Moses’ Final Teaching: Owning Our Own Future (Nitzavim)
As we come to the close of the Book of Deuteronomy, the urgency of Moses’ words is palpable. Moses is preparing to leave his people, and there is a heightened intensity as he speaks — more than just wisdom, it’s his heart crying out. This isn’t truly new information; much of Deuteronomy is a recap of the journey that began with Moses’ birth. But there is a weight to these words, compounded by the fact that they are some of his last.
We read this parsha, and it feels heavy — not because of new teachings, but because of the raw emotion. Jewish tradition itself is filled with this kind of emotion. I often find myself wondering, in any spiritual space that doesn’t touch my heart, where is the disconnect? Is it me? Is it the presentation? Is it the historical moment we are in? Spirit is not something we are meant to engage with intellectually alone — it must stir something deep within. Especially in moments like our current one, Jewish spiritual gatherings are meant first and foremost for tribal connection and shared emotion.
For Moses, it meant everything. For forty years, he labored to free a people, not just from external bondage but from their own internal limitations. Remember, when Moses first returned to Egypt to declare liberation, his fellow Israelites couldn’t hear him. Their spirits were crushed, their breath shortened — literal and emotional constriction from generations of oppression and loss of dignity.
Now, at the end of his life, when Moses speaks, it’s not just knowledge we are receiving — it’s thunder. His voice echoes through the ages. And, as we approach the beginning of the High Holiday season in the next week and a half, there is a profound emotional resonance. The melodies return, familiar and stirring, touching our very raw souls with their power, as do the deep emotions we’ve been carrying through a very difficult year for Am Yisrael, for the Jewish People. These truly are our Days of Awe — only moreso.
But it is in this week’s parsha that we find something critical for us to hold onto — not just our humanity, but the accessibility of God and spirit. In Deuteronomy 30:11, we read:
“Surely, this instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens that you should say, ‘Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and impart it to us that we may observe it?’ Neither is it beyond the sea that you should say, ‘Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?’ No, the thing is very close to you — in your mouth and in your heart — to observe it. (Deut. 30:11–14)”
Moses is saying to us: Torah is yours. Torah, “the unfolding narrative of the Jewish People” (as per Rabbi Ellie Spitz), is not in the heavens; it’s not across the sea. It’s right here, in our mouths, in our hearts. It is within us to utilize for strength and healing.
The Torah’s greatest gift to the Jewish People is a trajectory of self-sufficiency. We don’t need a miracle worker to split the sea, we don’t need someone to climb up into the clouds. We have what we need. Moses’ leadership was never about creating dependence — it was about empowering us to move forward on our own, being the miracle we need in the world.
Every generation’s mandate is to make itself unnecessary for the next. We pass on wisdom, strength, and love, but the goal is not to be essential forever. Our children will grow up knowing things we wish they didn’t. And when they take the reins, they will look back at us and wonder: why did we wait? Why did we act as if we were waiting for someone to come down from heaven to tell us what to do, when the answers were already within us?
May our children not forget what we sometimes do. May they teach us, while we still hold power, how to do the right thing. In Moses’ time, there were two generations: those who left Egypt, but carried an enslaved mentality and couldn’t handle the freedom they were given, and those born in the wilderness — hardened, rugged, and ready to forge a new future. We stand at a similar crossroads today, and are fighting with everything we’ve got for a future worthy of our children’s trust.
The Torah says that the covenant is not just with us, but with those to come. As we begin this new year with intentional hope and redoubled Jewish passion, let us be humble enough to remember that the work we do is not about us — it’s for the next generation.
Our task is to rebuild, to plant seeds once again, and to draw bright lines toward a Jewish future that can stand the test of time. It’s not easy, but it’s possible. It’s not up in the heavens or across the sea. It’s right here, with us, now.
May we rise to this holy work — together.