Rabbi Binyomin Pruzansky

Salute the King

As we approach Rosh Hashanah, there is a question that should be on all of our minds. How can we serve Hashem in the most meaningful way on this extraordinary day?

Rav Yaakov Galinsky would illustrate the answer with a remarkable story from his years in Siberia. One night, while imprisoned in a Soviet labor camp, Rav Galinsky noticed that one of his fellow prisoners quietly got out of bed in the middle of the night. The man opened a small box, removed an old military uniform, carefully put it on, stood at attention, and saluted. Rav Galinsky was puzzled.

A few nights later, he saw the same thing happen again. Finally, he approached the man and asked him, “What are you doing? Why do you get up in the middle of the night, put on that uniform, and salute?”

The prisoner lowered his voice. “Please,” he said, “don't tell anyone. Before I was sent here, I was a general in the Polish army and thousands of soldiers served under my command. Here in Siberia, they are trying to make me forget who I am. They dress me like a prisoner and treat me like a nobody. They want me to believe that I am nothing more than another inmate in this camp.

“But I know the truth. I am a general. So every few nights, I put on my uniform, stand at attention, and salute—because I never want to forget who I really am.”

That, Rav Galinsky explained, is one of the great challenges of a Jew.

Throughout the year, the yetzer hara works relentlessly to make us forget who we are. He reminds us of our failures and points to the times we fell short, the opportunities we wasted, and the moments when our avodas Hashem was not what it could have been. Slowly, he tries to convince us that perhaps we are simply not capable of greatness.

But that is not who we are. We are soldiers in Hashem's army. And more than that, we are His generals.

There may be moments when we do not live up to that rank. There may be days when we stumble, when our davening is not what it should be, when our learning is lacking, or when our choices do not reflect the people we aspire to become. But our failures do not define our identity.

And then comes Rosh Hashanah. Rosh Hashanah is the night when we take the uniform out of the box.

It is the day when we stand once again before the Ribbono Shel Olam and remember who we really are. We proclaim, “Hashem Melech—Hashem, You are our King. We belong to You. We represent You. And we are ready to serve You.”

That is the avodah of Rosh Hashanah: not merely to recognize Who Hashem is, but to remember who we are because He is our King.

When we enter Rosh Hashanah with that vision—with an awareness of our dignity, our responsibility, and the greatness that lies within us—we can begin to become the people we were always capable of being.

So let us make this the greatest Rosh Hashanah we have ever experienced. Daven with all your heart and give Hashem everything you have. And above all, remember who you are. You are not a nobody. You are a general in Hashem's army.

So stand tall, salute your King, and give Him your very best.

Rebbetzin Slovie Jungreis-Wolff

Our Call Home

When we hear the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah, what should we be thinking about?

Before my mother a”h left this world, she repeated the same sentence to me over and over again. She would say, "Sheifaleh (my dear), the world is on fire and we are sleeping." I remember answering her, "Ima, everything looks fine." This was years before October 7th and the countless widows and orphans our people have had to mourn. Yet she kept saying, "The world is on fire and we are sleeping." I didn't understand what she saw or what she sensed, but she had lived through pre-Holocaust Europe, and she recognized something that I could not. Today, I want to tell her, "Ima, we're not sleeping." We have gathered together as Jews around the world with faith and with the desire to wake ourselves up.

The first meditation of the Shofar comes from the very beginning of the Torah. Adam and Chavah were placed in Gan Eden and they had everything they could possibly want. There were no bills, no mortgages, no broken appliances and no worries. And yet they still failed. After their sin, Hashem asked Adam a single question: "Ayekah—Where are you?" (Bereishis 3:9). Obviously, Hashem knew where Adam was. There were only two people in the entire world. The question wasn't about Adam's physical location; it was about his spiritual location.

