Who Should do Teshuva? Parshat Nitzavim Vayelech

FOREWORD

This week I was fortunate to be with my immediate family to celebrate the bar mitzvah of my grandnephew. In addition to being honored with the third aliyah, I was invited to give a talk in the afternoon.

As I told the congregation, this talk would also become my blog for this week, since I obviously would not have much time to write something entirely new. So I am sharing with you, essentially as I delivered it, what I wrote for that occasion.

I am, however, adding an afterword. A conversation I had afterward with a dear friend, who is also a rabbi, made me think more deeply about some of the questions I had raised—and about where those questions might lead.

INTRODUCTION

I’d like to thank Rabbi Katz for giving me the opportunity to share some thoughts with you today, between mincha and maariv, concerning next week’s parsha, Nitzavim–Vayelech.

My understanding of theology has been shaped by two of the most important people in my life—and, I know, in the lives of many of you–my sister, Menorah, who was always questioning God and demanding justice, and my husband, Michael, the rabbi and theologian who maintained that we are God’s partner.

Both of them are sorely missed. I hope that somehow they were hovering over us all today, watching and celebrating as Peret did us proud this morning.

And while Menorah and Michael have been my most important theological influences, over the years my thinking and writing have also been enriched by scholars such as David Blumenthal, author of Facing the Abusing God: A Theology of Protest, and Anson Laytner, author of Arguing with God: A Jewish Tradition.

MY DVAR TORAH

Next week is the last Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah. We are already in the season of selichot—a season devoted to repentance, confession, forgiveness, and the possibility of beginning again.

And yet I want to ask a question that we rarely ask:

What if God needs to do teshuvah too?

During these days, we examine ourselves. We say Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu—we have sinned, we have betrayed, we have stolen. We ask forgiveness from one another and from God.

But what about God’s failures?

What about the God who hides God’s face?

What about the God who seems to sleep?

And what about the God who, in the Bible, becomes angry, punishes, destroys, and threatens?

Perhaps selichot can be a time not only when we ask God to forgive us, but when we ask God to examine God’s own behavior.

Our Torah portion gives us a disturbing picture.

Nitzavim begins with the renewal of the covenant:

אַתֶּם נִצָּבִים הַיּוֹם כֻּלְּכֶם לִפְנֵי יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם

“You are standing this day, all of you, before the LORD your God.”

The covenant is not only with those standing there. It extends to future generations.

But the Torah immediately warns what happens if Israel turns away:

לֹא־יֹאבֶ֣ה יְהֹוָה֮ סְלֹ֣חַֽ לוֹ֒ כִּ֣י אָ֠ז יֶעְשַׁ֨ן אַף־יְהֹוָ֤ה וְקִנְאָתוֹ֙ בָּאִ֣ישׁ הַה֔וּא וְרָ֤בְצָה בּוֹ֙ כׇּל־הָ֣אָלָ֔ה הַכְּתוּבָ֖ה בַּסֵּ֣פֶר הַזֶּ֑ה וּמָחָ֤ה יְהֹוָה֙ אֶת־שְׁמ֔וֹ מִתַּ֖חַת הַשָּׁמָֽיִם׃

 GOD will never forgive them. Rather, GOD’s anger and passion will rage against them, till every sanction recorded in this book comes down upon them, and GOD blots out their name from under heaven (Deut 29:19).

And then, in Vayelech, we encounter one of the Torah’s most painful expressions of divine absence.

God says:

וְחָרָה אַפִּי בוֹ בַיּוֹם־הַהוּא וַעֲזַבְתִּים וְהִסְתַּרְתִּי פָנַי מֵהֶם

“My anger will flare against them on that day, and I will forsake them and hide My face from them.”

And then the Torah repeats:

וְאָנֹכִי הַסְתֵּר אַסְתִּיר פָּנַי בַּיּוֹם הַהוּא

“I will surely hide My face on that day.”

Haster astir panai.

The hiding of God’s face—hester panim.

There are moments when this ancient language feels painfully contemporary. We pray to a God who watches over us, protects us, hears our prayers. But what happens when our experience tells us otherwise?

