be recited at all on Rosh Hashanah , due to inclement weather or “whatever,” it can be recited until Hoshana Rabbah.

Tashlich is preferably recited alongside a body of water containing fish, to remind us that just as fish are protected by the water in which they live, we pray to be protected by God. Also, just as fish swim freely and can suddenly be caught in a net, so too we can just as helplessly fall into the net of sin. And even as the eyes of fish are always open, so do we pray that God too will keep vigilant watch over his people.

The Standard That Defines Us: Nitzavim-Vayelech 5786

This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg, first published in the Hanassi Highlights on Thursday 3 September 2026, is also available in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT. For the Hebrew version, click here.

There is something strange about the way we approach Rosh Hashana. For a few precious days, we try to be at our very best. We daven with greater concentration, take on additional practices, and make resolutions about the people we hope to become. Indeed, the Shulchan Aruch records the practice of adopting additional stringencies during the Aseret Yemei Teshuva, even when we know that we may not maintain them throughout the year.

But is that really meaningful? If we already suspect that in a few weeks’ time we will have returned to our usual routines, what is accomplished by reaching for a standard that we cannot sustain? Perhaps the answer lies in a central theme of Parshat Nitzavim. Moshe Rabbeinu gathers the entire nation and declares: “You are standing today, all of you, before Hashem your God… to enter into the covenant of Hashem your God” (Devarim 29:9–11).

Rav Yaakov Moshe Charlap explains that the essence of a brit (covenant) is that two parties establish their relationship at a moment of particular closeness. They know that circumstances will change and difficulties will arise. Precisely because that moment cannot last forever, they make a brit: they declare that the relationship will always be defined by the closeness they experience now. Rav Charlap explains that the purpose of the covenant is that “their relationship to one another should always remain as it was at the moment the covenant was forged.” Perhaps this idea can transform the way we understand Rosh Hashana, and indeed the entire period of the Yamim Noraim.

Rosh Hashana is not a performance in which we pretend for two days to be people we are not. It is the moment when we identify who we most deeply want to be. During the year there will inevitably be distractions, failures and moments when we fall short. But those moments need not define us. Before the year begins, we establish the standard—the ideal by which we truly wish to be defined.

That may be why Nitzavim is always read as Rosh Hashana approaches. “Atem nitzavim hayom” — today we stand before Hashem. Every person, from the leaders of the nation to the “drawer of water,” enters the covenant. No one is excluded.

As Rosh Hashana approaches, the question is therefore not simply whether we can guarantee that every resolution will last. The deeper question is: What do we want our relationship with Hashem to look like when we are at our best? These final days of the year give us the opportunity to answer that question - and to establish the brit that can define the year ahead.

Shabbat Shalom veShana Tova!