The time is solemn.
In a few days, Jews all over the world will stand before the King of the world.
In a few weeks, synagogues around the world will close an annual cycle of Torah reading. Parashat Nitzavim, one of the last sections of the Chumash, opens with a fitting tone (Deuteronomy 29:9):
אַתֶּ֨ם נִצָּבִ֤ים הַיּוֹם֙ כֻּלְּכֶ֔ם לִפְנֵ֖י יְהֹוָ֣ה
"You are standing today, all of you, before the Source of Life, your God..."
If we take the narrative detail seriously: why does Moses begin by reminding the children of Israel how they are physically standing?
Certainly, the moment is one of the most solemn:
like spouses standing under the chuppah, present and future Israel stands as one, as in moments of gravity, ready to receive the declaration of a reminder of the Covenant that will unite them, for better or for worse, with the Creator of the universe.
Notably, they are ready to accept the consequences, as the renewed sequence of blessings (berakhot) and curses (klalot) that follows will sanction their ability to uphold or not what they commit to this day.
If we move beyond the plain meaning (pshat) and think of physical stance as an ethical one, what does it tell us that Israel, at this moment, is standing?
This is the focus of a commentary by Mei HaShiloach on this opening verse. There he questions the choice of the word “nitzavim” (standing).
Standing up is central to Jewish cultural ethos. It is a sign of respect.
In Talmudic times, this is how a student served their teacher: standing by their side. This is also how we say the Kiddush on Friday night, standing before God. And today, it is how we recite the central prayer of every service, which has come to bear the name of its posture, the Amidah, standing still feet together.
Of course, standing is not the only posture of respect. So is Bowing, including bowing to the ground, a practice praised by Maimonides - although one that Jews have gradually abandoned over the centuries in their effort to distinguish themselves socio-culturally from the religious practices of their Muslim neighbors.
However, while bowing signifies respect through the recognition of the Other’s status, standing blends two types of considerations:
On the one hand, it shows respect for the other’s role — for example, the witness stands before the court, the student before their teacher, etc.
On the other hand, it is more functional: when I am standing, I am not resting. I can serve more easily. I make myself available.
This is the meaning of the word "Amidah," which can be associated with the word "amud," pillar.
Even a pillar can be in motion: such was the pillar of cloud (amud 'anan) that guided Israel in the desert. By contrast, the word "nitzavim," which opens our parasha, carries within it the root of "yatziv," meaning stable.
In his commentary, Mei HaShiloach shifts the meaning of "nitzavim" towards the meaning of "la’amod" (to stand), to evoke the notion of " standing firm”/”standing by”:
מי שיעמוד באמונתו ויקבל עליו ולא יתרשל בדעתו
He who stands firm in his faith, takes it upon himself, and does not weaken in his resolve.
The physical position becomes an ethical posture: it speaks to our ability to stand (la’amod) by our commitment.
According to the Hasidic master, this commitment rests not on willpower, ethics, or duty but on something much more elusive- just like the pillar of cloud that guided us in the desert: faith (emunah).
Today, this dual posture — believing and committing — is almost countercultural.
It represents, in some ways, the opposite of the ethos of consumer society: I do not believe, I verify; I do not commit, I can cancel at any time; I do not give, I take; I do not take risks, I ask for guarantees.
But when one is alone in the desert, there is not much to lose. Then, the only thing to do is give ourselves.
Then, the most elusive things, like pillars of cloud, become tangible enough for one to dare trust them.
In her testimony this past winter on an American campus, a young Israeli survivor of the Nova Festival recounted how, as they were blindly navigating a jeep through the desert fields of the Otef, trying to escape Hamas terrorists encircling them from all sides, a voice in her head suddenly told her to watch the birds.
She gradually understood the logic of it: when birds suddenly flew around a bush, it meant shooters were there.
The birds' flights became her pillars of cloud, and they guided her to safety.
Today, the uncertainty around the developments of the war in Israel and the very future of the country make the horizon nebulous.
The country finds itself in a new desert of isolation and uncertainty, both internally and externally.
And from this desert where we find ourselves, in a few days, Jews all over the world will stand again before the King of the World.
On Rosh Hashanah, we will celebrate the birth of the world.
We will ask to be sealed in the Book of Life. Perhaps this is the moment to renew our wager that another future is possible?
Perhaps it begins with a posture as simple as standing firm in our hearts:
Standing firm, as the Mei HaShiloach suggests, for what we believe in.
Keeping our commitments, because one cannot exist without the other.
And in a world where irresponsibility reigns, being ready to accept the consequences of our actions, taking responsibility for our lives.
A posture beautifully sung during this month of Elul by two Israeli artists, Eviatar Banai and Ravid, in this song taken from one of the morning prayers: Hareini mekabel al atzmi: Here I am, I take/accept upon myself.
Then perhaps, the clouds, the birds, or the voices in our heads, will continue to guide us. Perhaps we just needed to dare to believe…
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