Today is the 16th day of the Hebrew month of Elul. For two weeks now, Jews around the world have marked this season by reciting Psalm 27 twice daily—a practice that will continue through the High Holy Days and the festival of Sukkot (Feast of Tabernacles)—preparing their hearts for the awesome Days of Judgment that lie ahead. The psalm begins with a resounding declaration of faith, but a close look reveals a theological puzzle that has perplexed biblical scholars for generations.
King David opens with breathtaking confidence: “The LORD is my light and my help; whom should I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life, whom should I dread?” But as the verses unfold, this same David—warrior, king, poet—transforms before our eyes into a man wracked with doubt, pleading desperately for God not to abandon him.
How can the same psalm contain such contradictory spiritual states? How does unwavering faith give way to paralyzing uncertainty within the span of fourteen verses?
The Sages in Vayikra Rabba offer a cryptic clue. When they examine David’s opening declaration, they connect the words “my light” to Rosh HaShanah (Jewish New Year) and “my salvation” to Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement). This connection between light and the New Year, salvation and the Day of Atonement, reveals far more than a simple calendar reference. It exposes a fundamental duality that defines humanity’s relationship with the Almighty.
Rabbi Elchanan Samet’s analysis of this psalm sheds startling clarity on this divine paradox. The psalm divides in half, creating two distinct spiritual landscapes. The first six verses radiate an otherworldly tranquility. David declares with absolute conviction: “Should an army besiege me, my heart would have no fear; should war beset me, still would I be confident” (Psalm 27:3). Here stands a man whose faith cannot be shaken, whose trust in divine protection remains unassailable even in the face of mortal danger.
But verses seven through thirteen shatter this serenity completely. The same David who moments before proclaimed fearless confidence now cries out: “Do not hide Your face from me; do not thrust aside Your servant in anger; You have ever been my help. Do not forsake me, do not abandon me, O God, my deliverer” (Psalm 27:9). The transformation is jarring. Where once stood certainty, now trembles doubt. Where once blazed faith, now flickers the terror of abandonment.
This dramatic shift violates our expectations. We anticipate spiritual narratives that move from darkness to light, from uncertainty to faith, from despair to hope. Yet David’s psalm reverses this progression, leading us from confident trust into the valley of spiritual doubt. Why would the Bible preserve such a troubling trajectory?
Rabbi Samet explains that the answer lies in understanding the difference between divine light and divine salvation. Rosh HaShanah represents the experience of “my light,” when God’s light blazes forth with unmistakable clarity. On the New Year, the Almighty reveals Himself as cosmic Judge, His presence undeniable, His sovereignty absolute. Humanity stands before this divine light in recognition of God’s majesty and power. The relationship is clear, defined and unambiguous. Like David in the psalm’s opening verses, we bask in the certainty of God’s existence and authority.
But Yom Kippur embodies the quest for “my salvation”—salvation that can only be achieved through seeking, searching, and struggling. He quotes Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, who captured this distinction perfectly: on Rosh HaShanah, God comes looking for man; on Yom Kippur, man must seek out God. The Day of Atonement demands a private journey of introspection and self-examination. Here, God often appears hidden, distant, requiring us to reach beyond our comfort zones to find Him.
This explains why David’s psalm moves from tranquility to turbulence rather than the reverse. True spiritual growth requires both experiences. We need the assurance of God’s light—those moments when His presence blazes forth undeniably, filling us with confidence and peace. But we also need the uncertainty of seeking salvation—those darker passages when we must pursue God through doubt, fear, and spiritual struggle.
During the month of Elul, we recite Psalm 27 as preparation for this journey, acknowledging that an authentic relationship with the Almighty encompasses both the unmistakable clarity of divine light and the anxious uncertainty of seeking salvation. We cannot remain forever in the comfortable glow of obvious faith. Spiritual maturity demands that we learn to pursue God even when He seems hidden, to seek His salvation even when doubt clouds our vision.
David’s psalm teaches us that religious life is not a steady ascent from darkness to light, but rather a dynamic movement between revelation and concealment, between certainty and search. The same God who blazes forth in undeniable majesty also withdraws, requiring us to pursue Him through the shadowed valleys of doubt and uncertainty. Both experiences are essential. Both are holy.
Why must “my light” precede “my salvation”? Why does the calendar place Rosh HaShanah before Yom Kippur, and why does David’s psalm follow this same progression? The answer reveals a crucial spiritual truth: we cannot genuinely seek what we have never encountered. The experience of God’s blazing light on Rosh HaShanah provides the essential foundation for our desperate search on Yom Kippur. David’s initial confidence isn’t spiritual arrogance—it’s necessary spiritual capital. Without first knowing God’s undeniable presence, his later cries for salvation would be empty desperation rather than faithful seeking. The certainty of the psalm’s opening verses sustains David through the uncertainty that follows.
Teshuva—repentance—cannot occur in the comfortable certainty of obvious divine presence. It requires the courage to seek God when He seems absent, to call out for salvation when we fear abandonment. Only by embracing both the light of Rosh HaShanah and the seeking required for Yom Kippur can we achieve the spiritual transformation that these holy days demand.
The psalm’s movement from confidence to uncertainty is not spiritual regression but spiritual honesty—an acknowledgment that authentic faith encompasses both the clarity of divine revelation and the struggle of divine pursuit.
