Tishrei: An Exercise In Closeness
By: Yochanan Gordon
Reb Pinchas of Koritz famously said, “An imperfect tzaddik has the capacity to love an incomplete rashah; but the definition of a complete tzaddik, a tzaddik gamur, is one who has the capacity to love a complete rashah.”
On the first night of Rosh Hashanah, it is customary in some circles to greet friends, neighbors, and even passersby with the blessing: “L’shanah tovah tikaseiv v’seichaseim l’alter l’chayim tovim u’leshalom, b’seferan shel tzaddikim gemurim.” By wishing that each person be inscribed and sealed in the book of the perfectly righteous, we hope to manifest a positive verdict for the year ahead. We usually imagine a tzaddik as someone with more mitzvos than aveiros, or, more spiritually, as someone who no longer even possesses the capacity to sin. Reb Pinchas’ redefinition is striking: perfection is not about being beyond sin but about being able to embrace even the most fallen soul.
This reframing can illuminate a theme that unfolds across the cycle of Tishrei. The month, stretching from Rosh Hashanah through Simchas Torah, is not a collection of isolated holidays but a progression—a gradual widening of our circle of concern until it includes even the rashah.
On Rosh Hashanah, distinctions are sharp. The tzaddik is sealed for life, the rashah for death, and the beinoni remains in suspension until Yom Kippur. Our davening is filled with requests for health, blessing, sustenance, and life. Those with broader vision may pray for redemption, the return of captives, or the Shechinah’s homecoming to the Beis HaMikdash. But few pause to consider the rashah, who according to the Gemara is inscribed immediately in the book of death. For most, Rosh Hashanah is about ourselves, our families, and perhaps the collective Jewish people—not those who seem to stand beyond the pale.
Ten days later, on Yom Kippur—the holiest day of the year—the rashah reemerges in a surprising way. Before Kol Nidrei we declare, “We are permitted to pray with the sinners.” Days earlier the rashah seemed excluded from hope, yet now, at the moment of greatest sanctity, he is explicitly welcomed into our prayers. It is almost as though the Torah insists that the holiest tefillah of the year cannot begin without him. This is puzzling; why should the rashah take center stage on Yom Kippur of all days? But perhaps this is precisely the point. If we are to stand truly united before G-d, no one can be left outside.
From there we move to Sukkos, a weeklong experience of dwelling together in a fragile hut. The halachah defines a kosher sukkah as one in which all Jews could sit simultaneously, and the mitzvah of the festival is fulfilled with the arba minim—the four species bound as one, each symbolizing a different type of Jew.
The Baal Shem Tov’s sukkah became legendary. He built it using every halachic leniency mentioned inMaseches Sukkah—gud asik, gud achis, dofen akumah—which enraged the scholars of his town. They publicly ruled it invalid, seeing in it a metaphor for the inclusivity of his movement, which they opposed. But one day, sitting in his sukkah in deep meditation, the Baal Shem Tov opened his hand to reveal a slip of paper inscribed, “The sukkah of the Baal Shem Tov is kosher l’mehadrin—signed, the angel Metat.” Later seforim explained that the halachic leniencies he invoked symbolized different types of Jews whom he insisted on including within his sukkah. For him, the sukkah was not merely a structure but an embrace wide enough for all.
Even within the mitzvah of the arba minim, this tension is visible. The four species must be bound together, yet they remain four distinct entities. The esrog, in particular, must be forcibly held in place, and if it slips away, the mitzvah falters. Rabbi Menachem Recanati tells of a dream in which townspeople separated the esrog from the lulav, hadasim, and aravos. He understood this as severing the final hei from the rest of Hashem’s Name, Yud–Hei–Vav. Excluding the simplest Jews, he realized, was nothing less than fracturing G-d’s own Name.
The progression reaches its climax on Simchas Torah. On that day, distinctions collapse completely. We dance hand in hand without separation, bound not by halachic requirement but by unrestrained joy. The Zohar describes the essence of Simchas Torah as “ani v’hamelech bilvad”—me and the King alone. But the “me” is no longer an isolated self. It is the Jewish people as one body, indivisible, fused together with Torah and with G-d Himself: Kudsha Brich Hu, Yisrael, v’Oraysa—kula chad.
Seen in this light, the arc of Tishrei becomes clear. It begins with separation and judgment—tzaddik, beinoni, rasha—but it ends with unity and embrace. From wishing one another inscription in the book of tzaddikim gemurim, to permitting ourselves to pray with sinners, to dwelling together in one sukkah, to dissolving in ecstatic oneness on Simchas Torah, the journey is one of expanding closeness. Step by step, the month trains us to stretch our hearts wider, until even the rashah is gathered in love.
We can come back to Reb Pinchas Koritzer’s definition of a complete tzaddik in his capacity to love a complete rashah. Essentially, he was highlighting the fact that there is no essential difference between them, which encapsulates perfectly the progression of the month of Tishrei.
Good yom tov!
Yochanan Gordon can be reached at [email protected]. Read more of Yochanan’s articles at 5TJT.com.