Sometimes, as couples struggling with shalom bayis sit across one another, I think to myself, "They're such wonderful people. He's a good man and she's a wonderful woman. Yet they can barely look at each other.” At that moment, I find myself asking, "How did they get here?" That is exactly what Rosh Hashanah invites us to ask. We have these precious days to pause and reflect. "Ayekah." Where am I? Why did my soul come down from Heaven into this world? What legacy am I creating? Whose life have I brightened, or whose life have I hurt? Who am I becoming?

The second meditation of the Shofar is to allow ourselves to be re-inspired. Every Jewish soul was once inspired beyond words. How do we know that? Because when we hear the Shofar today, it takes us back to the very first time our souls ever heard the sound of a Shofar.

The Torah tells us that at the Giving of the Torah, there was thunder and lightning, a heavy cloud rested upon the mountain, and the sound of the Shofar grew stronger and stronger (Shemos 19:16). Every Jewish soul was present there. We stood together as one people, and with one voice we declared, "Na'aseh v'nishma—We will do and we will hear” (ibid. 24:7). At that moment we were filled with fire and we were proud to belong to this extraordinary nation. But somewhere along the way many of us lost that fire.

Think about a little child receiving a Siddur for the first time. Watch the excitement in their eyes. They hug it, kiss it and treasure it. Or watch a kallah lighting Shabbos candles for the first time. Her hands tremble as she strikes the match and tears fill her eyes. That is what it means to live with inspiration. Somewhere along the way, familiarity replaces wonder. We still perform the mitzvos, but we sometimes lose the passion that once filled them.

After a shiur on the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah, I received an email from a woman whose daughter, Tovah, had passed away. It was the yahrzeit, and she wanted to tell me about her child. Tovah had been diagnosed at the age of fourteen with a rare and aggressive cancer. Before her illness, she loved to laugh and dance, and even after the diagnosis she carried herself with remarkable dignity. She always referred to herself as a bas Melech, a daughter of the King. She thanked every nurse and technician, and even the doorman at the hospital, and never lost her emunah.

When the doctors finally told her there was nothing more they could do, she turned to her mother and said, "If Hashem wants to take me, He can take me. But Mommy, I think I'd like one more Shabbos. Just one more Shabbos."

She was begging for one more Shabbos.

We already have that gift. We have this coming Shabbos of Rosh Hashanah. The question is: how do we embrace it? What does our Shabbos table look like? What do our conversations sound like? Do our children see that we love Shabbos? The next generation will only love Judaism if they first see that we love it. Passion is contagious and joy is contagious. If we cherish Torah, mitzvos, and Shabbos, our children will absorb that love.

Finally, when the Shofar pierces the heavens, there is one more meditation. Close your eyes, become still, and allow yourself a moment of honest reflection. The Shofar is calling us home to wake up and rediscover who we are.

Rabbi Dovid Horowitz

Don’t Stop Now

We once had a guest stay in our home for Shabbos. He was a fascinating person with an extraordinary story.

He had grown up in Mexico in an illustrious Christian family. His father was the head pastor of an enormous congregation, and religion was very much a part of their lives. But as a young man, this son began developing a deep interest in Torah and Yiddishkeit.

One day, somewhere in Mexico, he happened to encounter a frum Jew. He approached him and began asking questions. One question led to another, and slowly, an entirely new world opened before him. Eventually, he embraced Yiddishkeit and became a Jew.

But his story did not end there.

He came from a family of eight children, and over time, he was responsible for bringing much of his own family closer to Judaism. His mother and most of his siblings eventually converted as well, with several of them ultimately moving to Eretz Yisrael. His father and one sister remained the holdouts.

Yet among all the people he helped bring to Judaism, there was one woman whose story remained etched in his mind.

She had endured an extraordinarily difficult life. She had suffered through experiences that most people could scarcely imagine. And now, as she approached the final stages of her conversion, she was going through what could only be described as Gehinnom on earth. Yet she would not let go of Hashem and she would not let go of her dream of becoming a Jew.

