Shana Tovah, mishpascha. It's almost Rosh Hashanah, which means it's time for the annual ritual of seeing how long the oldest person in temple can blow a shofar without passing out. Also time to stock up on Cheerios for Tashlich—because bread is bad for birds and fish and our local DNR rep ok'd the Malt-o-Meal stuff.

As we stumble toward year 5786, this week's Torah portion is Nitzavim ("Standing"), traditionally read on the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah. The timing isn't coincidental. Like most things in Judaism, it's deliberate, layered, and designed to make you uncomfortable in the most productive way possible.

The portion opens with Moshesummoning everyone—leaders and water-carriers, men and women, children and converts—to renew their covenant with God. It's refreshingly inclusive for a text written millennia before DEI training became mandatory corporate theater. But inclusion here isn't about feeling good; it's about accountability. No one gets to sit this one out because everyone contributed to whatever mess we're in. It's the theological equivalent of a group project where you actually have to participate.

This communal responsibility thing is both comforting and terrifying. Comforting because you're not alone in your failures. Terrifying because you can't blame everything on someone else's poor choices. We're all standing here together, which means we all have to own our part in the year's collection of questionable decisions.

But here's where the portion gets interesting: it introduces teshuvah, the concept of return. Even if you've wandered so far from righteousness that you need Waze to find your way back, the door remains open. Teshuvah isn't just about feeling bad about what you did—guilt is easy and ultimately useless. It's about believing change is possible, which requires a kind of audacity that's either deeply spiritual or mildly delusional. Probably both.

This is what makes the High Holidays more than an extended exercise in collective self-flagellation. Yes, there's judgment, but there's also renewal. The shofar blasts aren't just wake-up calls; they're invitations. The gates of return are always open, which would be more reassuring if most of us weren't so committed to ignoring clearly marked exits.

Then there's the famous injunction to "choose life"—and no, this isn't where we pivot to contemporary political rhetoric that's appropriated religious language for decidedly non-religious purposes. The Torah's version of choosing life is more complex and demanding than any bumper sticker slogan.

Choosing life here means affirming life's sanctity through acts of kindness, justice, and compassion (and *cough* empathy). It's active, not passive. It's not enough to simply not die; you have to actively choose what makes life worth living. For yourself, yes, but also—and this is the uncomfortable part—for future generations. "So that you and your descendants may live." Your choices have consequences that outlast your own convenience.

This is where teshuvah and choosing life converge. Return is the process of realigning yourself with what's life-affirming. It requires taking honest inventory of the past year—which actions brought blessing and which brought harm—and then having the courage to turn toward something better. It's deeply personal work that's simultaneously communal, which is very Jewish: individual responsibility that only makes sense in context of collective obligation.

As the new year approaches, Nitzavim offers both challenge and hope. We've all made choices this year, some better than others. The portion doesn't promise that return is easy—Moshe is talking to a people about to lose him and enter an uncertain future. But it insists that return is possible, and that the choice to affirm life remains ours to make.

The shofar calls, the gates open, and we stand together, imperfect and accountable, ready to try again. It's not a particularly comfortable position, but comfort was never the point.

Tekiah, Shevarim, Teruah, Tekiah Gedolah.