We now begin a new series for the month of Elul. The Chida, in his sefer מורה באצבע (letter 243), teaches that Elul is a time of Teshuvah, and the essential work of Teshuvah is to examine one's deeds.
It is therefore a good practice, every night before going to sleep, to review what happened that day. The Chida writes that one should do this from Rosh Chodesh Elul through Yom Kippur—and ideally, every day of one's life. He cites the Zohar, which describes Tzadikim who were called מארי דחושבנא ("masters of accounting")—those who constantly calculated and took account of their lives. At the very least, he says, one should engage in this practice during the forty days of the Yamim Noraim. It is noteworthy that the Chida refers to all forty days as Yamim Noraim.
As we have noted many times, our calendar never begins at an arbitrary point; each month is a continuation of the one before it. Elul is not a restart button—Elul flows directly out of Av. How so?
Rav Wolbe, in sefer עלי שור (vol. 2, p. 412), raises the famous question: how can we treat Tisha B'Av as a מועד (a holiday), when it commemorates our distancing ourselves from Hashem? He brings the answer from his teacher, Rav Yerucham Levovitz: there are two kinds of holidays—holidays of closeness and holidays of distance. Rosh Hashanah is a holiday of closeness; Tisha B'Av is a holiday of distance.
The obvious question is: what does this mean? How can distance be cause for a holiday? Rav Wolbe explains that there are three possible spiritual states:
Closeness to Hashem (קירוב): A living, felt relationship with God.
Distance from Hashem (ריחוק): Painful, but still a relationship—a point of connection.
Apathy: A state in which a person is neither close nor far. As Rabbeinu Yonah writes: מקרב לבם אבד חשבון על נפשם ("From their heart, all accounting of their soul has been lost"), and he adds: וכמה הם במדרגה תחתונה ("How low a level they occupy")—this is the lowest state of all.
This is what Rav Yerucham meant. Distance is still a relationship. But a person who is neither close nor far is simply floating in the air. Such people may believe they are complete and perfect, yet they are profoundly distant—convincing themselves they are performing mitzvot even while committing sins. This is why HaKadosh Baruch Hu declares through Yirmiyahu: הנני נשפט אותך ("Behold, I will enter into judgment with you")—על אמרך לא חטאתי ("because you say, 'I have not sinned'"). The judgment is not for the sin alone, but for the denial of it.
Rav Wolbe explains that this self-deception defined the generation leading up to the Churban. When the Churban finally came, their eyes were opened, and they suddenly realized how far they had drifted. Paradoxically, this was the beginning of repair: for the first time, they knew where they stood. Yes, they were far—but awareness of distance meant they once again had a connection, a real relationship with God.
This resolves the famous question of the Keruvim. As the generation's sins increased and their level declined, the Keruvim turned progressively away from each other until they stood back-to-back. Yet when the enemy entered the Beit HaMikdash, the Keruvim were found embracing. Why? Because once the enemy entered and the people recognized their distance, a new relationship began. By contrast, a person who has lost all spiritual accounting has no connection whatsoever—the worst possible state, a life built on falsehood.
The first step toward Teshuvah, therefore, is knowing where you are: קרוב ה' לכל קוראיו ("Hashem is close to all who call upon Him")—לכל אשר יקראוהו באמת ("to all who call upon Him in truth"). To begin the high holiday season, we must first know where we truly stand. Out of that cheshbon comes the decision of what to change and how to change. Nothing can change unless we know where we are—we cannot treat the disease without a diagnosis. That is our first step.
There is a second strong connection between Av and Elul. The zodiac symbol of Av is the אריה (Aryeh)—Leo, the lion. The lion alludes to Nevuchadnezzar, the conqueror who destroyed the first Beit HaMikdash; the Gemara relates that he rode upon a lion, and it was his symbol. Yet the pasuk in Amos (3:8) states: אריה שאג מי לא יירא ("The lion has roared; who will not fear?"). The Shelah HaKadosh, in masechet Rosh Hashanah, records that the Rabbis of old found a siman in the word אריה itself:
א (Aleph): Elul
ר (Reish): Rosh Hashanah
י (Yud): Yom Kippur
ה (Hey): Hoshana Rabba
That is the roaring lion. From the lion of the conqueror, we take up the lion of God—the אריה שאג, God as the roaring lion, roaring over the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. We transform the Aryeh of the enemy into the Aryeh of the loving Father.
The Piskei Pinchas offers a mashal: a father dressed up as a lion on Purim and entered the house. When his child saw the lion, he began to run away—until he noticed his father's feet beneath the costume, and then ran straight into his father's arms, knowing it was really his father underneath all along. This is where we now stand—at the Aleph of the Aryeh.
There is a further connection here, which we will begin developing tomorrow, concerning commitment to the future. During Elul, we prepare our kabbalah—the new commitment we will take upon ourselves. Rav Yisroel Salanter told his students that this is precisely the work of Elul:
Elul: We prepare and formulate our commitment.
Rosh Hashanah: God writes—and we, too, write down our commitment.
Yom Kippur: God seals—and we, too, seal our commitments to God.
Hoshana Rabba: God hands over the final decree to be carried out—and we, too, take a final look at our own "piece of paper." Did the commitment we made at Ne'ila, when we stood at a spiritual high, truly take hold? Does it still stand? If not, we reassess.
This is our introduction to the concept of kabbalot—accepting commitments upon oneself. But as we have seen, it is all rooted in cheshbon hanefesh, and be'ezrat Hashem we will continue to develop this theme.