Rabbi Zvika Krieger, Chochmat HaLev
September 22, 2025

What are we doing here? What is the spiritual work of Rosh Hashanah? The Torah doesn’t give us much to work with. It says nothing about this being the Jewish New Year. Nothing about judgment, repentance, prayer. The Torah doesn’t even give the holiday a name. It does say that today is a day of memory, but it doesn’t tell us what we’re remembering. 

Tonight I’d like to share an answer from Rabbi Isaac Luria, known by his initials, the Ari. He lived and taught in 16th-century Tzfat in Northern Israel, and became one of the most influential mystics in Jewish history by transforming the Zohar’s poetry into a lived spiritual practice. 

In a text I studied with my teacher Avraham Leader, the Ari directly tackles our question for tonight: What are we remembering on Rosh Hashanah? The rabbinic tradition says that today, the first day of the Hebrew month of Tishrei, is when the first human was created. The Torah tells us in the second chapter of Genesis that the first human was created as a fusion of two people — two bodies, with two faces, joined back-to-back. This moment is called the Nesira, the separation. 

And it is this moment that the Ari says we are meant to remember on Rosh Hashanah. The Ari goes even further and says that on Rosh Hashanah, we must relive this Nesira. Each year, we must separate all over again.  

Why is this moment so significant? Because, according to the Ari, it begins the journey that is the reason humans were created – the process of reuniting those two disparate parts, called “yichud”. But the goal is not for us to return to our original formation, where we were connected back-to-back — achor b’achor. Rather, our spiritual work is to move toward a new way of being connected: panim b’panim, face-to-face. 

So tonight, we’re going to explore the spiritual significance of each of these states, and what it means to move from one to the other – because according to the Ari, that work starts tonight. It is both an inward journey and an outward journey: It calls on us to reimagine our relationship to different parts of ourselves. And it shows us how our relationships with others can be the site of that vital spiritual work. 

***

What does it mean to be back-to-back with something or someone — achor b’achor? Our back is our most vulnerable part. Contrary to what our mothers may have told us growing up, we don’t have eyes on the back of our heads. Our arms, our ears, nose, and mouth are anatomically oriented forward. And from our backs, our vital organs are exposed without much defense. 

When we’re back-to-back with someone else, that vulnerable part of ourselves is shielded. There is a certain comfort in this position; we feel safe. There’s a reason in action movies when you see a heroic duo confronting a group of attackers, their first move is to stand back-to-back. In that position, nothing can get us from behind. We can’t be ambushed or caught off guard. 

But there are downsides to this posture. There is something keeping us safe, but we don’t know what it is, because it is behind us. In this posture, we choose ignorance in exchange for a sense of security. And this other person can’t see you either. They’re keeping you safe, but they don’t even know who you are. 

Where in your life might you be living achor b’achor, back-to-back?

These might be relationships in which you hide the most vulnerable parts of yourself, for fear that if someone else sees them, they might judge you, shame you, reject you, or even punish you. These might also be relationships where we don’t want to get to know someone deeply because they might disappoint us. 

This posture embodies a kind of unspoken collusion that often happens in our culture: I promise not to look too closely at you if you promise not to look too closely at me. We are afraid of being fully seen, and afraid of fully seeing others.

With our friends, we might put forward an image of competence or fulfillment, while no one dares admit weakness or need. In families, it often looks like a reluctance to bring up “the hard stuff”: politics, old wounds, or what’s happening with aging parents or challenging kids. Even in our closest partnerships, intimacy can shrink to routines and logistics — managing the calendar or planning trips — while emotional exposure feels too risky. And in spiritual or communal spaces that proclaim “all are welcome,” you might still swallow your doubts, anger, or struggles for fear of not belonging.

I invite you to close your eyes or soften your gaze, and take a comment to check in with yourself. Notice where these kinds of surface-level relationships show up for you, and where you might be craving more. Notice what you might be hiding, or hiding from. 

These days, when we’re facing a reality full of uncertainty, it makes sense to protect our backs. The institutions you trusted to care for you are suddenly being weaponized against you. Communities who once embraced you are now ostracizing you. Saying the wrong thing can get you fired, canceled, deported, or even shot, better to keep your mouth shut. When our predominant emotion is fear, we justifiably prioritize safety.

