From Me to We: The Heart of Rosh Hashanah

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Rosh Hashanah is here again. The sounds of the shofar, the weight of the tefillos, and the introspective mood of Elul and Tishrei all converge now. We say to ourselves: “I believe I’m basically good. I want a favorable judgment for the coming year. But where do I start?”

We know about teshuvah. Yet, somehow, when the first blast of the shofar echoes, we feel that something is missing, something deeper than the familiar path.

What do we do? How do we begin anew as individuals and as a people?

My grandfather, Rav Eliezer Levin, learned for many years in the famed yeshiva of Kelm, a place steeped in mussar and sincere spiritual striving. During Elul, he once told me, a sign hung on the wall that simply said, “Ein Melech belo am—There is no King without a people.” The conversation changed and he never did explain to me why they hung that sign and what the deeper message was. However, that sign stayed with me, like an echo I couldn’t quite place. Only later did I begin to understand its urgency and relevance.

Over time, I realized that the sign was not just a nice message. It was a call to action. It taught that Hashem is not crowned through solitary effort. Crowning Hashem means that we must accept Him together, as a people, not just as individuals. Our avodah on Rosh Hashanah is about crowning Hashem as King. This isn’t just symbolic. In the words of Chazal (Rosh Hashanah 34b), we recite the pesukim of Malchiyos in our davening specifically “kedei shetamlichuni aleichem—so that you will crown Me King over you.” Hashem’s malchus isn’t imposed. It’s accepted by us, His nation. But if we are fragmented, if we are divided, then the Melech’s rule isn’t complete. A divided citizenry makes for a weakened leader.

The phrase “Ein Melech belo am” reminds us that Hashem’s kingship depends on us. A fractured people can’t crown a King properly. The Alter of Kelm taught that achdus strengthens Hashem’s throne. Division undermines it. In our times—when so much feels uncertain, when our world is splintered and polarized—this idea is not just beautiful. It is essential. Rosh Hashanah is the anniversary of Hashem’s kingship over the world. Each year, we return to that moment. Each year, we recommit. Each year, we ask, “Are we a nation fit to crown our King?”

To understand what that takes, we examine the concept of achdus, Jewish unity. Achdus is not sameness. It doesn’t require uniformity in dress, in opinion, or in custom. Rather, achdus means recognizing our shared destiny and our shared Creator. Achdus means viewing one another with love, dignity, and respect. Even when disagreements arise—and they inevitably will—achdus requires that we recognize each other as limbs of the same body.

Unity is not about pretending we all agree. It’s about disagreeing respectfully, remembering that every Jew carries within him a piece of the Divine, a heritage from Sinai. When we mock or degrade another Jew, we don’t just harm that individual. We chip away at the collective. And when we build each other up, we raise the entire body of Klal Yisroel. The shevotim each had their own role, their own symbol , their own mission. And together they formed a nation. This is our ideal.

The Vilna Gaon taught that the root of all sin lies in bad middos. Teshuvah begins not just with regret or apology, but with the deep internal work of refining character. If we wish to stand before Hashem on Rosh Hashanah with merit, we must confront our arrogance, our jealousy, our impatience, and our selfishness. We must each seek to become people who are capable of unity. Achdus is not a passive state. It is the result of hard work. We cannot love others fully if we are consumed by our own ego.

Rav Yisroel Salanter famously said that someone who wishes to be victorious in the judgment of Rosh Hashanah must be part of the klal, the greater community. Hashem judges us not only as individuals, but as members of the klal. Are we contributing? Are we needed? Are we lifting others or are we merely focused on ourselves? When we live for others—when we serve, when we give, when we listen—we become part of the nation that crowns Hashem.

That shift, from “me” to “we,” is transformative. It alters not only how we relate to others, but how Hashem relates to us. When we become a people, we can crown a King.

The shofar, so central to Rosh Hashanah, mirrors this journey. Tekiah—the steady, clear sound—represents our unwavering declaration of Hashem’s malchus. Shevorim—the broken cry—mirrors our recognition of our faults, our brokenness, our need for teshuvah. Teruah—the staccato sobbing—echoes our inner turmoil, our longing for connection. And following those sounds of inner reflection, of teshuvah, we blow a tekiah again—a return to strength, resolve, and clarity. But the shofar is more than a personal cry. It is a national voice. The sound of the shofar reaches Heaven only when it arises from the unity of the Jewish heart.

