Poor at The Start, Rich at The End

By Rabbi Moshe Krieger, Yeshivas Bircas HaTorah (www.bircas.org)

Every day from Rosh Chodesh Elul all the way through Hoshana Rabbah, right after davening, we say one particular chapter of Tehillim (27), which begins, “L’Dovid, Hashem ori v’yishi” — Hashem is my light and my salvation. Why this psalm? What does it have to do with the Yemei HaDin — the Days of Judgment — Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah? If we can figure out the connection, maybe it will teach us something about what our avodah —service of Hashem — is supposed to look like right now.

The Midrash Tehillim gives us the key. Ori, my light, refers to Rosh Hashanah. Yishi, my salvation, refers to Yom Kippur. The Yom Kippur half is easy to understand. Yom Kippur is when we go through the whole teshuvah process — we do teshuvah, repentance — and Hashem forgives us. That’s a salvation, plain and simple. But why is Rosh Hashanah called “my light”? What light do we actually have on Rosh Hashanah?

Rav Yehuda Cabeza, in his sefer, Vayomer Yehudah, explains this beautifully. He takes us back to the day Adam HaRishon was created. The instant man came into the world, one thing was perfectly clear to him: there is a King, and there is a servant — a son — standing before that King. That clarity was itself called light. And that same light of Hashem’s kingship comes back every single year, on Rosh Hashanah. The light returns, and it’s waiting there for us to take hold of it.

That’s our avodah on Rosh Hashanah: to internalize that light, to make it part of us. That’s why we keep saying “HaMelech, HaMelech HaKadosh” — the King, the Holy King! Look at the whole tefillah, the Shemoneh Esreh, the chazaras hashatz — it’s all built around one idea: Hashem controls everything, from the day a person is born until the day he dies, his parnassah — his livelihood — his peace, all of it. We’re trying to make this a little more real, to work it a little deeper into ourselves. And it isn’t only for the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah — we want this awareness to stay with us the whole year.

There’s a Midrash Tehillim that says something remarkable: a person comes into Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur almost like a dead man, and comes out like a beriah chadashah — a brand-new creation, more connected, more aware that Hashem is running the world. His davening on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur changes him completely.

We also daven that this clarity should spread to all the nations, that everyone should recognize Hashem’s Kingship. There’s a Tosafos in Rosh Hashanah (16b) that says Satan actually thinks, when we blow the two sets of shofar, that the world’s wickedness — including himself — is being swallowed up, and that Mashiach is about to come. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet. But that’s exactly what our tefillos and tekios on Rosh Hashanah are working toward: spreading this light until, b’ezras Hashem, Mashiach comes.

There’s another point that we can learn from “L’Dovid, Hashem ori v’yishi”. Hashem’s Name appears in this Tehilla exactly thirteen times, corresponding to the Yud-Gimmel Middos, the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy. That’s telling us something important: on Rosh Hashanah, you need a lot of rachamim — mercy. There’s a real din going on, whether people realize it or not. It’s a din of life and death, and everything that’s contained in life. We might not make it. That’s why we say, “Zochreinu lechayim” — remember us for life.

Most people don’t walk around thinking they’re going to die this year. They’re not afraid of it. But take a look around you. There are people a little younger than you, a little older than you, who were here last Rosh Hashanah and aren’t here this year. Some got sick, some had accidents happen to them — but they’re not here. At the beginning of last year, they weren’t afraid either. But there is a din, and Hashem checks all our ma’asim. We need to turn to Him and ask for rachamim.

So when you say “Zochreinu lechayim,” mean it: please have mercy on me, give me another year, give me another chance to live. And then you say, “Lema’ancha Elokim chayim” — I want to live for Your sake. Think about what that means. I want my life so that I can serve Hashem better, that’s why I need it. Asking for life for Hashem’s sake, is itself something that draws down rachamim.

Rav Yerucham Bordiansky, mashgiach of Yeshivas Kol Torah, added that even the malchuyos — the verses about Hashem’s kingship that we say in Mussaf — work the same way. Declaring that we are really part of Hashem’s kingdom itself brings rachamim, because a king takes care of his own. The Sforno (Vayikra 23:24), says this directly: a person who makes himself part of Hashem’s kingdom, who says “Hashem is my King” and means it, causes Hashem to give him special rachamim, special yeshuah — salvation.

The tekios also cause rachamim. A Midrash on Devarim says that when Hashem hears the tekios, He gets up, so to speak, from the Kisei HaDin — the Throne of Judgment — and sits down on the Kisei Rachamim — the Throne of Mercy. Why? Because the tekios are a kind of anointing of the King. Rav Saadyah Gaon, in his first explanation of the shofar, says exactly this: blowing the shofar is making a whole ceremony out of anointing Hashem as King. But we have to actually want it — we have to show that we’re happy to be part of His kingdom, which is why the Gaon himself was so happy every time he blew the shofar. Rashi (Rosh Hashanah 16b) adds that blowing the shofar has to show your ahavah — your love for Hashem. Showing that love is exactly what causes such great rachamim.

There’s a Gemara in Rosh Hashanah (16b) that says a person has to make himself poor on Rosh Hashanah — and whoever was poor at the beginning of the year will be rich by the end. What does it mean to be poor? It means feeling: I don’t really have the ma’asim to deserve anything. Everything I have this year, I might not have next year. Nothing is guaranteed. So I ask Hashem for rachamim — please, give me another chance.

Rav Chaim Friedlander once told his talmidim, right before Rosh Hashanah, when he was sick in bed and couldn’t get up to speak to them in person: “I want to tell you one thing. You have to feel that everything you have this year, you might not have next year. It’s a new din. Nothing is owed to you, nothing is guaranteed.” He said Hashem made it easy for him that year, because being sick, he could feel it without even trying. But all of us have to feel this way. And if we do, Hashem will hear our tefillos, and we’ll be zocheh to a good year.

The Brisker Rav, whenever he had an extra minute on Rosh Hashanah, would say Tehillim — finishing the whole sefer Tehillim over the course of the day. Someone once asked him why he didn’t learn Gemara instead. He used to, he said, but then he realized: all year, a person builds up merits like a businessman building up his account, but on Rosh Hashanah that account goes back to zero. It’s a new start, and he needs new merits. When he learned Gemara and hit a hard kasha, he’d have to get up and search his sefarim for the answer — and that felt like bittul zman, wasted time, on a day when every minute had to count. That’s why he said Tehillim instead.

One year, Rav Elyakim Schlesinger came to the Brisker Rav’s house and found him in the corner, saying Tehillim, crying, clearly frightened. He asked him what happened — was he davening for someone who was sick? The Brisker Rav said no. “It’s Rosh Hashanah. There’s a din. There’s a real fear here. You have to daven with a lot of kavannah”.

May we be zocheh that Hashem should hear all our tefillos and that we should be written and sealed for a good, sweet year. Amen.