But there is a cost to this defensive posture. We’re safe, but we’re functionally alone. We can’t have true intimacy without vulnerability. We miss the chance to be truly comforted, because no one can tend to wounds they’re never allowed to see. We miss the chance to be truly celebrated, because no one can rejoice in the parts of us we never reveal. We miss the chance to be truly transformed, because growth only happens in the friction and grace of being fully known. 

If you’re feeling stuck in this dance of fear and isolation, you’re far from alone: Over half of Americans say that not a single person in their lives really knows them well. It is unsurprising then that the US Surgeon General reported that one out of every two Americans is experiencing measurable levels of loneliness.

This dynamic reminds me of one of my favorite stories that my teacher Tara Brach loves to tell, from German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer. In the dead of winter, a group of porcupines huddles together for warmth to fend off the icy cold. But their prickly quills poke and wound their closest companions. The needling becomes increasingly unbearable, so eventually they scatter into the forest, only to end up alone and frozen. Many died. 

Like the porcupines, we have to choose between the discomfort of being poked or going it alone in the frigid wilderness.

***

So tonight we must begin the work of Nesira, of stepping out of that back-to-back protective posture, and stepping into a new way of being: panim b’panim, face-to-face.

It’s a risky, vulnerable posture. Our backs are exposed. All those tender organs are fair game.  Anyone can come at us at any time. The other is looking right at us. There is nowhere to hide. We are seen. It’s scary, but it’s also real. 

There is a secret that I’d like to share with all of you tonight: We’re told that if we reveal our most shameful parts, we will be rejected. And sometimes that is true. But just as often, people love us more. Nobody wants to be in a relationship with someone who is perfect; our flaws are what make us more relatable. I like seeing the flaw in others because it gives me permission to be flawed too. 

And as scary as that might feel, it is also key to our flourishing. According to a recent study, feeling truly seen by someone else is correlated with higher levels of mental health, fewer depressive symptoms, and fewer illness symptoms.

But let me be clear: this is not a call for unbridled vulnerability. We are not asked to bare our souls to people who will exploit, belittle, or betray us. Part of the work is discernment — learning who has shown themselves capable of holding what we reveal with care. To live panim b’panim is to exercise the wisdom to know when and with whom it is safe to step forward, and the courage to actually take that step.

Since tonight we’re meant to re-enact the Nesira, I’m going to reveal something to you about me. I’m a little embarrassed about it. Okay, deep breath. Here goes: I… am… a rabbi. 

I know it may seem like that’s something that I am pretty open about, but that wasn’t always the case. When I first started dating after my divorce, I didn’t include on my dating profile that I was a rabbi. I also didn’t mention that I was a father. I was worried that if someone heard those things about me before they met me, they would think I was… not cool. This was before the Netflix show about the hot rabbi. I rationalized to myself: let them get to know me first, realize how cool I am, and then I’ll tell them all that stuff. Well, let’s just say that plan didn’t exactly work, when I brought someone home after an unexpectedly good first date and had to explain why there were Legos all over my living room floor.

I debriefed with my spiritual teacher afterward, and she asked me: Being a rabbi and being a dad seems pretty core to who you are. Do you really want to be dating someone who needs to be convinced that those things are cool?

She was right, of course. Clearly, I love being a rabbi. And I love being a dad — Hi Sam! And that guy who tripped on the Legos? One our second date he told me that he actually did think it was cool that I was a dad, but he didn’t think it was cool that I hid that part of myself. Let’s just say there was no third date.

I eventually did update my dating profile — and let me tell you, it saved me a lot of time dating people that were never going to be a match. That whole episode helped realize how much time we spend trying to contort or hide ourselves to fit what we think will make other people like us. The problem is then that they end up liking someone else — the fake version of you. .   

Since my dad left when I was a young child, I spent a lot of my life trying to avoid being abandoned by other people. I also learned how to shapeshift a lot as a queer kid growing up in the Orthodox world. I viscerally felt that tension between authenticity and safety. And I also experienced the euphoric relief that comes when you finally realize that authenticity and safety don’t always have to be in tension. 

