Posted on 09/12/25
This Motzaei Shabbat, Ashkenazi communities will begin saying Selichot, joining Sephardim who have already been immersed in these prayers since Elul began. With Selichot starting, the lead-up to the Yamim Noraim feels more immediate—you can almost sense the approach of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
Selichot revolve around repeatedly calling out to Hashem’s thirteen attributes of mercy, the 13 Middot. In the next month, we return to these words nearly a hundred times—they become the heartbeat of our tefillot.
A Divine Mirror
We’re not just meant to recite the 13 Middot and move on. Each time we say them, we turn the spotlight back on ourselves. Hashem is merciful—are we showing mercy? He doesn’t repay evil with evil—do we hold back and try to give kindness even when it isn’t deserved? He is slow to anger—are we working on patience? He is truthful—do we live with honesty? The list isn’t only about Him; it is a mirror held up to us.
Repeating these words nearly a hundred times is meant to do more than echo—they invite us to grow, gradually shaping our character in the image of Hashem’s moral traits. We cannot fully grasp God or define Him in human terms, but we can strive to walk in His ways—showing mercy, patience, kindness, and truth.
Human beings possess a native moral spirit, even without religious foundations. Conscience is etched into the heart: a sensitivity to suffering, an urge to relieve it, a basic instinct for fairness. These impulses stir within us even without the cadence of halacha; Hashem Himself engraved them into the human soul.
Yet Jewish morality aspires to more. It is not simply an echo of human instinct but a deliberate effort to model our lives on Hashem’s image. For this reason, it cannot be shaped by shifting social norms or fleeting trends. Morality is not a marketplace but a divine charge—unyielding, timeless, and demanding.
Through a Moral Maze
Over the next month, as we recite the 13 Middot, we reflect on the place of conscience and moral behavior in our lives. Yet the larger moral landscape around us is anything but simple—it is tangled, contested, and often deeply divisive.
Our current war is just, fought in defense of a higher moral ideal. The IDF holds itself to a strict code of ethics, and the data show a remarkably low ratio of civilian to soldier casualties. Still, the conflict has raised painful and complicated moral questions. There is ongoing debate about how—or even if—these dilemmas should guide policy.
We find ourselves in a profoundly tangled moral maze, one that no single person or policy can fully chart. It is difficult to know what the “right” path might be—or even whether this moment of survival allows space for moral values to guide our choices.
There is also a deeply human moral conversation about Charedi conscription. Many defend the morality of the Charedi position, reasoning that if the sources allow Torah study as an exemption from service, then that path is morally sound. If this is what the mesorah indicates, they argue, it reflects Hashem’s will and therefore carries moral weight.
Others question this reasoning. Even if the sources were clear, shouldn’t our own moral instincts also guide us? The 13 Middot were revealed after Torah and halacha, highlighting that moral sensitivity and human decency exist alongside the sources. At a moment that feels decisive for Am Yisrael, these instincts call on each of us to take up our share of the responsibility.
The moral questions surrounding the wider situation—the war and our social divisions—are deeply contested, shaped by many layers of beliefs, assumptions, and religious perspectives.
Small, Gentle Acts
Rather than trying to untangle these enormous moral questions, perhaps our focus should be more grounded, quiet, and personal. Too often, big moral debates become a substitute for the everyday work of living ethically. There is often a disconnect between loudly asserted moral positions and the quiet practice of decency in daily life. Moral effort is revealed not in the large-scale positions people announce and argue about, but in the small, often unnoticed ways we treat others every day.
Since the wider moral landscape cannot be fully charted, our attention turns to the quiet brushstrokes of daily life, where small acts of decency quietly shape who we are.
Especially in this tense moment of our history, when sharp ideological divides have fostered antagonism and bitterness, there are smaller, quieter moral choices that can help us fortify our own ethical life—even when we cannot influence the broader debates. Here are three pathways through which we become more like Hashem:
Forgiveness
Hashem’s mercy is most evident when He forgives our mistakes and failures. From birth, we are shaped by Divine kindness and care, a presence that guides and sustains us throughout life. Yet His mercy becomes most acute when He forgives the ways we fall short. In our own lives, we encounter Jews whose choices offend us or trouble us deeply. Can we nurture the same generosity of spirit, forgiving them as we hope Hashem will forgive us? Forgiveness does not mean excusing their missteps; it means finding a way to release the hurt they cause. Just as our own failings bring Hashem sorrow, can we find the patience to forgive those who wound us? If we cannot fully forgive people for the choices or mistakes they have made, perhaps we can at least acknowledge their positive traits.
Spotting the Light
One of Hashem’s merciful qualities is that He sees the good in us (Rav Chesed), rather than focusing only on our flaws. Each of us is a mixture of strengths and weaknesses. We tend to measure ourselves by our potential and virtues, yet judge others harshly for their shortcomings. Can we at least soften our criticism by recognizing how every part of Israeli society and Am Yisrael contributes—spiritually, morally, and materially—to our shared life? In this, we can strive to imitate Hashem’s way of seeing the good in others.
Holding the Hurt
Finally, if we cannot yet find the space in our hearts to forgive, and if it feels too difficult to recognize the good because the hurt is too deep, can we at least carry the pain without letting it erupt? One of the final qualities in the 13 Middot describes Hashem as bearing our sins (nosei avon va’pesha v’chata’ah). Sometimes that may be all we can ask for—we may not yet merit forgiveness, or our own good traits may feel too few to balance our flaws—but we ask Hashem not to express anger, and to be strong enough to carry what we have done. Can we cultivate shoulders strong enough to bear our own pain, or do we too often offload it onto others?
Over the next few weeks, we will spend hours in the Beit HaKnesset, praying and reflecting on Hashem’s attributes, striving to bring them to life in our own actions. Don’t get lost in sweeping moral questions—they can be confusing and overwhelming. Instead, focus on the small, everyday acts of decency, the simple moral choices we are called to make, especially when we feel weighed down by conflict and heated disputes.