This brings me to a remarkable modern piece by Rivkah Lubitch, which appears in Dirshuni, a collection of midrashim.

Lubitch took Psalm 121, the Shir LaMa’alot, the Song of Ascents, and rewrote it as a Song of Descents, in response to the trauma of October 7.

Psalm 121

שִׁ֗יר לַֽמַּ֫עֲל֥וֹת אֶשָּׂ֣א עֵ֭ינַי אֶל־הֶהָרִ֑ים מֵ֝אַ֗יִן יָבֹ֥א עֶזְרִֽי׃

A song for ascents.
I turn my eyes to the mountains;
from where will my help come?

עֶ֭זְרִי מֵעִ֣ם יְהֹוָ֑ה עֹ֝שֵׂ֗ה שָׁמַ֥יִם וָאָֽרֶץ׃

My help comes from GOD,
maker of heaven and earth.

אַל־יִתֵּ֣ן לַמּ֣וֹט רַגְלֶ֑ךָ אַל־יָ֝נ֗וּם שֹׁמְרֶֽךָ׃

[God] will not let your foot give way;
your guardian will not slumber.

הִנֵּ֣ה לֹֽא־יָ֭נוּם וְלֹ֣א יִישָׁ֑ן שׁ֝וֹמֵ֗ר יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃

See, the guardian of Israel
neither slumbers nor sleeps!

יְהֹוָ֥ה שֹׁמְרֶ֑ךָ יְהֹוָ֥ה צִ֝לְּךָ֗ עַל־יַ֥ד יְמִינֶֽךָ׃

GOD is your guardian,
GOD is your protection
at your right hand.

יוֹמָ֗ם הַשֶּׁ֥מֶשׁ לֹֽא־יַכֶּ֗כָּה וְיָרֵ֥חַ בַּלָּֽיְלָה׃

By day the sun will not strike you,
nor the moon by night.

יְֽהֹוָ֗ה יִשְׁמׇרְךָ֥ מִכׇּל־רָ֑ע יִ֝שְׁמֹ֗ר אֶת־נַפְשֶֽׁךָ׃

GOD will guard you from all harm,
and will guard your life.

יְֽהֹוָ֗ה יִשְׁמׇר־צֵאתְךָ֥ וּבוֹאֶ֑ךָ מֵ֝עַתָּ֗ה וְעַד־עוֹלָֽם׃ {פ}

GOD will guard your going and coming
now and forever.

But Lubitch asks: What happens when God does slumber?

“נם וישן שומר ישראל”

רבקה לוביץ

שיר לנפילות.

נשאתי עיני אל ההרים ולא בא עזרי.

אין לי עזר מעם יהוה עושה שמים וארץ.

נתן למוט רגליי, נתן לנום שומריי.

הנה נם וישן שומר ישראל.

יהוה לא שמר עליי, יהוה לא הצל על יד ימיני.

יומם השמש היכה בי וירח בלילה.

יהוה לא שמר עלי מכל רע ולא שמר את נפשי.

איך ישמור יהוה את צאתי ובואי מעתה ועד עולם?

 “Sleeps and Slumbers, The Guardian of Israel”

Rivkah Lubitch

A song of Descents

I raised my eyes to the mountains

and my help did not come.

I have no help from God

Maker of Heaven and Earth.

He let my foot slip,

He let my guardians slumber.

Here, He slept and slumbered, the Guardian of Israel.

God did not guard me, He did not shade me at my right hand.

By day, the sun struck at me, and the moon by night.

God did not guard me from all harm, He did not guard my life.

How will God guard my going and coming

From now and forever?

[Translation by Yehudah Mirsky(?) via Rabbi Avi Strausberg]

Lubitch does something radical. She does not try to explain God’s absence. She does not tell us that everything happens for a reason. She simply asks: Where were You? And that question leads directly into selichot.

One of the central prayers of selichot is the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy, taken from Exodus 34, following the sin of the Golden Calf.

Moses has just confronted one of the greatest failures of the Israelites. God is angry and threatens to destroy them. Moses argues with God—and God relents.

