Parashat Vayelekh – Shabbat Shuva
27 September 2025 / 5 Tishrei 5786
“Vayelech Moshe“—Moses went.
Two words that stop me every year. Here is Moses, one hundred and twenty years old, on his last day of leadership, and the Torah tells us he went. Not that he stood. Not that he sat. Not that he gathered strength for one final piece of advice. He went.
Where exactly did he go? It is unclear where he went. According to Ibn Ezra (1089–1167, Spain), he went specifically to each tribe and informed them that he was about to die, and they shouldn’t fear. But maybe the text’s lack of precision is the point. On this Shabbat Shuvah, suspended between the shofar blast that awakened us on Rosh Hashanah and the one that will seal our fate at the end of Yom Kippur, we too must go somewhere, without always knowing the exact destination, but we must go forward.
I’ve been thinking about movement this Shabbat, this in-between time before 2 major festivals. How many of us feel stuck right now? Stuck in patterns we swore we’d break last year. Stuck in grievances we can’t release. Stuck in versions of ourselves we’ve outgrown but can’t quite keep away from. The High Holy Days arrive, and we think: here I am again, same struggles, same failures, same me.
But Moses teaches us something different. Even at one hundred and twenty, even facing his own mortality, even knowing he will never enter the Promised Land, he moves.
And then comes the admission that is literally heartbreaking: “I can no longer go out and come in” (Deuteronomy 31:2). Moses, who split the sea, who ascended Sinai, who argued with God and won – this Moses acknowledges and accepts his limits. No bitterness. No clinging to authority. Just the ultimate truth of his own humanity.
How difficult it is to say those words: I can no longer. We live in a culture that celebrates endless capacity, that treats limitation as failure. But here, in our holiest text, Moses tells us something different. He shows us that acknowledging what we cannot do is itself a form of strength.
This is radical for Shabbat Shuvah. We spend these days cataloguing our failures, beating our chests, and promising to do better. But what if teshuvah also means knowing when to step aside? What if ‘return’ sometimes means releasing our grip on roles that no longer serve, not just us, but those around us?
Moses doesn’t stop with acknowledgement. He turns to the people and commands, “Chizku ve’imtzu“—be strong and courageous (Deuteronomy 31:6). Then he turns to Joshua and says it again: “Chazak ve’ematz” (31:7). Then once more to all Israel: the same words, the same urgency.
Three times. Why?
Perhaps because courage has multiple faces. The courage needed to face our personal demons differs from the courage required to lead others. The courage to admit failure differs from the courage to believe in change. On Shabbat Shuvah, we need them all.
Think about what terrifies you most about these Days of Awe. Is it the conversation you need to have with someone you’ve hurt? Is it looking honestly at the gap between your values and your actions? Is it the possibility that this year, like last year, nothing will really change?
Moses knows fear. He tells the people: “Do not fear them” (31:6). But immediately adds why: “For the Eternal your God goes with you.” The antidote to fear isn’t confidence; it’s the knowledge that we’re not alone.
This truth transforms everything. When we stand for Vidui, the confession of sins, we stand together. When we fast, we fast as one. The very structure of these days reminds us: teshuvah may be personal, but it’s never solitary.
Notice the Hebrew: “hu ha’holech lifneicha“—God is the one walking before you (31:8). Not waiting at the destination. Walking. Moving. In process, like us. Even the Divine is in motion during these Ten Days, meeting us wherever we are, accompanying us wherever we’re going.
And Moses makes these declarations “in the sight of all Israel” (31:7). Privacy would have been easier. He could have quietly transferred his power to Joshua. Instead, Moses chooses transparency.
There’s a teaching here for Shabbat Shuvah. Yes, our deepest work happens in private, when we wake up at night, alone with our fears and shortcomings, the silent prayers, and the tears no one sees. But something powerful happens when we declare our intentions publicly. When we stand together for Vidui. When we fast as one. When we say, in front of everyone, ‘I’m trying to change.’
The portion could have ended with farewell. With Moses’s limitation. With closure. Instead, it finishes with an opening toward tomorrow. Joshua is commissioned. The people are reassured. The journey continues.
This is perhaps the most crucial message for Shabbat Shuvah. We stand here, listing last year’s failures, and Moses whispers, ‘Look forward.’ Your past doesn’t define your future. Your limitations don’t negate your potential. Even endings birth beginnings.
I think about the Hebrew word ‘teshuvah’ itself. We translate it as repentance, but it really means return. Return to what? Not to some idealised past. Not to who we were before we stumbled. But return to the path, return to possibility, and return to the truth that change is always available to us.
So, here’s my challenge for us, as we prepare for Yom Kippur:
First, identify one place where you’re stuck. Just one. And take a step, any step, in a different direction. Moses went. So can you.
Second, name one thing you need to release. A grudge. A role. An outdated story about yourself. What would it mean to settle it with grace, as Moses does?
Third, choose one act of courage. Make that phone call. Have that conversation. Begin that change you’ve been postponing. Remember: you don’t walk alone.
The gates are open. The path stretches before us. God has already begun walking, preparing the way. The only question is: will we join the journey?
On this Shabbat Shuvah, may we find the strength to move, the wisdom to release, and the courage to return. May we walk forward together into a year of blessing, growth, and transformation.
And may we remember Moses, one hundred and twenty years old, still walking, still teaching, still showing us the way.