September 7, 2026|כ"ה אלול ה' אלפים תשפ"ו This One is Mine By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

For weeks on end, Oceansiders living in Wedgewood and the Estates areas who have been walking to and from shul have noticed something in front of my house. This week, Baruch Hashem, it was gone.

A few years ago, when I put in the circular driveway in front of my house, I had a tree removed from my front yard.

Most of the tree came down without a problem.

But not all of it.

One piece somehow got caught in the cables along the street in front of my house. It was hanging there, suspended above the sidewalk and the street.

And then it stayed there.

For years.

Recently, I looked up and realized that this large piece of tree was still hanging from the cable, but now it was dangling, perhaps creating a potential hazard if a strong wind blew it off the cable onto the street or sidewalk.

So I called the Town of Hempstead.

“Not ours. We are not responsible.”

I called PSE&G. PSE&G came out and checked the cable.

“Not ours.”

I called Verizon. Verizon came out and checked the cable.

“Not ours.”

I called Optimum. Optimum came out and checked the cable.

“Not ours.”

Everyone was very helpful.

The only problem was that nobody was responsible.

One night, out of frustration, I even went outside with a broom and tried to knock it down like a piñata.

Needless to say, it didn’t work. No candy came out of the piece of tree, and the tree remained stuck. Now Optimum said it wasn’t them, but it was Verizon. But Verizon had already come and said it wasn’t theirs.

Eventually, I called Verizon again and said, “Optimum told me that it is definitely Verizon’s.”

Two days later, the dangling piece of tree was gone.

And I realized something.

Nothing had changed about the tree.

It had been hanging there for a while.

What changed was that finally someone said:

“This one is mine.”

And once someone took responsibility, the problem got solved.

But that raises a much bigger question:

Why is it so hard for us to say, “This one is mine”?

When something goes wrong in our lives, our instinct is often to look outward.

Who is responsible?

Who should have done something?

Who caused this?

But when it comes to teshuvah, there is a more important question:

What part of this is mine?

Because we are remarkably good at finding reasons why something isn’t entirely our fault.

“I could have handled it better, but I was exhausted.”

“I shouldn’t have said that, but they provoked me.”

Maybe those explanations are true.

But there is a dangerous word hidden inside all of them:

But.

“But” can become a very sophisticated way of saying:

Not mine.

And as long as we are still saying, “Yes, but…” the piece is still hanging.

That is one of the remarkable things about the Viduy that Ashkenazim are about to begin saying tonight in Selichot.

Ashamnu

We have sinned.

Bagdnu.

We have betrayed.

Gazalnu.

We have stolen.

There is no “but.”

We simply say:

Ashamnu.

We own it.

Before we ask God for forgiveness, we have to stop negotiating with ourselves.

We have to be able to say:

This one is mine.

But that is only the beginning.

Because I can say the right words without allowing them to change me.

And that is where Moshe’s words in this week’s parsha become so important.

At the end of Nitzavim, Moshe says:

“Lo bashamayim he… v’lo mai’aver la-yam he… ki karov eilecha ha-davar me’od”

This mitzvah is not in heaven.

It is not across the sea.

It is very close to you.

“B’ficha uvilvavcha la-asoto.”

In your mouth.

In your heart.

To do it.

The Ramban famously understands this passage as referring to teshuvah.

Moshe is telling us that teshuvah is not some impossible spiritual achievement.

Lo bashamayim he.

It’s not in heaven.

Lo mai’aver la-yam he.

It’s not across the sea.

Ki karov eilecha hadavar me-od.

It is close.

And what does that closeness mean?

The Torah gives us three words:

B’ficha uvilvavcha la-asoto.

Your mouth.

Your heart.

Your actions.

Chazal (in Midrash Hagadol) make this even more explicit: 

“B’ficha le-hidvadot u’vilvavcha la-asot teshuva.”

With your mouth, to confess.

With your heart, to do teshuvah.

And then comes a remarkable phrase:

“Bein libcha l’ficha.”

Between your heart and your mouth.

Perhaps Chazal are identifying the real challenge of teshuvah.

We often imagine that God is far away and that we have to somehow reach Him.

But Moshe tells us:

“Karov eilecha.”

The distance we need to close is not between heaven and earth.

It is between our mouth and our heart.

Our mouth says:

Ashamnu.

But our heart says:

“Maybe it wasn’t really my fault.”

Our mouth says:

“I need to change.”

But our heart says:

“I’ll deal with it later.”

Teshuvah happens when the words we say become the truth we live.

B’ficha — say it.

Bilvavcha — own it.

La-asoto — change something.

The mouth, the heart, and the action have to move in the same direction.

And perhaps that is another meaning of:

“Ki karov eilecha ha-davar me-od.”

When we think about teshuvah, we can become overwhelmed by everything that needs to change.

Our relationships.

Our priorities.

Our habits.

Our religious lives.

The list can become so long that we don’t know where to begin.

So don’t begin with everything.

Begin with one thing.

Maybe there is one apology you have been postponing.

One resentment you have been carrying.

One habit you know is hurting you.

Find that one thing and ask:

Is this mine?

Not “Whose fault is it?”

Not “Who started it?”

What part of this is mine?

And if the answer is clear, say:

This one is mine.

That’s what strikes me about that tree.

The tree had been cut down years earlier.

Most of it was gone.

But there was still one piece hanging.

And sometimes that’s exactly what teshuvah looks like.

We have changed.

We have grown.

But there may still be one piece hanging.

One relationship.

One resentment.

One recurring behavior.

Perhaps it remains because we have never really claimed it.

We have been waiting for someone else to change.

For someone else to apologize.

For circumstances to become easier.

But Nitzavim tells us:

“Lo ba-shamayim he.”

Stop looking somewhere else.

“Ki karov eilecha ha-davar me-od.”

The beginning is right here.

And there is something even deeper in all of this.

The goal of teshuvah is not simply to become a better person.

It is to return to God.

We often imagine that God is far away and that our task is somehow to reach Him.

But the Torah tells us:

He is already close.

Sometimes the obstacle is not the distance between us and God.

It is the distance within ourselves:

between what we know and what we do,

between what our mouth says and what our heart accepts.

And when we begin to close that distance, we discover that God was never as far away as we imagined.

“Bein libcha l’ficha.”

In that space between an honest confession and a sincere heart, God is already there.

That is what makes tonight so meaningful.

Tonight we begin Selichot.

And we begin with:

Ashamnu.

We have sinned.

Those words are not meant to crush us.

They are meant to free us.

Because once I can say:

This one is mine,

I no longer have to wait for someone else to fix it.

So before Selichot tonight, think of one piece.

One piece that is still hanging.

One thing you have explained away.

One thing you have quietly told yourself:

“Not mine.”

And perhaps this year, we can look at it and say:

“This one is mine.”

And then, בעזרת השם, we can finally bring it down.

Because when we stop saying “not mine,” we may discover something extraordinary:

The thing we thought was far away is actually

“Karov eilecha ha-davar me-od.”

And perhaps we discover something even greater:

God was close all along.