In this week's Torah portion, Ha'azinu, we see Moses at the peak of his power with words. He gives this amazing, sweeping poem to the people of Israel. It's a song that's meant to be a final witness, a history lesson, and a deep thought on God. The language is beautiful and powerful: "Give ear, O heavens, let me speak; Let the earth hear the words I utter! May my discourse come down as the rain, My speech distill as the dew" (Deuteronomy 32:1-2). This is the voice of a great speaker, a poet whose words are supposed to last forever.
It's a huge change for a man who, forty years earlier, stood before a burning bush and said he wasn't the right guy for the job because he couldn't speak well. "Please, O Adonai," he pleaded, "I have never been a man of words… for I am heavy of mouth and heavy of tongue" (Exodus 4:10). How did the man who felt his words were trapped and awkward become the poet who could tell the heavens and the earth to listen? The answer is all about the different ways you see things at the start of a journey compared to the wisdom you have at the end.
When he was just starting out, Moses was clearly overwhelmed by what was ahead. The job of freeing the enslaved Israelites and facing the most powerful ruler on earth in Pharoah felt impossible. His "heavy tongue" wasn't just a speech problem; it showed his fear, his self-doubt, and the huge pressure of a future he couldn't even imagine. He could only see the giant obstacle in front of him, not the way to get past it. He was focused on what he couldn't do, his own weaknesses in the face of a massive responsibility. At the start, he couldn't find the words because he hadn't lived through the experiences that would give him something to say.
But the Moses we see in Ha'azinu is a man who has finished the journey. He's standing on the edge of the promised land, looking back on forty years of wandering, miracles, arguments, and rescue. He has spoken with God face-to-face, passed down the Torah, and led a difficult group of people through the desert. His voice isn't full of self-doubt anymore; it's strong with the confidence that comes from experience. It is as if the journey itself freed his tongue. He isn't just talking about God; he is singing from a place of deep, personal knowledge that was shaped by the challenges of leadership. The simple, hesitant way he spoke at first has turned into the poetry of someone who truly understands. His song isn't just an order, but a story—the final, powerful summary of a life given over to a divine mission.
This change has a powerful lesson for us as we stand at the beginning of the Jewish New Year. On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, it's easy to feel like Moses at the burning bush. We look at the year ahead and feel the pressure of not knowing what's coming. We look at our own past mistakes and feel "heavy of tongue," like we can't find the right words for our prayers, our hopes, and our goals. The task of teshuvah—of really turning things around and changing—can feel as huge as facing Pharaoh. We know our own limits all too well, and our voices can feel small and not good enough.
But Moses' journey reminds us that the journey itself is what gives us our voice. We don't start with the perfect song. We build it, line by line, through what we do, the choices we make, and our struggles all year long. The first, shaky prayers of Rosh Hashanah are just the warm-up for the song we hope to sing at the end of the year. Moses didn't become a poet overnight; he became one through forty years of loyal, hard work. In the same way, we are given this year not to get to our destination right away, but to start the journey of changing ourselves. As our theme from the yamim noraim (High Holy Days) continues to teach us: "It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it." (Pirkei Avot 2:16)
May we have the courage to step into this new year of 5786, even if we feel we don't have the words, trusting that by the end of our path, we too will have found a voice full of the joy, justice, awe, wisdom, thankfulness, and poetry of a year lived on purpose.
Shabbat Shalom.