Yet, unity, as stirring as it sounds, must be practiced to be real. Theoretical achdus doesn’t crown a King. Real achdus begins in how we speak to each other, how we treat each other, and how we think about each other. It begins with learning to disagree without contempt, to argue without mockery. It begins by making room for those who are different. It begins with being part of a kehillah, of a community, of a larger group, even when it is hard or thankless. It means sharing together moments of joy, of tefillah, of learning, and r”l of grief. It means not just popping in to a simcha and running out. It means being there, being part of it, and being happy for the people who are celebrating.

The calendar guides us through this process. Elul calls us inward to examine ourselves. Rosh Hashanah expands our focus outward to crown Hashem as King. The Aseres Yemei Teshuvah deepen our reflection and our longing. Yom Kippur purifies us. Sukkos draws us back together in physical closeness and joy. As we all know, the arba minim—the lulav, esrog, hadasim, and aravos—each represent different types of Jews. When they are held together, the mitzvah becomes complete. And finally, on Simchas Torah, we dance, not as individuals, yechidim, but as one people with one Torah. The entire arc of Tishrei is a movement from individualism to unity.

We are interconnected with others, and to the degree that we touch others’ lives and become indispensable, we become a more vital, integral part of Klal Yisroel.

Rav Shalom Schwadron was famed for his mesmerizing drashos, but in Eretz Yisroel, he was also famous as the chazzan on the Yomim Noraim at Yeshivas Chevron. His hauntingly beautiful nusach is followed in the yeshivos and botei medrash of Eretz Yisroel and has spread here as well, heavily influencing the tunes and sounds of Rosh Hashanah, adding cadence to the tefillos in a way that touches the soul of every mispallel.

The master communicator cobbled together different nuances from many others and formed a nusach that touched the soul, stirring and inspiring people who davened with him to seek great heights and perfection. One of Rav Shalom’s iconic classics is the way he sang the pizmon of Omnom Kein…Solachti.

Chevroner talmidim once asked the beloved baal tefillah for the source of the tune. He explained that this song was unlike all the others that originated from various Litvishe gedolim, baalei mussar, and chassidishe hoifen. He told the bochurim that he was orphaned as a child and was sent to live at the Diskin Orphan Home for some time.

“There,” he recalled, “a young boy, orphaned of both parents, sat next to me. He was so sad. He was a broken young boy. In his sadness, he would sit, lost in his own world, and hum a pitiful tune comprised of notes of longing and pain. I had never heard that tune before. No doubt it emanated from the boy’s wounded soul. Every time I heard him hum that mournful tone, I was deeply touched to the essence of my neshomah.”

When Rav Shalom began davening for the amud, that niggun flowed from his core, and when he came upon that beautiful pizmon, he saw it as a perfect match. As he began singing it, it caught on.

When he finished his story, Rav Shalom told the bochurim, “And every year, when I sing that tune, I think of the boy and what he must have been going through.”

When Rav Shalom would speak every Friday evening in Zichron Moshe, Jews of all types would flock from across Yerushalayim to hear his message—young and old, Litvaks, chassidim, Sefardim, shtreimels, black hats, blue hats, straw hats, no hats, white yarmulkas and white suits, golden bekeshes and shirtsleeves. Every type of Jew was there and felt comfortable, perceiving that the message was tailored especially for him. Everyone was together, am echod b’achdus, looking to be inspired. They laughed together and cried together, changing from minute to minute as Rav Shalom held them in the palm of his hand.

Rav Shalom, a man with a vast heart, was easily touched and touched many. He didn’t just go through a playlist and find a popular tune to dress up his tefillos. When he davened, he was b’achdus with everyone in the crowd. He thought about them and their needs, and he did his best to help corral the prayers on high. He thought of that little boy, the broken orphan from way back when, singing to himself a haunting tune, seeking to somehow overcome his loneliness and depression.

He thought of the bochurim yearning to shteig, davening for a zivug hagun. He thought of the older mispallelim who were davening for good health. He thought of everyone who longed for peace in the troubled land. And of course, he davened for Hashem’s people who had spent a month preparing themselves for this great day, working on their middos, on their learning, on their behavior, on their davening and shmiras hamitzvos, and everything else.

