Netzavim
Roots
In Parshas Netzavim, the Torah tells us that God has placed before us the choice between life and death.
But on Rosh Hashanah, we declare that God is the Judge — that it is He who decides who shall live and who shall not.
Is this a contradiction?
I don’t think so.
The Torah doesn’t say that the choice of who lives is in God’s hands. It says the judgment is. That’s a big difference.
Only the Creator can determine whether any part of His creation — a planet, a star system, a nation, or an individual — still serves its purpose. That is the nature of Divine judgment. But that judgment reflects our choices.
No matter the specific decision in front of us, the essential choice is always the same: Will I refine my character or give in to chaos? Will I choose good, or not? Sometimes the good is obvious. Sometimes it’s murky. But once it becomes clear to us, the choice between life and death becomes real.
And it doesn’t have to be a big choice.
When I was in my twenties and thirties, whether or not I exercised didn’t seem all that important. Sure, being in shape would have enhanced my life, but it wasn’t urgent. Now, with the blessing of chronic back issues, I’ve embraced exercise and better eating habits — and I can tell you, it’s been good for my life!
Everything our knowledge touches — the eitz haDaas, the Tree of Knowledge — confronts us with a choice: what we know is good versus what we know will harm us, even if we want it. I love my wife’s chocolate cake (Bubby’s recipe), but if I don’t limit it to Shabbos, I suffer. Not exactly a good choice for life.
When the issues are more serious than cake — as they often are — the choices are more complex. But always, the deeper we understand, the more our choices reflect not just instinct, but will. That’s power.
To get to the root of life, we have to get to the purpose for which we were created: to relate to God — not only as our Creator, but as our Provider, our Teacher, our Source of guidance, joy, and healing.
To fail at this is to be like a tree without roots — easily blown over by the wind.
The task of choosing good — the task Adam failed at — is now ours. Through our acceptance of Torah, we are challenged to choose a life rooted in God. Because without that, there is no real life.
That moment — when the individual recognizes that their life depends on being rooted in God — that is the moment of planting.
We nurture that seed with study, with prayer, with acts of kindness.
If we do that, then we are choosing life. Real life. Eternal life. And, God willing, a good and meaningful life here on Earth too.
To choose life means to nurse, to draw nourishment, directly from the Source of existence.
When someone does teshuvah — true repentance — it’s not (or shouldn’t be) just to “get” something. Maybe they’re avoiding a consequence. But deeper than that, they’re realizing that life itself depends on this choice. Sometimes it takes hitting bottom to realize that, but the important thing is that we do realize it.
When many people around us are returning to God, we need to make sure our own teshuvah isn’t just imitation. It must be personal. Real. That’s why so many ba’alei teshuvah (newly observant Jews) go through such painful struggles with family or friends who think they’ve “lost it.” In truth, they’ve finally found it. They’ve found themselves.
But that’s only meaningful if they own it. If someone becomes observant because of peer pressure, or just to please an outreach worker, without internalizing the Torah they’re learning, they’ll eventually feel resentment. And if they’re strong-willed, they may walk away entirely.
When observance becomes a fashion statement or social badge, it won’t lead to happiness or fulfillment. And that’s a real tragedy — because Torah does lead to joy. As the verse in Psalms says:
“Torat Hashem temimah, meshivat nafesh” --
“The Torah of Hashem is perfect, it restores the soul and gladdens the heart.”
No one else can be your inspiration. Real inspiration comes from the One Above. But if you feel your spiritual life is flat or dull — pray for inspiration. Pray to the Source of inspiration.
Teshuvah from love will naturally include a desire to bring others closer to God, just as it did for Avraham Avinu.
Love is something we share. If we truly feel it, we want to share it. The degree to which we take responsibility for the spiritual lives of other Jews — our own people — is a direct measure of the authenticity of our teshuvah.
The opposite is also true. Galus — exile — is perpetuated by our unwillingness to stand together as a people. By our petty divisions. By our baseless, personal dislikes.
Baseless hatred happens when we make it personal — when we forget the bigger picture. There are times when we must take a stand to defend Torah values. But never just to defend our egos.
In our Parsha, we read about the “root that bears gall and wormwood,” the person who “blesses himself in his heart.” He separates from the people and their destiny — and Hashem’s anger burns against him.
Why is separating from the people such a terrible thing?
Because such a person was there. He stood at Sinai. He saw the miracles in the desert. He heard the words of the covenant — and yet he turns away. That’s not just turning from Judaism. That’s turning away from the point of existence itself.
Our Parsha begins:
“Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem…”
“You are all standing today…”
The Sages identify “today” as Rosh Hashanah. And not just the Jews of the desert — but every Jew of every generation was present to hear this Torah.
Every Jew is bound by this covenant. Because Torah is life. And we are rooted in parents who were rooted in parents who were rooted in Torah — stretching all the way back.
That’s how we move history toward redemption — toward the beautiful promises at the end of this Parsha.
The miracle of teshuvah is that even if we — or even entire generations — have been “rootless,” we can still graft ourselves back in. Like a sapling to a tree.
The teshuvah of Rosh Hashanah is the wholehearted acceptance of God as our personal King, King of the Jewish People, and King of the entire universe.
This acceptance runs so deep it goes beyond words.
That’s why we blow the shofar.
The shofar isn’t a speech. It’s a sound. It’s a light breaking through the walls of the heart, revealing what’s inside.
This year, may the Almighty find your heart pure. May He find you caring for others, and ready to do your part in choosing life — for yourself, and for all those whose lives you may yet change for the better.
