Rabbi Meir Simcha Sperling                  

Return the Diamonds

As we stand just before Yom Kippur, during these special days of Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, we find ourselves at a crossroads. It is a time to return, to reflect, and to reconnect with Hashem.

The Pasuk tells us: “Seek Hashem when He can be found, call out to Him when He is near” (Yeshaya 55:6). This is that time. A time when Hashem draws close to us and makes Himself accessible. He beckons us to return, not with fear, but with love.

Yes, these are serious days and we are being judged. The Shofar has sounded, the books are open, and we are being held accountable. But these days are also deeply beautiful. Similar to the refreshing feeling of a warm shower after a long, difficult journey, teshuva purifies us and rejuvenates us. It is a gift, not a punishment. And when we understand that, we no longer run from it; we run toward it.

There was once a king, mighty and wealthy, and his most prized possession was his crown. It was an exquisite masterpiece adorned with priceless diamonds, rubies and pearls. One day, the king summoned his trusted servant and said, “This crown needs to be cleaned and polished. Find the finest artisan in the land to restore its beauty.”

The servant searched far and wide until he found a skilled craftsman. The man was brought to the palace, placed in a grand hall, and given everything he needed: tools, lighting, and a soft velvet cushion for the crown. The crown was placed before him, sparkling with majesty.

As the man began his work, he marveled at the sheer number of diamonds woven throughout the crown’s intricate design. Then, a thought entered his mind: the king doesn’t know exactly how many diamonds are here... and I have the skill to remove a few without anyone noticing.

So he did. He slipped two small diamonds into his pocket, polished the rest, reset them flawlessly, and returned the crown to the king.

The king was awestruck. “This is magnificent,” he exclaimed. “You’ve done such a beautiful job, in fact, I want you to take on an even greater task.” He led the man into a magnificent ballroom, where an enormous chandelier glittered above, adorned with millions of diamonds.

“I want you to polish this next.” The man was overwhelmed. “Me? I’m honored, but... why me?”

The king looked at him and said, “Because I watched you work. Every moment, I was there, behind a hidden window above the hall. I saw the care you took and your reverence for each gem. I saw everything.”

The craftsman turned pale. He realized the king knew. He broke down crying. “I’m so sorry… My family is struggling and I made a terrible mistake. I know I deserve to be punished, even executed. I can’t ask you to forgive me... I don’t even forgive myself.”

The king bent his head and said, “I’m not going to punish you. I’m just asking you to return the diamonds. Just put them back.” The king bent down his hand to the very man who had stolen from him and allowed him to return the diamonds.

This is not just a nice story. This is us.

Hakadosh Baruch Hu gives us everything—our health, our families, our resources—and yes, sometimes we take from Him. We misuse His gifts. But during the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah and especially on Yom Kippur, Hashem leans down to us and says: “I’m not here to destroy you. I’m not here to punish you. Just return. I still love you and I want you back.”

Even if you stumbled today, and even if it’s Erev Yom Kippur and you’re thinking, “I blew it! I got angry, I said the wrong thing, I failed again.” Don’t despair. He is still here. He still wants you.

These days are not about perfection, but return. Hashem isn't looking for perfect diamonds. He’s not sitting in judgment with anger, but with mercy. He’s bending down His hand, as it were, to give us a chance to return the diamonds.

And all He says is, “Come back… I still want you.”

Rabbi Avrohom Stulberger

The Word that Lifts or Limits

In Parshas Vayelech, we read the haunting words spoken by Hashem to Moshe Rabbeinu:

“Hein karvu yamecha lamus—Behold, your days are drawing near to die” (Devarim 31:14).

The Midrash elaborates upon these words. Hearing this, Moshe, in a moment of profound pain, turned to Hashem and asked: “Master of the world, is it with the word ‘hein,’ behold, that You inform me of my death? That word, hein, I once used to praise You! I said, ‘Hein la’Hashem Elokecha haShamayim u’shmei haShamayim—Behold, to You, Hashem, belong the heavens and the heavens of heavens’ (Devarim 10:14). I used hein to exalt You… and now You use it to declare my death?”

But Hashem replied: “Moshe, it is true that you used the word hein to praise Me, but you also used that very same word at the Burning Bush. There you said: ‘Hein lo ya’aminu li—Behold, they will not believe in me.’ You doubted My people. You cast doubt on their ability to believe in redemption, to believe in Me, to believe in you, to believe in themselves. And because you used the word hein to diminish the faith and power of the Jewish people, now I use hein to tell you that your mission is complete. Your days have come to an end.”

This dialogue between Moshe and Hashem is one of the most emotionally piercing moments in the Torah. And it holds a powerful message for us, especially now, standing at the threshold of the Yemei HaDin.