The truth is that all of us are in the closet in some way. We all have something that we’re hiding. And by hiding ourselves from others, we’re also hiding from ourselves. Stepping out of whatever closet we’re in, standing in front of someone panim b’panim, allows others to be a mirror for us. 

To quote David Brooks, from his book How to Know A Person, “If you see great potential in me, I will probably come to see great potential in myself. If you can understand my frailties and sympathize with me when life treats me harshly, then I am more likely to have the strength to weather the storms of life… In how you see me, I will learn to see myself.”

I want to share one last component of this spiritual practice. As scary as it is to let someone else fully see you, the other scary part of panim b’panim is that we are fully seeing other people. We can’t project all of our stuff on them. We can’t idealize them, be in relationship with a fantasy that feels so much better than the reality. Do you ever find yourself doing that? On the other hand, we also can’t perpetuate convenient stories of victimhood or blame them for things that are really our own fault. Does that sound familiar to anyone? 

When we turn panim, b’panim, what was once behind us, out of view, is now staring right back at us. And only once you see someone for who they truly are can you actually be in deep, connected, nourishing, perhaps even transcendent relationship with another — and with ourselves.

***

This annual journey to panim b’panim, encountering each other face to face, feels particularly hard this year. We’re living in a world that is pushing us into achor b’achor from every direction — a perennial defensive crouch. 

The epidemic of political violence – with people on both sides of the spectrum being murdered by those who disagree with them – is a dire symptom of what happens when we lose our ability to encounter each other face-to-face. As people get fired for criticizing the President or his allies, we are entering a dark chapter in our history where speaking hard truths is becoming a crime. We must be clear-eyed about people out there who are actually trying to hurt us. And at the same time, we have to constantly seek out ways to build bridges, to see past differences for even a glimmer of common humanity. The spiritual work of Rosh Hashanah is holding both of these truths simultaneously. 

I fear that this dynamic is going to get worse before it gets better. In addition to my work at Chochmat HaLev, I spend half my time advising companies like TikTok, Google, and Pixar on how to responsibly deploy AI. I’ve seen how over 100 million people around the world, including 72% of U.S. teens, are now turning to AI companion bots as a replacement for human relationships — because they don’t have to be afraid of these bots judging, shaming, or rejecting them. To me, this is a potent illustration of why back-to-back, achor b’achor, is such a comfortable posture for us: we are hungry for connection without the chances of getting hurt. 

But these chatbots are designed to reinforce our preconceived notions. Real face-to-face relationships, panim l’panim, involve friction — which can make us uncomfortable. But that friction is essential for growth. We need to be in relationships that challenge us, that push us to be better people, that hold us accountable for our missteps, that build our tolerance for complexity, that require sacrifice and compromise. 

Rabbi Gershon Henoch Leiner, the iconoclastic 19th mystic known as Radzyner Rebbe, teaches that the Nesira, that first separation, gave humans the ability to individuate, talk back, to argue, to assert ourselves, even to God. In a world where back-to-back relationships are now accessible 24-7 at the click of a button — endlessly responsive and affirming — the spiritual practice of panim b’panim becomes even more essential. 

It is devastating to see how achor b’achor is playing out in Israel-Palestine — two peoples standing back-to-back, each convinced that turning around would expose their most vulnerable parts to attack. The fear is not unjustified, but from that posture neither side can truly see the other. What they see, instead, what we see instead, are projections of inherited stories and worst fears. 

Distance feels safer, but like Schopenhauer’s porcupines, it is a cold that kills hope. As Palestinian peace activist Rula Hardal taught at Chochmat HaLev this past Shabbat, “Walls — physical, emotional, psychological — help produce mistrust. Trust will come through encounter, not separation.”

This Rosh Hashanah practice requires us to turn toward what is happening with clear eyes — condemning and mourning the atrocities of October 7, fighting for the return of the hostages, but also being honest about the disproportionate devastation in Gaza, the inhumane killing, starvation, and displacement, and demanding that our leaders, and those who speak for the Jewish people, live up to our Jewish values.

I will speak more about this tomorrow and on Yom Kippur, but tonight we start by imagining a different posture — one where faces meet, where eyes finally open, where the very pain of turning toward each other becomes the path to healing.