Then God passes before Moses and proclaims:

 ויעבֹר יְהוָה עַל־פָּנָיו וַיִּקְרָא

יְהוָה יְהוָה אֵל רַחוּם וְחַנון
אֶרֶךְ אַפַּיִם וְרַב־חֶסֶד וֶאֱמֶת

“The LORD passed before him and proclaimed:

‘The LORD! The LORD! a God compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness.'”

And then:

נֹצֵר חֶסֶד לָאֲלָפִים
נֹשֵׂא עָוֹן וָפֶשַׁע וְחַטָּאָה
וְנַקֵּה 

 לֹא יְנַקֶּה
פֹּקֵד עֲוֹן אָבוֹת עַל־בָּנִים
וְעַל־בְּנֵי בָנִים
עַל־שִׁלֵּשִׁים וְעַל־רִבֵּעִים

“Extending kindness to the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin. He cleans [acquits the penitent].

but who will by no means clear the guilty; punishing the iniquity of the fathers on the children, and on the children’s children, to the third and to the fourth generation.

And here is something fascinaץting about our liturgy.

When we recite the Thirteen Attributes during selichot, we usually stop at:

וְנַקֵּה — V’nakeh.

“Forgiving… and cleansing.”

We do not continue with:

לֹא יְנַקֶּה — Lo yenakeh.

but who will by no means clear the guilty;

And we certainly do not emphasize the idea that God visits the sins of parents upon their children.

Our liturgy stops at the word nakeh.

Why?

Because we want to pray to the merciful God.

We want El rachum v’chanun.

We want the God who forgives.

In effect, our liturgy has made a theological choice. We have taken the biblical God and chosen which version of God we want to address.

And perhaps that itself is a form of teshuvah.

We normally understand teshuvah as something human beings do.

The root shuv means “to return.”

But the Bible repeatedly shows God responding to human beings, changing God’s mind, withdrawing punishment, and choosing mercy.

After the Golden Calf, God intends to destroy Israel. Moses argues—and God relents.

After the spies, God again threatens destruction. Moses challenges God.

And Abraham does something extraordinary when God announces the destruction of Sodom.

Abraham says:

?הֲשֹׁפֵט כָּל־הָאָרֶץ לֹא יַעֲשֶׂה מִשְׁפָּט

“Shall the Judge of all the earth not deal justly?”

Abraham does not say, “God has spoken, therefore I must accept it.”

He argues.

He challenges God’s understanding of justice.

And perhaps this is one of the most remarkable features of Jewish tradition:

We are allowed—even expected—to argue with God. I would go one step further and say we are commanded to argue with God.

The sages go even further. In the Talmud, when discussing the Thirteen Attributes, God teaches Moses that when Israel sins, they should recite these attributes before God, and God will forgive them:

“Rabbi Yoḥanan said: Were it not explicitly written in the verse, it would be impossible to say this… The verse teaches that the Holy One, Blessed be He, wrapped Himself in a prayer shawl (tallit) like a prayer leader (shaliach tzibbur) and showed Moses the order of prayer. He said to him: ‘Whenever Israel sins, let them perform before Me this order, and I will forgive them’” (BT Rosh Hashanah 17b).

In other words, human beings remind God of God’s own capacity for mercy.

Perhaps human beings can teach God how to be God.

This becomes particularly interesting as we approach Rosh Hashanah.

The dominant metaphor of the High Holidays is God as King—Melech.

Avinu Malkeinu.

Our Father, our King.

But I have always been uncomfortable with this metaphor.

Kingship is about hierarchy and power. The king commands; the subjects obey. The king judges; the subjects are judged.

And kings are not normally expected to apologize.

Subjects apologize to kings.

Kings forgive their subjects.

Kings punish their subjects.

But perhaps Judaism gives us another possibility.

What if, during these Days of Awe, God is also being called to account?

We spend the High Holidays standing before God as if we are on trial:

Who shall live and who shall die?

Who by fire and who by water?

But perhaps we can turn the courtroom around.

Perhaps we can ask God:

Where were You?

Why did You hide Your face?

Why did You permit suffering?

Why does the biblical God sometimes appear angry, jealous, violent, and vengeful?

And perhaps we can say:

God, it is time for Your teshuvah.

