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Shabbos Shuva: Transforming Mistakes Into Merits

 

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Why we cast our sins into water—and how the past can be redeemed

Dear Friends,

On Rosh Hashanah, we walk to the water’s edge and perform Tashlich, casting our sins into the flowing current. But why water? Before Pesach, we burn our chametz in fire. Shouldn’t sin—far more serious than crumbs of bread—also be destroyed in fire?

The answer lies in the very nature of sin, and of teshuvah. Chametz has no redeeming quality on Pesach—it contradicts the festival’s essence of humility and simplicity, and so it must be obliterated. But sin is different. Our missteps are woven into our life’s story. We cannot burn them out of existence. They happened. They are part of us. What we can do is transform them.

Water, unlike fire, does not destroy. It absorbs, carries, and nourishes. We drink water; we depend on it for life. By casting sins into water, we acknowledge that the past cannot be undone—but it can be elevated. The water that receives our sins at Tashlich returns two weeks later on Sukkos at the Simchas Beis Hashoevah, the Festival of the Water Drawing. In the Beis HaMikdash, that very water was poured joyously on the altar. Symbolically, the water that “carried” our sins has been transformed into an offering before Hashem. That is teshuvah—not erasure, but redemption.

The Talmud tells us that the baal teshuvah, the one who returns, reaches a place higher than even the perfectly righteous. Why? Because the very mistakes of his past become the catalyst for deeper connection. What once pulled him down now lifts him higher.

The Tea Room That Redeemed a Mistake

Congregation Shomrei Shabbos in Boro Park is famous for its tea room. Always stocked with tea, coffee, and refreshments, it ensures that no one has to rush through prayers on account of an empty stomach. But behind this tea room lies the story of one man’s mistake—and his redemption.

As a young yeshiva student, he once went out on a date with a young woman. As the sun began to set, he excused himself, hurriedly prayed Mincha, and returned. She observed his haste and decided: this was not the man for her. He was hurt, but he realized she was right. Prayer is not something to rush. From that day forward, he resolved that no one should ever feel the need to hurry their prayers because of physical hunger.

He established a tea room in his shul, always ready with drinks and snacks, so that people could pray calmly and with presence. Years later, he learned of the passing of that same young woman. He requested that her funeral procession pass the Shomrei Shabbos shul. As it did, he opened the doors wide, turned the coffin toward the building, and said: “See this place where thousands have prayed without haste—it is all thanks to you.”

What began as his youthful misstep became a lifelong legacy of blessing. He could not erase the past, but he elevated it.

“We cannot burn away yesterday’s mistakes—but we can transform them into the very fuel of tomorrow’s growth.”

This Shabbos Shuva, that is our calling.

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New

 

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Returning Souls, Restoring Hope. (and a “hot off the press” account...)

 

Dear Friends,  

In this week’s parsha, we encounter the mitzvah of Hashavas Aveida – the obligation to return a lost item to its rightful owner (Devarim 22:1–3). On the surface, the mitzvah seems practical and straightforward: if you find your neighbor’s ox, sheep, or cloak, you cannot ignore it; you must take responsibility and restore it to its owner. But as Rabbeinu Bachya explains, the principle behind this mitzvah goes far deeper. It is a window into the essence of Jewish life itself – the sacred bond of areivut, mutual responsibility. Being Jewish means I am responsible not only for my belongings, but also for yours; not only for my physical welfare, but also for your spiritual wellbeing.

Our sages expand the idea of returning lost objects into returning lost lives. Just as property can be misplaced, so too can hope, purpose, and faith. At times, the soul wanders, veers off course, or even feels forgotten. The mitzvah of Hashavas Aveida challenges us to see these “lost souls” and take responsibility – to help guide them back, to restore hope where hope was fading.

This Sunday, our community embarks on a Soul Trek to the Ohel, the resting place of the Rebbe. It is a sacred pilgrimage in preparation for Rosh Hashanah, when we stand before G-d to be inscribed for a new year of life, health, and blessing. The Rebbe’s tombstone is striking in its simplicity. Despite the thousands of books written about his teachings and the global movement he inspired, the words etched on his stone mirror those of his predecessor, the Previous Rebbe. There is but one accolade: “V’rabim heishiv mei’avon” – “He returned many from sin.” Or more broadly, he restored countless lost souls.

This is the Rebbe’s enduring legacy: to return what was lost. To redeem souls that had wandered. To infuse hope into hearts that felt broken.

It is no coincidence that the letter we write before entering the Ohel is called a P’an – short for Pidyon Nefesh, a redemption of the soul. This act acknowledges that over the past year our souls may have drifted, distracted or burdened. At the Ohel, in the presence of the Rebbe, the shepherd of souls, we find our way back. We reconnect to our truest selves, and we walk away renewed.

This past week, I felt this theme of “returning and restoring” in unexpected ways. The week began in New York at the wedding of the daughter of our dear community members, Uri and Wendy Ottensosser. It ended in Atlanta at the wedding of my niece, Mira. Both celebrations were radiant moments of renewal – where two people commit to journey through life together, never allowing the other to be “lost.”

While in New York, I had lunch with my friend Rabbi David Cohen, publisher of the Algemeiner Journal. He shared with me a remarkable story from his shul in the Five Towns from last Shabbos. At the Torah reading, a community member named his newborn daughter: “Chaya Mushka.” The congregation gasped. Everyone knows that this was the name of the Rebbe’s wife, Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka. Yet this family had no connection to Chabad. At the kiddush, the father explained. After many years of infertility and being told by doctors there was no hope, he and his wife had all but given up. Out of desperation, he went to the Ohel for the first time. Standing there, he prayed for a miracle, and wrote a letter to the Rebbe. In it he promised: if blessed with a daughter, he would name her after the Rebbetzin. Less than a year later, his daughter was born – and he kept his word.

Here was a man who had lost hope, yet at the Ohel he rediscovered it. Through the Rebbe, his “lost item” was returned to him – his dream of fatherhood, his faith, his joy.

The mitzvah of Hashavas Aveida is not just about donkeys and cloaks. It is about people. About souls. About hope. This week, as we journey to the Ohel, let us remember that we too carry the responsibility to return what is lost – within ourselves, and within others. And in doing so, we continue the work etched so simply, yet so profoundly, on the Rebbe’s tombstone: “V’rabim heishiv mei’avon” – “He returned many lost souls.”

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

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