As we prepare for Yom Kippur, we examine ourselves closely. We reflect on our shortcomings, our struggles, our failures.

But perhaps the greatest failure of all is to believe we are failures. To say, like Moshe once said:

“Hein lo ya’aminu bi—They won’t believe in me.” Belief in ourselves—emunah b’atzmeinu—is essential for emunah ba’Hashem, belief in G-d. If we don’t believe we can change, then teshuva becomes theoretical. If we don’t believe we’re worthy of love, we’ll never feel the embrace of our Father. If we don’t believe in the greatness of Klal Yisrael, we cannot stand before the King and proclaim “HaMelech.”

Let us silence the inner voice that whispers, “I can’t.” Let us never again say, “Hein lo ya’aminu bi,” because Hashem does believe in us. He believed in us even when Moshe didn’t, and He believes in each and every Jew, even when we stop believing in ourselves.

And if He believes in us, we must too.

Rabbi Dr. Yaakov Siegel

Pushed to Righteousness

The Torah states simply: “Kel emunah v’ein avel—G-d is faithful, and there is no injustice” (Devarim 32:4).

The Gemara (Taanis 25a) addresses the theological premise of this statement. If Hashem is truly just, why do the wicked prosper in this world while the righteous struggle? Why do we see people who push others aside, take what they want, and disregard Hashem’s will, while living in comfort and ease? And at the same time, true tzaddikim seem to go through life with hardship and lacking.

This is not just a theoretical question. It’s personal.

A few years ago, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, two separate people came to me with the same pain. “I davened with all my heart on Rosh Hashanah,” they said. “I accepted Hashem’s kingship and I did teshuva. And yet… already, this year isn’t going well. Where are my tefillos? Where is my Shanah Tovah?”

This is the question of Yom Kippur. And it’s not new.

Yirmiyah HaNavi already asked it. “Madua derech resha’im tzleicha—Why do the wicked prosper?” (Yirmiyah 12:1). The answer he received, and one echoed throughout Chazal (see Berachos 5a; ibid. 7a; Maharsha, ad loc.), is that Hashem pays the wicked in this world for whatever good they have done, so that they receive their reward here and now, and are emptied of merit when they enter the World to Come. The tzaddikim, on the other hand, whose reward is eternal, often face challenges here, so that in the Next World their reward will be unblemished and complete.

In light of this, the Zera Shimshon zt”l adds a key idea, especially as it pertains to the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

On Rosh Hashanah, three books are opened: the Book of Tzaddikim, the righteous, the Book of Reshaim, the wicked, and the Book of Beinonim, those in-between (Rosh Hashanah 16b). But shouldn’t there be more categories? What about those who are almost tzaddikim or those who are mostly wicked but still hold onto some goodness? Shouldn’t there be five books?

The answer is that this is exactly the purpose of the Aseres Yemei Teshuva. Hashem, in His mercy, explains the Zera Shimshon, uses the struggles of this world as a tool of spiritual cleansing and transformation. A person who is nearly a tzaddik, but not quite, is elevated through the pains of life, through their tests, through their daily obstacles. The suffering refines them and purifies them, and through that, they are inscribed in the Sifrei Tzaddikim. The opposite is true as well. A person who is nearly wicked but has some small measure of goodness may be rewarded in this world, quickly and fully, so that in the World of Truth, their judgment is pure.

This, says the Zera Shimshon, is a source of chizuk for us during Aseres Yemei Teshuvah. You may feel like you tried, like you davened sincerely, but you’re still facing hardship, and you may wonder: “Why isn’t it going smoothly?”

Perhaps, says the Zera Shimshon, it’s not a contradiction. Perhaps the challenges you face are exactly what push you into the book of the righteous.

And so, we persevere, we daven with sincerity and we accept the challenges. We look toward Yom Kippur not as a frightening day of punishment, but as a day of elevation, as the moment when we arrive refined, uplifted, and sealed for eternal life.

So just hold tight and hold on. Hashem has something good in mind for you. Trust Him.

Rabbi Hillel Feldman

The Hidden Gift

There is a widespread minhag on Erev Yom Kippur: we go around asking our friends and acquaintances for mechilah. We say things like, “If I hurt you in any way… if I said something, did something, maybe I was too harsh, or perhaps I spoke lashon hara… please forgive me.”

Let’s be honest. Most of us don’t look forward to it. It’s awkward, humbling and vulnerable. Asking for forgiveness forces us to admit that we’re not always who we wish we were, and that our words might have wounded and our tone may have stung. And just as uncomfortable as it is to ask, it can be equally uncomfortable to give mechilah. Deep down, we might not want to forgive. Maybe we’re still hurt. Maybe we feel the other person doesn’t deserve it. Maybe we prefer the safety of a grudge over the risk of reconciliation.