A rebbeshe ainikel and a phenomenal talmid chochom, Rav Shalom was very humble and full of love for everyone. He connected with that boy and his soul, channeling his emotions into the tefillos as a master representative, a shliach tzibbur, attaching himself to his brethren, bringing them all together as one. And in commensurate proportion, their voices rose in unison, marshaling their strengths and bringing them to the level of holiness the days call for.

The more we realize that we are part of a group ruled by Hashem, the closer we will be to achieving our goal. When we grasp that kol Yisroel areivim zeh bazeh and comprehend that we are small when we are alone but can achieve much when we are united, we will find favor in Hashem’s eyes and in the hearts of our fellow Jews.

During Elul and Tishrei, we rise above selfishness and apathy, accepting others, caring about them, contributing to their welfare, and seeking to make the world a better place. Chazal teach that tzedokah tatzil mimovess, and we can understand that to mean that the more we give, the more we share with others and care about them, the more unselfish and humble we are, the more we live b’achdus with everyone, the greater our chances of Hashem viewing us with the same type of kindness we exhibit with His children and nation.

The Rambam states in Hilchos Matnos Aniyim (10:1) that Am Yisroel will merit to be redeemed in the zechus of the mitzvah of tzedokah. Perhaps we can say that the Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed because we lacked achdus and were consumed by sinas chinom. To overcome that deficiency and merit the geulah, we have to make room for others in our hearts, homes, and schools. We can disagree, but without belittling and hating each other. There is no better way to demonstrate that we have done teshuvah for the sins that caused the destruction than to invest tzedokah money in the dreams and hopes of others and enable them to live decent lives.

Someone who has worked on his middos and perfected them to the degree that he can be a productive and harmonious member of the klal is someone who can appreciate the oneness and unity of Klal Yisroel and thus fulfills his obligation of shetamlichuni Aleichem.

What did that sign hanging in Kelm mean? It meant to do teshuvah. It meant to learn mussar so you can perfect your middos. It meant that Hashem created you for a purpose—to be His nation, to be His people, to be His person. It meant to always remember that the reason you are here is not for selfish, fleeting enjoyment. It meant to remember that you are here to be mekadeish sheim Hashem, lishmoa bekolo uledovka bo. You are here to be a kadosh and to create kedusha.

Every believer knows that Hashem created the world, and Am Yisroel knows that He created the world for us. Rosh Hashanah is when that relationship is commemorated, celebrated, and renewed.

Ein Melech belo am means that our lives must be on the level of the nation that crowns Hashem.

It doesn’t happen automatically. It doesn’t happen just from reading an inspirational sign and singing inspiring tunes. It begins with a cheshbon hanefesh, an honest accounting of the soul. We must ask ourselves hard questions: Have I hurt someone this year? Have I mocked, excluded, or judged others? Have I been too consumed by my own needs to see the needs of others? What middos need my attention—humility, patience, gratitude, generosity? Do I perform mitzvos with excitement, joy, and a sense of fulfillment? When I daven, do I enunciate each word carefully? Do I care about what I am learning? Do Torah, tefillah and shemiras mitzvos touch and elevate me, or do I just go through the motions?

Teshuvah is not complete without real change. Regret for the past must be joined with commitment for the future. We must not only feel bad. We must do better. When we better ourselves, we become easier to love, easier to live with, and easier to respect. When we humble ourselves, we make room for others.

And when we do that, when we reach beyond ourselves, we unlock the deeper power of Rosh Hashanah. Following the emotional tefillah of Unesaneh Tokef, we cry out together as loud as we can that teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedokah overturn even the harshest decrees. Because those actions emanate from a heart that feels part of something bigger. When we forgive others and dig into our own neshamos as we seek forgiveness from Hashem, when we daven together, when we give, we become people who deserve mercy. We become a people worthy of crowning a King.

Let this year be one of healing and humility. Let this be a year when we soften our judgments, open our tables, speak more kindly, and serve more quietly. Let this be a year when we truly live the words “Ein Melech belo am.”

Because when we come together—not in uniformity, but in unity—we don’t just change ourselves. We change the world.

May we be zoche to a year of health, shalom, simcha, nachas, and growth as the Am Hashem. May we crown Hashem together, as one people, with one heart. May He accept us, welcome us and rule over us with chesed and rachamim.

May our teshuvah and achdus enable Moshiach to come this year. Amein.

Kesivah vachasimah tovah.