The View from Above –
Rabbi Ari Kahn
A few minutes before Rosh Hashanah, I was looking at a Gemara that I’ve seen many times before, and something struck me. Let me read it to you, and then I’ll share what caught my attention.
It’s found on Rosh Hashanah 32b, and it reads:
Rabbi Abbahu said: The ministering angels said before the Holy One, Blessed be He: Master of the Universe, why don’t the Jewish people recite Shirah—(that is, Hallel)—before You on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur?[1]
Let’s pause here. The angels are asking why the Jewish people don’t say Hallel on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. We do say Hallel on other joyous holidays—Pesach, Shavuot, Sukkot. So why not on these two?
Most of us could probably offer an answer similar to the one God Himself gives in the Gemara:
God said to them: Is it possible that the King is sitting on the throne of judgment, with the books of the living and the dead open before Him, and the Jewish people are singing songs of praise?
This response seems straightforward. But I want to delve deeper.
In many sugyot, we encounter a hava amina—a preliminary assumption—and then the maskana, the conclusion. Here, the angels present the hava amina: that Hallel should be said. God responds with the maskana: it’s inappropriate given the gravity of the day.
But this isn’t just a theoretical debate. The angels aren’t simply mistaken. They’re describing what they see from their vantage point in heaven. And God’s response isn’t necessarily a rebuttal of their view—it’s a defense of the Jewish people from the perspective of earth.
Think about it: the angels know full well that the King is sitting in judgment. They see the books of life and death open. So why are they surprised that Hallel isn’t said?
Before answering, let me point out something subtle. You might have expected the Gemara to say “the book of who will live and who will die.” But it doesn’t. It says: the books of the living and the books of the dead.
This suggests that even the dead are judged on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Why? Because their impact on the world continues. If someone studied a forgotten text this year, the author’s spiritual stature is elevated. The living and the dead are intertwined. Our actions can elevate previous generations. This dynamic may be part of the redemptive process—where the righteous of past generations are uplifted through our deeds.
Now, back to the angels’ question.
Every year, they witness the same phenomenon. Perhaps, from their perspective, the Jewish people should be judged harshly. Yet, year after year, we emerge victorious. And not through confession or repentance—those are more central to Yom Kippur. On Rosh Hashanah, we eat festive meals, wear fine clothing, and coronate God as King.
Yes, we acknowledge judgment. But the day is celebratory. And somehow, through this coronation, we “win.” From the angels’ perspective, the deck is stacked. The Jews are going to be found innocent.
This idea is echoed earlier in the Gemara, where God opens three books: one for the righteous, one for the wicked, and one for those in between. To be inscribed in the book of the righteous may require less than we think. It may simply mean recognizing that God created us, that He created the world, and that we are obligated to follow His will.
The Sefer HaChinuch offers a striking insight. He writes that Rosh Hashanah is the day we clear our spiritual debts.[2] Imagine living beyond your means, accumulating credit card debt. God says, “This isn’t sustainable. Let Me give you a day to avoid spiritual bankruptcy.”
Rosh Hashanah is built into the system because God wants the world to continue. He doesn’t need this day—but He gives it to us. He tells us: blow the shofar, coronate Me as King, and I will judge you favorably.
On Yom Kippur, the demands are higher: regret, confession, commitment to change. And even that change may not be sustainable. But on Rosh Hashanah, the judgment is not purely legalistic. It’s infused with mercy. God gives us the opportunity to be found innocent.
God is giving us the opportunity to be written in the Book of Life—or even better, in the Book of the Righteous..
It is essential to emphasize that the solemnity of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur must not be underestimated. On the contrary, these days are marked by profound spiritual gravity and introspection.
But what we see in this Gemara is an extraordinary expression of divine love. God defends the Jewish people against the angels’ critique: “Why aren’t they celebrating?”
The angels have good reason to ask. Year after year, they witness God creating a system of forgiveness for the Jewish people. From their perspective, it’s obvious: this is a time for Hallel, for praise. But God responds, “They don’t know this.”
Their experience is one of awe and trembling. They feel the weight of judgment.
And perhaps that’s exactly how we should approach these days—with deep seriousness and reverence. We must be fully aware of the spiritual power embedded in this time.
But part of that power is the closeness of God, His willingness to forgive, and the system He has designed to purify us.
We can be forgiven. We can be sealed in the Book of Life.
So yes, we take these days seriously. But we also carry within us a quiet joy—a joy born of the knowledge the angels revealed. Deep down, we celebrate the opportunity God has given us: the chance to be cleansed, to be uplifted, to be renewed.
And perhaps that’s exactly how we should approach these days: with utmost seriousness, fully cognizant of the spiritual power embedded within them. But part of that power is the closeness of God, His willingness to forgive, and the system He has designed to purify us.
The Midrash teaches that God is “close to all who call upon Him in truth”[3]. The truth here is not just sincerity—it’s the recognition of our vulnerability, our dependence, and our yearning for divine mercy.
On Rosh Hashanah, we coronate God as King. We declare His sovereignty, not from a place of triumph, but from a place of submission. And in doing so, we align ourselves with the divine will. That act alone may be enough to inscribe us in the Book of the Righteous[4].
Yom Kippur deepens the process. It demands viduy, charatah, and kabbalat al ha’atid—confession, regret, and commitment to change. But even here, the system is built with compassion. The Torah calls Yom Kippur a day of “affliction,” but also a day of “atonement”⁴. The affliction is not punishment—it’s purification.
So for our part, we must take these days seriously. We must engage in introspection, prayer, and teshuvah. But we should also carry within us a quiet joy—a joy born of the knowledge the angels revealed. Deep down, we celebrate the opportunity God has given us: the chance to be cleansed, uplifted, and renewed.
This is the paradox of the Days of Awe: fear and love, judgment and mercy, distance and closeness. And it is precisely this paradox that makes these days so powerful.
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