Rabbi Dina Rosenberg

This week’s Torah portion, Ha’azinu, is Moses’ great song to the people of Israel. As his life draws to a close, Moses turns to poetry, knowing that song lingers in the heart long after the singer is gone. His words are meant to sustain the people as they move forward into an uncertain future.

Moses compares his teaching to rain and dew—gentle drops that nourish the earth. In the same way, wisdom and strength are gathered little by little, through reflection, learning, and community. Even in times of change and challenge, Ha’azinu reminds us that we are never alone.

In this spirit, we are excited to announce a new six-week series at Congregation Sons of Israel, offered in partnership with DOROT. This program will bring together congregants ages 70+ to learn, discuss, and reflect on the logistical and social challenges of aging with independence. Thanks to the generosity of the Westchester Men’s Giving Circle, the program is offered at no cost.

Like Moses’ song, this series will help us strengthen one another—drop by drop, story by story—so that together we may grow in resilience and connection.

Earlier this week I misplaced my keys. I looked in all the usual places — the counter, my bag, even the refrigerator (don’t ask). I was frustrated, because without them I felt stuck. And then, of course, I found them in the one place I hadn’t checked – hanging on the wall where they were supposed to be. The moment I held them again, I laughed. Nothing had really changed — the keys were always there — but the satisfaction of having them back felt good.

That’s what teshuvah is all about. We think we must become someone brand new, but really, Shabbat Shuva reminds us that the work is about returning. Returning to the goodness that’s already inside us. Returning to the relationships we care about. Returning to the path we meant to walk all along.

And the beauty of this week is that we don’t have to do it alone. Shabbat Shuva comes to give us a pause between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, a moment to breathe, to pray together, and to remember that God is always ready to welcome us back — no matter how many times we’ve wandered off.

This Shabbat, let’s come home — to ourselves, to our community, and to the presence of the Holy One.

Did you know that Nitzavim is always read on the Shabbat right before Rosh Hashanah? That’s no coincidence. Our tradition arranged it this way because the themes of the parsha prepare us for the new year.

When I read Nitzavim in these days leading up to Rosh Hashanah, its opening words strike me in a very personal way: “You are all standing here today before the Lord your God.” Leaders and elders, children and strangers, woodchoppers and water-drawers — everyone is included. Nobody is left out. It’s such a striking image: the entire people, from the most powerful to the most ordinary, all standing shoulder to shoulder. I imagine myself there too — standing among the Israelites before God. Not set apart as a rabbi or as a leader, but simply another person in the crowd, part of something much greater than myself.

And isn’t that exactly what happens on the High Holidays? The sanctuary fills, and we find ourselves sitting next to people we may not see all year long — longtime friends, new faces, children, grandparents, those who come every Shabbat, and those who come only a few times a year. No matter who we are or what our year has been, we stand together before God. In that moment, our differences matter less than the fact that we are here, together.

I find comfort in that image. Whatever doubts, regrets, or struggles we may carry into the sanctuary, we don’t face them alone. Nitzavim reminds us that the covenant isn’t just with individuals, but with the whole community — and that our strength, especially at this season, comes from standing together.

Shanah Tovah U’metukah – May this be a sweet new year!

This week’s Haftarah, from Isaiah 60, begins with words that feel both comforting and challenging: “Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.” Isaiah was speaking to a people who had known exile and loss. He didn’t ignore the darkness they were living through — but he insisted that God’s light would break through, bringing a future of restoration.

We know what it feels like to walk through dark or difficult times. Whether it’s the heaviness of the news, personal struggles, or simply the weariness of day-to-day life, the shadows can feel overwhelming. Yet Isaiah reminds us that the darkness is not the end of the story. God’s promise is that what feels broken will be rebuilt, that peace will replace violence, and that honor will take the place of shame.

In the meantime, we are called to “arise and shine” — to live as if that promised future is already breaking into our present. Each act of kindness, each word of encouragement, each gesture of care becomes a spark of light pushing back against the shadows.

Isaiah’s vision is a reminder that even in the hardest seasons, we are never without hope. God’s light is always near, and with it comes the promise of renewal.

When I was a rabbinical student, my rabbi would come to New York twice a year and take any congregants in the area out for dinner. One time, as we were waiting for the college and grad school students to arrive, my rabbi was approached by an unhoused man asking for money. At first, he kind of waved the man away—but the man came back and asked again. This time, my rabbi took out a few dollars, handed them over, and continued his conversation with us. When we asked why he changed his mind, he said, “I don’t know what this man is going through, and it’s not my job to judge why he needs the money. My job is to give because I can.” That lesson has stayed with me for 25 years—and it’s woven through this week’s Torah portion.

Parshat Ki Tetzei is filled with mitzvot—more than 70—but one message keeps coming up: “Remember that you were a slave in Egypt.” The Torah isn’t just handing us a to-do list. It’s giving us a mindset: don’t forget what it felt like to be vulnerable. When we’re the ones with stability, comfort, or control, we’re supposed to reach back and remember the times we didn’t have those things—and let that memory shape how we treat others.

Ki Tetzei isn’t about ancient laws—it’s about how we live right now. When we feel secure, do we still remember what it felt like to be unsure? When we see someone stumbling, do we recall our own stumbles? This parsha is a reminder that success doesn’t excuse us from kindness—it obligates us to it.