Parashat Haazinu – In the Fog, a Song Still Echoes

This week’s portion, Haazinu, is Moses’ farewell song. At the threshold of his death, aware that he will not enter the Promised Land, he chooses to leave the people not with a speech of triumph, but with a poetic testament: memory, warning, and hope. He speaks not from victory, but from fragility and responsibility. And he tells them: “Do not forget where you come from, do not lose yourselves in arrogance, listen to the voice of history.” 

These words reach us in a time still heavy with fog, scarred by the wounds of October 7th, a date that continues to bleed in our conscience and our skin. Haazinu teaches us that it is not enough to mourn the losses; we are called to transform grief into learning, into shared responsibility, into a renewed commitment to life and human dignity.

In a world that often seems deafened by hatred, indifference, and violence, Haazinu invites us to listen. To listen not only to the cries of the present, but also to the whispers of the past and the demands of the future. And it reminds us that even if we cannot answer all the political or religious questions, we can still sustain the ethical one: How do we remain human in the midst of so much suffering?

Moses chose to convey his legacy in the form of poetry and song. Because song carves itself into the soul more deeply than prose. A song is resistance, word-by-word memory, a bridge reminding us that being human means choosing life, again and again.

And in the heart of that song we hear the image:

“Let my teaching fall like rain, my words distill like dew” (Deuteronomy 32:2).

The Torah is compared to the rain — rain that nourishes the grass, dew that quietly gives life. So too, the words of Torah sustain our very existence and invite us to moral growth. Our sages explain that even the winds, harsh as they may seem, strengthen the grass; in the same way, the intensity of life pushes us to mature, to grow, to strengthen our inner voice.

It is no accident that Haazinu is read just before Sukkot. The High Holy Days are the sowing of seeds: prayers, commitments, decisions planted deep within us. And Sukkot is the time of rain, when those seeds begin to blossom. Beneath the frail roof of the sukkah, we feel the vulnerability of our existence — and at the very same time, we breathe the fragrance of life reborn with each drop of rain. There we discover that what was planted in teshuvah during these days can indeed grow into new life.

Sukkot arrives as an invitation to recognize our vulnerability and our dependence on God. It is not the solid walls or advanced technology that grant us true security. The sukkah, with its open roof, reminds us that our real strength lies in faith, in community, and in hope.

Just as Moses calls upon heaven and earth to be witnesses to his song, we are called back to the essentials: to the awareness that our history and our destiny are written in every act of justice, solidarity, and compassion.

Today, we cry out for the release of the captives, for the safe return of the soldiers, for peace in Israel and throughout humanity. And we also cry out for a world in which, if we cannot banish antisemitism entirely, at the very least we can fight it — through education, through teaching, through honest conversation with those willing to listen and learn, breaking the cycle of hatred and misinformation that spreads like wildfire in the digital age. And we do not cry out from fear, but from the certainty that even in the fog, a song still echoes: a song that does not deny pain, but clings to life.

Here I am reminded of a story told about Rabbi Nachman of Breslov. Once, he asked his students: “What is the most courageous thing a person can do?” They answered with examples of great deeds. But Rabbi Nachman shook his head and said: “No. The greatest courage is simply to begin again — to sing even when your heart is broken.” That is precisely what Haazinu demands of us: to keep singing, to keep choosing life, even when the fog is thick.

We have ahead of us a week to share special moments together in our community sukkah at the JCC. Let us not miss the opportunity to rejoice as a community, especially during the festival that calls on us to be truly joyful.

May this Sukkot find us sitting under the fragile shelter of the sukkah, upheld by the rain of blessing, by Torah as the Tree of Life, by memory transformed into resilience. May the Festival of Booths be for us a season of rebirth, of deep roots, and of shared hope.

Shabbat Shalom umevorach and Chag Sukkot sameach.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier