As the month of Elul draws to a close and we stand on the threshold of Rosh Hashanah, the Torah portion of Nitzavim (Deuteronomy 29:9–30:20) arrives with perfect timing. This portion, always read in the days preceding the New Year, carries within it one of the most profound and hopeful messages in all of Scripture: the promise that return—both personal and national—is always within reach.

The centerpiece of Nitzavim is the section on teshuva (repentance or return) found in Deuteronomy 30:1-10, which speaks directly to the season we are entering. As we prepare for the Ten Days of Repentance that begin with Rosh Hashanah, these verses serve as both instruction and inspiration for the spiritual work ahead.

The passage begins with a vision of return:

Here we encounter a fascinating debate among the classical commentators: Is this teshuva a divine command or a prophetic promise? Some read these verses as an obligation—you must return—while others see them as an assurance—you will return. Perhaps this disagreement itself reveals something profound about the nature of repentance: it exists simultaneously as our responsibility and God’s gift, our choice and our destiny.

What emerges most beautifully from these verses is the intimate dance between human effort and divine response. The Torah describes a back-and-forth movement that reveals the true nature of our relationship with the Divine:

“And you shall return to the Lord your God and listen to His voice… with all your heart and with all your soul” (30:2), followed by God’s response: “Then the Lord your God will return your captivity and have compassion upon you, and He will return and gather you from all the peoples…” (30:3).

Notice the language: we return (v’shavta), and then God returns (v’shav) our captivity. The Hebrew root shuv (return) echoes throughout these verses, creating a rhythm of mutual movement. We take one step toward God, and God runs to meet us.

This divine reciprocity continues:

Even our capacity for love and connection is renewed through this process of return.

Yet we might ask: after two thousand years of exile, after centuries when God’s hand has seemed hidden, how can we believe in this promise of return? The weight of history, the persistence of suffering, the hiddenness of the Divine presence—don’t these realities make the call to teshuva feel overwhelming, perhaps even impossible?

It is precisely this concern that the Torah addresses in the very next section. As if anticipating our doubts, the text immediately reassures us:

Teshuva, the Torah insists, is not beyond our reach. It is not “in heaven, that you should say, ‘Who will go up to heaven for us and fetch it for us, that we may hear it and perform it?'” Nor is it “across the sea, that you should say, ‘Who will cross to the other side of the sea for us and fetch it for us, that we may hear it and perform it?'” (30:12-13).

Instead, the Torah offers us one of the most encouraging verses in all of Scripture:

Rabbi Obadiah Sforno (c. 1475–c. 1550), in his commentary on this passage, illuminates just how accessible teshuva truly is. He explains that when the Torah says that it is not hidden, it means that we do not need prophets to explain it to us or help with through the process. And when it says that it is not distant, the Torah means that we do not need the distant sages of the generation to explain it in a way that we could do it even while you are still in exile.

In other words, teshuva requires no special intermediaries, no prophetic revelation, no scholarly interpretation from distant authorities. Even in the darkness of exile, even when we feel most cut off from spiritual guidance, the path of return remains immediately accessible to each of us. The Sforno’s insight is revolutionary: teshuva is not an esoteric practice requiring expert guidance, but a fundamental human capacity that we can access directly, wherever we are, in whatever circumstances we find ourselves.

This accessibility is not about minimizing the significance of repentance, but rather about recognizing its essential nature. Just as breathing is both vital and natural, teshuva is both transformative and within reach. It demands nothing more—and nothing less—than our honest engagement with who we are and who we can become.

As we stand before Rosh Hashanah, the Torah portion of Nitzavim reminds us that return is not only possible but inevitable. Whether we read these verses as command or promise, they assure us that our efforts at teshuva will not be in vain. Personal transformation leads to collective redemption; individual return catalyzes national restoration.

As we prepare to declare God as our King on Rosh Hashanah, we are reminded that the path to that recognition—through teshuva—is always open before us. The shofar that will soon sound is not calling us to an impossible journey, but to one that begins with our very next breath, our very next heartbeat, our very next word of truth.

In this season of return, may we find the courage to take that first step forward, trusting that God will run to meet us on the path home.

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