One day, when she was desperately in need of chizuk, he came to speak with her. “How are you?” he asked. She took a deep breath. She closed her eyes. And then she said two words: “Baruch Hashem.” He told us that at that moment, he felt like he had never said those words himself in his life. He said Baruch Hashem all the time and rolled naturally off his tongue. But until that moment, he had never stopped to consider whether he truly meant it.

And here stood a woman who was not even yet Jewish, a woman enduring unimaginable suffering, who closed her eyes, thought deeply about the words she was about to say, and declared with every ounce of conviction she possessed: “Baruch Hashem—Blessed is Hashem.”

He told us that from that day forward, he never said Baruch Hashem the same way again. Before those words left his mouth, he would stop and think about what he was actually saying.

Chazal teach us, “Kol mah d’avid Rachmana l’tav avid—Whatever Hashem does, He does for the good” (Berachos 60b). We know these words, but do we live them? We know that “Hakol bidei Shamayim—Everything is in the hands of Heaven.” But what does “everything” really mean?

It means everything.

Every detail of your life. Every door that opens and every door that closes. From the moment you awaken in the morning until the moment you fall asleep at night—and even while you are sleeping—nothing escapes the providence of Hashem.

Rina was one such person who lived this way. Whatever was happening in her life, she lived with Hakadosh Baruch Hu. And whenever something difficult happened, she had one question. Not, “Why is Hakadosh Baruch Hu doing this to me?” She asked, “What does HaKadosh Baruch Hu want from me in this situation?”

Rina gave birth to a baby boy in New York. The baby was born with severely compromised lungs and serious breathing difficulties, and almost immediately he was taken into the NICU. It became an exhausting ordeal—back and forth to the hospital, uncertainty from the doctors, one concern after another. Then Rina called me.

She was crying. “What does Hakadosh Baruch Hu want from me?” she asked. “We finally have a baby and we're so excited. I just want to take him home. I want to make a bris. I want everything to be normal. What does Hakadosh Baruch Hu want from me?” “What are the doctors saying?” I asked. “I don't understand,” she replied. “They're not encouraging. They're not optimistic. They keep telling me they don't know what is going to happen. They don't know how this will develop. They just don't know.”

I said, “Rina, you know that you have an extraordinary capacity for emunah. So hold on to it now. The doctors are human beings. They can tell you what they see medically, but they cannot determine the future. They don't run the world. The health of your baby is ultimately in the hands of Hakadosh Baruch Hu. “So strengthen your Emunah and daven to the Ribbono Shel Olam. Ask Him to give your son a refuah sheleimah.” “But—” “No buts,” I said. “Listen appropriately to the doctors, but don't confuse their prognosis with a decree from Heaven. Turn to Hashem. Daven. Ask Him, ‘Please, make my baby healthy.’”

A couple of days later, she called me. “You won't believe it! He's getting better! They said that in another day or two, we may be able to take him home.” A few days later, they brought the baby home. Then came the next phone call.

“You don't understand how badly I want to come to Los Angeles. I want my parents to see the baby. I want to be with my family. But the doctor says the baby can't travel.” I told her, “Rina, don't stop now. Keep davening. Whatever you want, bring it to Hakadosh Baruch Hu.”

And she did. She davened. A few days later, the doctor examined the baby again. “You know what?” he said. “He looks pretty good. If you want to fly to Los Angeles, you can go.” There was only one condition. “No bris. He's not ready for a bris.” So Rina called again. “They're letting us come to Los Angeles, but I want so badly to make the bris there. The doctor says no.”

I said, “Rina, why are you worrying now? First they didn't know when he would leave the hospital—and he came home. Then they said he couldn't fly to Los Angeles—and now they're allowing him to fly. Keep davening. Keep holding on to your emunah.” They came to Los Angeles and then they took the baby to a doctor. The doctor examined him and said, “A bris? No problem. You can make the bris.”

