This week’s Torah commentary, written by Hebrew Seminary rabbinical student Sef McCarter, has been sponsored by Alan Gotthelf in memory of Ruth (Chaya Ruchel bat Yosef and Esther Malka) Gotthelf.
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Yom Kippur is the day when we strip away illusions. It is the day when masks fall, when excuses no longer work, and when we stand bare before HaShem, asking for strength to begin again. This year, Yom Kippur lands on the week when we read Parashat Ha’azinu, Mosheh’s final song before his death. Ha’azinu is not written as law or story, but as poetry that demands to be heard in every generation. Its words speak of betrayal, wandering, and return, yet also of compassion and renewal. Growing up surrounded by addiction, I hear Ha’azinu’s rhythm differently: Ha’azinu is not only the story of Israel, it is the story of people climbing a mountain they never chose, often barefoot and alone, but still refusing to stop.
Moshe sings, “Yeshurun[, the Israelite people,] grew fat and kicked. You forsook HaShem, who made you; you spurned the Rock of your salvation” (Deuteronomy 32:15). This verse paints a picture of blessing that leads to forgetfulness, a people who trade gratitude for arrogance. Addiction is like this. It begins when someone forgets their strength and chases something that cannot truly satisfy. The Babylonian Talmud, Sotah 3a, teaches, אין אדם עובר עבירה אלא א״כ נכנס בו רוח שטות (ein adam over aveirah ella im ken nikhnas bo ru’ach shetut, “a person does not commit a transgression unless a spirit of folly enters them”). That ru’ach shetut (רוח שטות, “spirit of folly”) is what I saw so many times in people close to me. It convinced them to believe lies, that the very thing harming them would also be their rescue.
Yet HaShem’s words in Ha’azinu do not stop at warning. HaShem declares, “I cause death, and I bring life; I wound, and I heal” (Deuteronomy 32:39). The Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 86b, teaches that teshuvah (תשובה, “repentance”) that emerges me’ahavah (מאהבה, “from love”) can transform sins into merits. Teshuvah is not only about forgiveness, but about turning scars into sources of life. I have seen this in people who have battled addiction and emerged stronger. The very places where they fell became the soil where resilience grew. Their hardest struggles became the wisdom they passed to others who were still in the valley. What once brought shame was reshaped into strength, a living lesson that healing is possible.
Yom Kippur places the act of viddui (ודוי, “confession”) at the center of our prayers. We strike our chests and say together, “We have sinned, we have betrayed,” beginning our litany of transgressions. The Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 87b, teaches that confession is itself a mitzvah, rooted in the words of Numbers 5:7: “וְהִתְוַדּ֗וּ אֶֽת־חַטָּאתָם֮ אֲשֶׁ֣ר עָשׂוּ֒” (“They shall confess the sins they have done”).
Addiction thrives in silence, in the hidden corners where shame grows. I learned as a child that silence was often the heaviest chain of all. When people finally spoke their truth aloud, even trembling and broken, the silence shattered, and healing began. Yom Kippur commands us to break that silence together, not as individuals but as a community, standing side by side.
Calling HaShem HaTzur (הַצּוּר, “the Rock”), Moshe declares in Deuteronomy 32:4, “הַצּוּר֙ תָּמִ֣ים פׇּֽעֳל֔וֹ כִּ֥י כׇל־דְּרָכָ֖יו מִשְׁפָּ֑ט” (“The Rock–His work is perfect, for all His ways are justice”). Addiction shakes everything that feels solid. It collapses trust, fractures homes, and turns love into grief. Yet even in that shaking, I saw those I loved find something firm enough to lean on, even if they could not name it.
Rabbi Chanina, in the Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 33b, taught, “הכל בידי שמים חוץ מיראת שמים” (“everything is in the hands of Heaven except the fear of Heaven”). We cannot control everything, but we can choose to turn. Teshuvah and recovery both begin when we admit that we cannot hold ourselves up, and instead, we lean on the Rock that does not move.
The Rambam, Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, lived in the twelfth century and became one of the most influential teachers of our tradition. In Hilkhot Teshuvah 2:1, the Rambam wrote that complete teshuvah comes when a person faces again the same situation where one previously erred but now chooses to act differently. That is also the definition of recovery. It is not a single turning point but a series of choices that stretch across a lifetime. I have watched loved ones face the same temptations again and again. Sometimes they stumbled, but sometimes they chose differently, and that choice carried them forward. Yom Kippur reminds us that HaShem does not demand perfection, only that we choose again, that we rise again, and that we take one more step on the climb.
The medieval rabbinic anthology Devarim Rabbah explains that Moshe delivered the words of Ha’azinu as poetry so it would never be forgotten (10:1). Poetry and song reach the heart in ways that logic cannot. Addiction is not undone by facts or arguments, but by meaning, by love, by the words that stir the soul awake. That is why Yom Kippur surrounds us with melody and prayer. The cries of the piyyutim and the shofar pierce through despair the way encouragement pierces through the fog of addiction. They remind us that hope is still alive. They remind us that HaShem waits for us even in our lowest places.
Ha’azinu ends not with despair but with hope: “Rejoice, O nations, with His people, for He will atone for His land and His people” (Deuteronomy 32:43). The Babylonian Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 17b, says that HaShem wrapped Himself in a tallit, like a prayer leader, and taught Moshe the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy (understood to be listed in Exodus 34:6-7), the traits that most profoundly define Hashem’s capacity to forgive. HaShem promised that whenever Israel sins, if they recite this order, forgiveness will come. These words are the lifeline of Yom Kippur. Just as recovery communities lean on steps and promises to keep going, our people lean on the unshakable promise of HaShem’s compassion. Even when we fall, the gates remain open.
I was born into addiction. From my earliest days, I saw the people around me battling a mountain they never asked to climb. To use the saying, they climbed barefoot, uphill, in twelve feet of snow, with no jacket—only themselves against that mountain. Sometimes they lost, sometimes they slipped, and sometimes they collapsed under the weight. But I also saw them rise again, battered but not destroyed, carrying on one day at a time. That climb shaped how I see teshuvah. Like recovery, teshuvah is never finished in a single act. It is daily work, a lifelong process of taking the next step.
Yom Kippur is our collective climb. It is not about reaching the top and staying there forever. It is about starting again even when the climb feels endless. Ha’azinu gives us the language for that climb. It names the betrayal and the pain, but it also sings of mercy, of the Rock who does not move, of healing that can come from the very place of wounding. Yom Kippur gives us the courage to keep going. Together they teach that teshuvah is not a moment, but a mountain, and that we climb it one step at a time.
When I stand in shul on Yom Kippur, reciting the viddui with the community, I carry the faces of those I grew up with. Their struggle is my commentary on Ha’azinu. They showed me that, even when the climb is brutal, HaShem is present. The Rock remains steady. The gates remain open. Teshuvah is always possible.
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