But let me share with you a perspective that might change how we see it.

Rav Eliyahu Lopian zt”l offers an enlightening idea.

Sometimes, a person comes into the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah and he hasn’t earned a favorable judgment. The scales are still tipped against him. But in Heaven, there’s a desire to activate middas harachamim, Divine compassion, to give this person one more chance, one more opening for mercy.

So what happens?

The Beis Din shel Ma’alah, the Heavenly Court, creates an opportunity. They send that person a test. Maybe a poor man shows up at his door at the worst possible moment. He’s rude, aggressive, demanding, and perhaps even undeserving. He tests your patience and challenges your temper.

And the question is: how will you respond?

If you smile, give generously, and show kindness even when it’s hard—even when it’s undeserved—then middah k’neged middah, you awaken that same rachamim in Heaven.

So too, Rav Lopian explains, perhaps this is what happens when someone comes to you Erev Yom Kippur to ask for forgiveness. Maybe they really wronged you and maybe they don’t deserve your mechilah. Maybe they’re only asking half-heartedly. But what if this moment—this person, this awkward exchange—is the test? What if this is your chance to trigger Divine mercy not for them, but for yourself?

Middah k’neged middah.

So you choose to extend compassion even when it’s hard, and you forgive even when it’s undeserved. And in return, Hashem, who knows how flawed and frail we are, looks at your flaws, your failures, and says, “You showed compassion. So will I.”

Instead of dreading that moment, we should run toward it. We should embrace it. We should even hope that we encounter someone we find difficult to forgive, because in that uncomfortable moment perhaps lies one of the greatest spiritual opportunities of the year. A chance to earn selichah, kaparah, and the infinite rachamim of Hashem.

So this Erev Yom Kippur, don’t wait to be asked. Don’t give your forgiveness grudgingly.

Chase the opportunity. Chase the merit. Because in the act of forgiving, you may be opening the gates of forgiveness for yourself.

Rabbi Hillel Eisenberg

The Jews in the New York Times

In 2008, The New York Times partnered with the Gallup, Inc. to embark on one of the most ambitious studies of happiness in America. It was a nationwide project, involving hundreds of thousands of interviews conducted by phone, reaching people in every state, city, and town.

The questions were comprehensive. Respondents were asked about their emotional well-being, job satisfaction, physical health, relationships, and overall quality of life. The researchers left no stone unturned in their search for the elements that contribute to genuine happiness. Their goal was to identify which group in America was truly living “the good life” and, perhaps, to inspire others to learn from their example.

The initiative became known as the Gallup-Healthways Well-Being Index. The plan was simple: once the results were in, the findings would be splashed across the Times’ front page. But when the data arrived, something unexpected happened. The results did not align with the cultural narrative. And so, instead of front-page headlines, the story was quietly relegated to the Weekend Review, buried a few pages deep.

Why? Because the group that emerged as the happiest people in America was not the one anyone had predicted. It wasn’t the billionaire tech entrepreneurs of Silicon Valley. It wasn’t the wellness devotees practicing yoga on mountaintops. It wasn’t the influencers sipping smoothies on sunlit beaches. Nor was it the everyday middle-class Americans pursuing their version of success.

The happiest people in America, the study revealed, were observant Jews.

The ones who still dress in ways reminiscent of the early 20th century. The ones who begin their mornings with tefillin and tefillah. The ones who refrain from using technology for twenty-six hours every week, who fast, who pray, who cry over ancient texts, and who whisper blessings over bread. Them.

The world was surprised. But we were not.

Because deep down, we already know where joy resides. Beneath the static and noise of modern life, we know its source. We have tasted it on Shabbos. We have felt it in the warmth of our homes. We have heard it in the laughter of our children and in the quiet strength of communities that stand together when it matters most. We have seen it in the beauty of lives lived with purpose.

This is what this time of year invites us to recover: that sense of joy, clarity, and alignment. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur need not be a season of dread, a spiritual chore to be endured. It can be a soulful reset, a movement from burden to blessing, from guilt to greatness.

Perhaps the sound of the Shofar is not, after all, a divine alarm clock jolting us awake with the threat of “change or else.” Perhaps it is something gentler yet infinitely more powerful: the blast of a ship’s horn at harbor, signaling that the vessel is ready to set sail. A fuller, richer, holier, more meaningful life is waiting. The only question is whether we will climb aboard.

The question is not, “Are you ready to change?”

The question is: “Are you ready to stop missing out?”