That is what it means to live with emunah and what these hallowed days of Rosh Hashanah afford us. A person who truly believes in Hakadosh Baruch Hu understands that Hashem runs the world. And that person understands something else as well: we have the extraordinary privilege of speaking to Him. “I have placed Hashem before me always” (Tehillim 16:8). Hashem is always before us. The question is are we always before Him?

Hakadosh Baruch Hu is here. He fills the universe. There is nowhere we can turn where He is absent. The challenge is that we do not always recognize Him. We do not always see Hashem in what happens to us.

But if we could live in that realm—if we could train ourselves to see the Ribbono Shel Olam in every circumstance—our lives would become entirely different. A person who truly lives with emunah becomes a different person. And his life becomes a different life.

Rabbi Jeremy Golker

I Choose You

The central theme of Rosh Hashanah is, of course, Malchus, coronating Hakadosh Baruch Hu, proclaiming Him as our King. And the central mitzvah of Rosh Hashanah is tekias shofar. But what exactly does it mean to coronate HaKadosh Baruch Hu? And what is the deeper message of the shofar?

Let me share with you a magnificent idea that I heard from Rabbi Hartman.

Unlike malachim, and unlike animals, human beings possess bechirah, free choice. We can choose between right and wrong, between what elevates us and what pulls us downward. But when did mankind first receive this extraordinary capacity for bechirah?

The answer is: when Hashem gave man a neshama. The Torah describes the creation of Adam HaRishon: “Hashem formed man from the dust of the earth, and then He breathed into his nostrils the breath of life” (Bereishis 2:7). At that moment, man became something entirely new. He became a composite of guf and neshama.

The body pulls us downward, toward the physical and material. The neshama pulls us upward, toward holiness and spirituality. And between those two forces exists a tension—a struggle. That struggle creates the possibility of bechirah.

We can choose which voice to follow. We can choose whether to be governed by the physical or elevated by the spiritual. We can choose whether to follow our own impulses or submit ourselves to the tzivui Hashem, the will and instruction of HaKadosh Baruch Hu.

And that brings us to the meaning of Malchus.

The Vilna Gaon famously distinguishes between a moshel and a melech. A moshel rules over people regardless of whether they accept his authority. His rule is imposed upon them. A melech, however, is a king whose sovereignty is willingly accepted by his subjects. A king requires subjects who can choose to accept him.

Before the creation of man, there were malachim. There were animals. There was an entire universe carrying out the will of Hashem. But there was no human being with the capacity to freely choose Hashem.

Then came that extraordinary moment: “Vayipach b’apav nishmas chaim.” Hakadosh Baruch Hu breathed a neshama into Adam HaRishon.  And with that neshama came bechirah.

For the first time, there was a creature who could choose to recognize Hashem, choose to obey Hashem, and choose to bring Hashem's presence into the world. At that moment, so to speak, Hashem could become not merely a Moshel, but a Melech, because now there was someone capable of willingly accepting His kingship.

And perhaps that is the profound message of the shofar. What does a shofar require?

Breath. On Rosh Hashanah, we take a physical object and breathe into it. And through that breath, a sound emerges.

In a sense, we are reenacting that first moment of human existence. Hashem breathed the breath of life into Adam, giving him a neshama and with it the capacity for bechirah. And now, on Rosh Hashanah, we take that breath and return it to Hashem.

We blow the shofar and declare, “Hashem, You gave me a neshama. You gave me the extraordinary ability to choose. And today, I choose You.”

That is what it means to be mamlich HaKadosh Baruch Hu. Malchus is not merely saying that Hashem is King. It is choosing to live as though He is King. It means making choices that bring Hakadosh Baruch Hu into our lives. It means refusing to allow ourselves to become distracted from our purpose. It means listening to the tzivui Hashem and allowing His will to guide the way we think, speak, and live. The shofar therefore carries us back to the very beginning—to the moment when Hashem breathed a neshama into mankind and gave us the capacity to choose.

And every Rosh Hashanah, we are given that opportunity again. When the shofar sounds, our answer is: Hashem, I choose You as my King.