May your roots be deep, and may your fruit be sweet.
But on Rosh Hashanah, we declare that God is the Judge — that it is He who decides who shall live and who shall not.
Is this a contradiction?
I don’t think so.
The Torah doesn’t say that the choice of who lives is in God’s hands. It says the judgment is. That’s a big difference.
Only the Creator can determine whether any part of His creation — a planet, a star system, a nation, or an individual — still serves its purpose. That is the nature of Divine judgment. But that judgment reflects our choices.
No matter the specific decision in front of us, the essential choice is always the same: Will I refine my character or give in to chaos? Will I choose good, or not? Sometimes the good is obvious. Sometimes it’s murky. But once it becomes clear to us, the choice between life and death becomes real.
And it doesn’t have to be a big choice.
When I was in my twenties and thirties, whether or not I exercised didn’t seem all that important. Sure, being in shape would have enhanced my life, but it wasn’t urgent. Now, with the blessing of chronic back issues, I’ve embraced exercise and better eating habits — and I can tell you, it’s been good for my life!
Everything our knowledge touches — the eitz haDaas, the Tree of Knowledge — confronts us with a choice: what we know is good versus what we know will harm us, even if we want it. I love my wife’s chocolate cake (Bubby’s recipe), but if I don’t limit it to Shabbos, I suffer. Not exactly a good choice for life.
When the issues are more serious than cake — as they often are — the choices are more complex. But always, the deeper we understand, the more our choices reflect not just instinct, but will. That’s power.
To get to the root of life, we have to get to the purpose for which we were created: to relate to God — not only as our Creator, but as our Provider, our Teacher, our Source of guidance, joy, and healing.
To fail at this is to be like a tree without roots — easily blown over by the wind.
The task of choosing good — the task Adam failed at — is now ours. Through our acceptance of Torah, we are challenged to choose a life rooted in God. Because without that, there is no real life.
That moment — when the individual recognizes that their life depends on being rooted in God — that is the moment of planting.
We nurture that seed with study, with prayer, with acts of kindness.
If we do that, then we are choosing life. Real life. Eternal life. And, God willing, a good and meaningful life here on Earth too.
To choose life means to nurse, to draw nourishment, directly from the Source of existence.
When someone does teshuvah — true repentance — it’s not (or shouldn’t be) just to “get” something. Maybe they’re avoiding a consequence. But deeper than that, they’re realizing that life itself depends on this choice. Sometimes it takes hitting bottom to realize that, but the important thing is that we do realize it.
When many people around us are returning to God, we need to make sure our own teshuvah isn’t just imitation. It must be personal. Real. That’s why so many ba’alei teshuvah (newly observant Jews) go through such painful struggles with family or friends who think they’ve “lost it.” In truth, they’ve finally found it. They’ve found themselves.
But that’s only meaningful if they own it. If someone becomes observant because of peer pressure, or just to please an outreach worker, without internalizing the Torah they’re learning, they’ll eventually feel resentment. And if they’re strong-willed, they may walk away entirely.
When observance becomes a fashion statement or social badge, it won’t lead to happiness or fulfillment. And that’s a real tragedy — because Torah does lead to joy. As the verse in Psalms says:
“Torat Hashem temimah, meshivat nafesh” --
“The Torah of Hashem is perfect, it restores the soul and gladdens the heart.”
No one else can be your inspiration. Real inspiration comes from the One Above. But if you feel your spiritual life is flat or dull — pray for inspiration. Pray to the Source of inspiration.
Teshuvah from love will naturally include a desire to bring others closer to God, just as it did for Avraham Avinu.
Love is something we share. If we truly feel it, we want to share it. The degree to which we take responsibility for the spiritual lives of other Jews — our own people — is a direct measure of the authenticity of our teshuvah.
The opposite is also true. Galus — exile — is perpetuated by our unwillingness to stand together as a people. By our petty divisions. By our baseless, personal dislikes.
Baseless hatred happens when we make it personal — when we forget the bigger picture. There are times when we must take a stand to defend Torah values. But never just to defend our egos.
In our Parsha, we read about the “root that bears gall and wormwood,” the person who “blesses himself in his heart.” He separates from the people and their destiny — and Hashem’s anger burns against him.
Why is separating from the people such a terrible thing?
Because such a person was there. He stood at Sinai. He saw the miracles in the desert. He heard the words of the covenant — and yet he turns away. That’s not just turning from Judaism. That’s turning away from the point of existence itself.
Our Parsha begins:
“Atem nitzavim hayom kulchem…”
“You are all standing today…”
The Sages identify “today” as Rosh Hashanah. And not just the Jews of the desert — but every Jew of every generation was present to hear this Torah.
Every Jew is bound by this covenant. Because Torah is life. And we are rooted in parents who were rooted in parents who were rooted in Torah — stretching all the way back.
That’s how we move history toward redemption — toward the beautiful promises at the end of this Parsha.
The miracle of teshuvah is that even if we — or even entire generations — have been “rootless,” we can still graft ourselves back in. Like a sapling to a tree.
The teshuvah of Rosh Hashanah is the wholehearted acceptance of God as our personal King, King of the Jewish People, and King of the entire universe.
This acceptance runs so deep it goes beyond words.
That’s why we blow the shofar.
The shofar isn’t a speech. It’s a sound. It’s a light breaking through the walls of the heart, revealing what’s inside.
This year, may the Almighty find your heart pure. May He find you caring for others, and ready to do your part in choosing life — for yourself, and for all those whose lives you may yet change for the better.
May your roots be deep, and may your fruit be sweet.