The Day God Bends His Own Rules

Unetaneh Tokef doesn’t hold back. Who will live and who will die; who by fire and who by water. We are about to stand before an all-knowing King who reviews our entire year under a magnifying glass, and each of us knows, in our heart of hearts, where we fell short. We could have been kinder, softer, more patient. We could have given more and wasted less.

Part of me wants to lean into that imagery. But fear isn’t the whole story, or even the main one. Let me explain with a story.

How a rabbi ends up at Con Edison

Last year, a few days before Rosh Hashanah, I did something I’d never done before: I spoke to a couple hundred Con Edison employees, Jews and non-Jews, about what Rosh Hashanah means. (No, I can’t help with your bill.) Here’s how that happened.

About ten years ago, on one of the Birthright trips I ran, I met a wonderful young woman: public school, almost no formal Jewish education, but fiercely proud of being Jewish. Her parents came from the former Soviet Union, and over ten days it became clear that her mother wasn’t Jewish.

So I had the uncomfortable conversation I sometimes have to have. As gently as I could, I told her I loved her Jewish identity, but not everyone would recognize it, and if she ever wanted to remove any doubt, there was a path: conversion.

I knew it went well, because for the next eight years she came to my house every Rosh Hashanah for dinner. No classes, no follow-up. Just Rosh Hashanah.

Then, in late 2019, she called. She was engaged and wanted me to officiate. I told her I’d love to, but as an Orthodox rabbi I couldn’t unless she converted. “Okay, I’ll do it,” she said. I explained that it had to be both of them. It doesn’t work if her husband doesn’t want Shabbat or kashrut in the home.

So they came over. He was the classic Russian intellectual: brilliant, sweet, and ready to debate every sentence. I was sure he’d be the obstacle. Instead, after forty-five minutes he said, “I didn’t realize this was an issue. It’s important to me that she’s recognized as Jewish by everyone, so our children are too. I’m in.”

We began learning, from Shabbat to kashrut and everything in between. And the skeptic took off. First he called asking where he could daven Shacharit. Then Mincha. Then Maariv. Then how to kasher his kitchen. For about two and a half years they spent one Shabbat a month with my family, and soon seven or eight families in our community were hosting them too.

Covid delayed everything, but when they finally went before the beit din, they passed with flying colors. Six weeks after her mikvah, they stood under the chuppah. They’re still coming for Shabbat, still learning, still growing.

And he works at Con Edison. That’s how I got the invitation.

The day of the idea

I gave that group the basics. But there’s something deeper I couldn’t get into there.

The Torah’s description of the holiday is surprisingly brief: “In the seventh month, on the first of the month, you shall have a day of rest, a remembrance of teruah, a holy convocation” (Vayikra 23:24). Rashi explains that “remembrance of teruah” refers to the verses of Zichronot and Shofarot we recite, and that their purpose is to recall the binding of Yitzchak, in whose place a ram was offered. The Gemara (Rosh Hashanah 16a) says the same: blow a ram’s horn before Me, says Hashem, so that I will remember the Akeidah.

Not creation. Not the birth of man. The Akeidah, which is really the story of Avraham’s total commitment.

In the machzor we also say Hayom harat olam, “today the world was conceived.” The Gemara records a dispute over whether the world was created in Tishrei or in Nissan, and Tosafot (Rosh Hashanah 27a) reconciles the two: in Tishrei the world arose in God’s thought, and in Nissan it was actually created. Rosh Hashanah is the day of the idea, the day God conceived of the world and its purpose.

Holding the rope at both ends

So where does the judgment come in? The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 39:6) records Avraham’s argument on behalf of Sodom: “If You want a world, there can be no strict justice. If You want strict justice, there can be no world. You’re holding the rope at both ends. Let go a little, or the world cannot stand.”

Our world runs on din, on precise order; look at any science textbook. Nothing meaningful grows in chaos. But a world of pure justice has no room for people who choose, and people who choose will sometimes fail. If din wins completely, we lose. Tehillim puts both halves into a single verse: “He loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of Hashem’s kindness” (Tehillim 33:5). God loves justice. He loves us more. On Rosh Hashanah, He bends His own rules to give us life and another chance to choose.

What we’re really afraid of

Do you think our ancestors trembled because they were afraid of getting zapped? There’s something worse than that: disappointing someone who loves you.

That’s why, as the Tur (Orach Chaim 581) writes, a person facing trial usually wears black and neglects his appearance, but the Jewish people wear white, groom themselves, eat, drink and rejoice, confident in God’s kindness. Yet the Mishnah Berurah (581:25) tells us not to dress too extravagantly. Seriousness and confidence, together.

Your mission statement

Every one of us was handed circumstances we didn’t choose. What we do have is choice: growth or standing still, meaning or superficiality. Yom Kippur is about forgiveness. Rosh Hashanah is about our mission statement.

Right before that Con Edison talk, a woman called me. “Rabbi, I’m just not inspired. I’ve been doing this for thirty years and nothing changes. Maybe I’ll just stay home.”

I told her that her problem wasn’t Rosh Hashanah. The real question is whether she believes there’s a God who cares about her. If not, why go? But if she does, how could she miss the day the King who loves her bends the rules for her? Don’t wait until you feel it. Get a good translation of the machzor, pick the parts that speak to you, and prepare them before you walk in. Your past doesn’t define you. Your choices right now do.

Rav Shlomo Wolbe (Alei Shur, vol. I) writes that every person must know they have importance. Not an imagined importance, but a profound, even astonishing one. The Gemara (Sanhedrin 37a) teaches that each person must declare, “The world was created for me,” and Rashi explains: I am as significant as an entire world. There has never been anyone like you, and there never will be. God is perfect and needs nothing. If you’re here, it’s because He loves you and there’s something only you can do.

A cry to be woken

At the campus classes I teach, you can read it on the students’ faces: some wandered in curious, and some just came for the free falafel. We walk into Rosh Hashanah the same way. Some of us think, “Went to shul, check.” Others are desperate to connect, like that young couple who chose all of this.

For those of us born into it, the repetition can dull the feeling. That’s why we blow a ram’s horn: to remember Avraham, who was a hundred percent in. If you don’t feel a hundred percent in, the shofar is for you. It’s a primal cry with no words: I can’t express how much I want to be close to You, so wake me up.

Don’t give up hope. If you’re still here, you have more to do. You are a spark of the Infinite, and in a world clouded with darkness and uncertainty, we need your light.

Shana tova.