***

In America, in the Middle East, in our digital lives — everywhere we turn, we’re being pushed into back-to-back relationships. We need a laboratory, a safe space where we can begin to make the turn toward one another. Even if we want to try the Ari’s practice, not only is it counter-cultural, not only is it risky – but it’s also hard work. It takes time to let down our guard – and it takes intentional practice.

So tonight I’m proposing that this community be that laboratory for this work. Let’s work together to make Chochmat HaLev a place where we practice being real with each other. I have a vision that when someone walks into Chochmat, they immediately sense that this community is different — a place that is safe to drop our masks. I’d love for our oneg dinner and kiddush lunches to be a time to move quickly from superficial pleasantries into sharing what’s really going on in our hearts. I’d love for this to be a place where we go outside our comfort zones to introduce ourselves to new people, rather than stay safe with the people we already know. 

This year at Chochmat, we’re expanding and launching a wide range of opportunities for you to practice this: small groups, affinity groups, social justice groups, dialogue groups, intergenerational Shabbat dinners, neighborhood pods, volunteer teams, family programs. All of these and more will be designed for you to build relationships in a more intimate container and practice seeing and being seen — if you’re willing to stretch yourself. You can read all about them in the Go Deeper Guide that you got when you checked in. I’ll just flag two:

Save the date for our first-ever Chochmat HaLev weekend retreat, May 8-10, 2026, at the beautiful Camp Newman in Sonoma county, where we can spend a whole Shabbat deepening and practicing together.

And I really want to encourage you to join our GO DEEPER cohort. It’s A Year of Spiritual Practice, where you’ll be able to journey with small groups of other seekers through the core pillars of Chochmat HaLev’s unique approach to Jewish spirituality.

This is going to be our focus this year — Chochmat HaLev as a laboratory for this relational spiritual practice. The Ari teaches that this turning-toward is Judaism’s core spiritual work and the whole reason why humans were created — and I can think of no more important endeavor in these turbulent times of uncertainty, polarization, and loneliness.

And so with that in mind, I propose that we start tonight. I invite you to close your eyes or soften your gaze, and consider: What is something I have been holding back from sharing with others, perhaps from fear of judgement? What has it been costing me to hide that part of myself? How might it serve me to let go of that pre-emptive shame and fear?

In a moment, I’m going to invite you to find someone sitting near you to practice sharing with. This is not a competition for who can be the most vulnerable. Choose something that feels edgy, but still safe. This is a muscle you build gradually, one small vulnerable share at a time.

And this is not about dumping all your feelings on someone else. How can you share in a way that creates connection? There will be other opportunities over High Holy Days to continue sharing, but we only have a few minutes in this moment. So think of something discrete that lets this other person see the real you. You might use the framing, “Something I usually don’t tell people is…”

I invite you to find someone new, who you haven’t met before. I often find that I can share more vulnerably with someone I don’t know yet. And it has the added benefit of making a new friend. 

***

The Ari teaches that the Nesira, which starts tonight, is actually a ten-day process, culminating on Yom Kippur. I invite you to find small moments of vulnerability over the next ten days to continue to build this muscle. Maybe start in our Go Deeper tea lounge tonight after services, or our Tashlich picnic lunch tomorrow. 

Let’s take Rosh Hashanah this year as an opportunity to notice where we have been asleep, where we’ve traded comfort for truth, where we’ve chosen safety over intimacy. And then, to practice turning: toward the parts of ourselves we’d rather ignore, toward the people in our lives we keep at arm’s length, even toward those we fear or distrust. Not because it’s safe, but because it’s real.

Mi SheBerach Avoteinu VImoteinu VHoreinu, may the Sacred oneness that blessed our ancestors bless us with the courage, strength, and wisdom to effectuate this sacred journey of Nesira. May this be the year we risk being known. May this be the year we dare to know others. And may that turning face-to-face, panim b’panim, become the beginning of healing — for ourselves, for our communities, and for this fractured world. Shanah Tovah.

Rabbi Zvika Krieger is the spiritual leader of Chochmat HaLev. You can read more of his teachings here.