I don’t mean this as a rejection of God.

Quite the opposite.

We can only argue with God if we remain in relationship with God.

A relationship in which only one side apologizes is not much of a relationship.

And the God of the Bible is not static. God responds. God listens. God changes.

That means we can imagine a God capable of teshuvah.

This brings us back to the end of Nitzavim.

The Torah says:

רְאֵה נָתַתִּי לְפָנֶיךָ הַיּוֹם אֶת־הַחַיִּים וְאֶת־הַטּוֹב וְאֶת־הַמָּוֶת וְאֶת־הָרָע

“I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse.”

And then:

וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים

“Choose life.”

We usually hear this as a command to us.

We must choose life.

We must change.

We must do teshuvah.

But perhaps this year we can hear something else.

Perhaps u’vacharta bachayim is also a challenge to God.

Choose life rather than destruction.

Choose compassion rather than vengeance.

Choose forgiveness rather than punishment.

Choose presence rather than hester panim.

Choose to stay awake.

Choose not to sleep while human beings are suffering.

This, perhaps, is what Rivkah Lubitch’s poem asks of God.

The Guardian of Israel has been sleeping.

So as we enter selichot, perhaps we can expand our understanding of teshuvah.

Of course, we need to examine ourselves.

We need to apologize to people we have hurt.

We need to repair what we can repair.

But perhaps we should also give ourselves permission to speak honestly to God.

To say:

God, You need to do teshuvah too.

Turn back toward us.

Stop hiding Your face.

Wake up.

Become the God described in the first part of the Thirteen Attributes:

יְהוָה יְהוָה אֵל רַחוּם וְחַנּוּן

Adonai, Adonai, El rachum v’chanun.

Compassionate and gracious.

Slow to anger.

Abundant in kindness.

A God who forgives.

And perhaps this is why our liturgy stops at וְנַקֵּה.

We choose the God we want to address.

We choose the merciful God.

We refuse to accept a theology in which children inherit the sins of their parents.

We refuse to accept a God who simply says, “I am the King, and you are the subjects.”

Instead, we insist on a relationship—with a God who can listen, respond, and change.

Perhaps that is one of the most radical acts of Jewish faith:

We do not have to accept every image of God that we have inherited. We can argue with God until we find the God who is worthy of our prayer.

So this year, during selichot, perhaps our prayer should be slightly different.

Not only:

God, forgive us.

But also:

God, may You forgive Yourself.
May You turn back toward us.
May You awaken from Your sleep.
May You choose compassion.
May You choose life.

And may we all—human beings and, if we dare to say it, God as well—do the work of teshuvah in the coming year.

AFTERWORD

I tried not to be overtly political in my dvar Torah. But afterward, I found myself thinking about the question of absence in a different way.

For those of us who do not necessarily want to blame God for God’s absence—or who are not even sure what it means to speak of God as “absent”—there are human beings whom we can hold responsible: our leaders. We can hold them accountable for their failures, their omissions, their refusal to acknowledge responsibility, and their unwillingness to confront the consequences of their decisions.

When I discussed this with a dear friend, a rabbi who lost one of her closest friends on October 7, she sent me a link to a powerful talk by Zachary Truboff, Must Zionism Do Teshuvah?

It is a difficult talk to listen to, but I found much truth in what he has to say. His argument made me think again about the meaning of teshuvah. It cannot simply be a word we invoke during the month of Elul and the Ten Days of Repentance. Teshuvah means turning around, acknowledging where we have gone wrong, accepting responsibility, and changing our course.

And this brings me back to something I have written about repeatedly over the past three years: it is our leaders—and those who enable and encourage an extreme form of religious Zionism—who must do teshuvah. They must be willing to acknowledge their failures, take responsibility for the consequences of their actions and omissions, and, most importantly, change direction. And if they cannot—or will not—then it is time for them to leave the stage and make way for leaders who will accept responsibility for the future of this country.

Perhaps that is the most uncomfortable question of all as we approach Rosh Hashanah—and, I would add, the upcoming elections:

Who needs to do teshuvah?

Who is willing to admit it?

Who will we, the voters, decide must go?