Words like judgment and kingship often infuse us with a sense of awe, dread, and fear. But is that truly the essence of Elul? Are we meant to be paralyzed by dread of the approaching Heavenly judgment? What, in fact, do those famous stories of Jews fainting in shul upon hearing the announcement of Rosh Chodesh Elul come to teach us?
How do those earlier generations’ responses apply to us today? Why were they able to achieve heights of preparation that seem beyond our grasp? And more importantly — how can we approach Elul in a way that connects us to its essence?
The tailor of Tzipori taught us an enduring message that still echoes across the centuries. What is the lesson? Can we really dream bigger, set lofty goals, and craft a clear vision for our lives?
These questions and others will be explored in this week’s article.
Ani LeDodi VeDodi Li – In Practical Terms
Last week, we explored the essence of Elul, and why Chazal identified its very character through the phrase hinted in its name: “Ani LeDodi VeDodi Li” — “I am my Beloved’s and my Beloved is mine.”
Because this theme is the pivotal factor that shapes not only the coming year but the course of our entire future, we will devote another article to this subject. In it, we will examine in detail how one can truly harness the unparalleled opportunities of this extraordinary month.
Elul Relevance
Elul penetrates to the very core of our being, which makes it both delicate and profound. To benefit from this sacred time, each generation must find its own unique path. Yet, that path can never be divorced from the traditional path. As in all areas of life, we build upon the foundations laid by earlier generations, remaining bound to the unbroken chain of our mesorah, leading back to that very first Elul in the Midbar, when Moshe Rabbeinu ascended Har Sinai to receive the second Luchos.
At the same time, the world around us has changed dramatically. Just as the tools of physical warfare have evolved from spears and bows to the technology of our day, so too the inner world of human emotion has shifted. Our challenge is to bridge the eternal with the present — to uncover the timeless essence of Elul and translate it into the language and tools of 2025.
The key, then, is twofold: to delve into the roots of Elul, and to discover how those roots can find fresh expression in our own era. Only through this synthesis can the power of Elul truly reach us today.
Fear Not
Modern life bears little resemblance to life at the turn of the 20th century. Technology and medicine have advanced at a breathtaking pace, raising both quality of life and life expectancy to unprecedented levels. Yet, paradoxically, as external comforts have soared, resilience and inner strength of spirit have markedly declined.
The reason is not hard to grasp. Resilience, like a muscle, must be tested and exercised to grow strong. Muscles left unused inevitably weaken. Most of us, thankfully, have never faced genuine life-threatening hardship — but the very absence of such trials has left our inner fortitude underdeveloped and fragile.
In previous generations, life was precarious. Child mortality was high, illness was common, and without antibiotics or modern medicine, even minor infections could be fatal. Periods of hunger or undernourishment were widespread, and no national insurance or social safety net existed to provide relief. Families lived with the constant awareness that survival was never guaranteed.
Such conditions shaped a mindset: the prospect of standing in judgment — literally a matter of life and death — did not paralyze people but drove them to act decisively. Urgency was natural because danger was real and familiar.
Today, by contrast, most people grow up in relative safety, rarely confronting existential threats. Fear is treated as a psychological malfunction rather than a call to action. As a result, the awe and trembling that once infused Elul and Rosh Hashanah no longer resonate as they did in earlier times.
The challenge, then, is clear: how can we communicate and practice the enduring message of these days when the life-and-death awareness that once animated our ancestors is largely absent?
Rabbi Baruch Mordechai Ezrachi
Rabbi Baruch Mordechai Ezrachi zatzal, Rosh Yeshivas Ateres Yisrael, was renowned for his ability to present the true meaning of Elul as it was understood in previous generations, while adapting it for our time. The ideas in this article are drawn from his teachings and approach.
Ani LeDodi
The central theme of Elul is “Ani LeDodi” — “I am my Beloved’s.” But the emphasis begins with the “Ani,” the “I.” This is a time to discover our unique mission and role in the world, to ensure we do not lose our way as happened in the sin of the Golden Calf. The very purpose of Elul is to recognize why we are here — to uncover the strengths and gifts Hashem has given us to serve Him.
Elul and the Ten Days of Repentance call us to live at our spiritual best — to envision the life we wish we could always lead. This is not about appearances or outward show. It is about setting a goal, charting a course, and taking the first real step. Even if we do not fully reach the vision we set, simply moving toward it elevates us. Step by step, we draw closer.
“Dodi Li” is the result, not the starting point. Aspirations cannot depend upon instantly feeling Hashem’s closeness. In the sin of the Golden Calf, the people sought immediate “Dodi Li” and forgot the “Ani LeDodi.” That shortcut led them into confusion and danger.
The more we focus on uncovering our true “I” — identifying our strengths, clarifying our purpose, and defining our mission — the more we prepare ourselves for the gift of “Dodi Li.” When we turn away from selfishness and pettiness, and instead reach for greatness and spiritual growth, real transformation takes place.
Yusta the Tailor
One of the stories Rabbi Ezrachi often shared during Elul was the remarkable tale of Yusta, the tailor of Tzippori (Shir HaShirim Rabbah 6:1, pasuk 12). Rav Ezrachi regarded this story as a cornerstone of Elul and teshuvah — not only for its profound moral lesson, but also as a vivid illustration of the power of the human spirit and the inner battles it must overcome.
The Tailor of Tzippori
In the Galilean city of Tzippori lived a simple man named Yusta, a tailor by trade. On the edge of the upper market, carved into the wall, stood his small stall. From the day he came of age, Yusta stood faithfully at his post, needle and thread in hand. Over the years, his presence became part of the city’s scenery — as fixed and predictable as the sun rising over the hills. From dawn until sunset, Yusta bent over his work, stitching, patching, and mending.
Through the alleys of Tzippori he would walk, needle proudly pinned to his cloak, as if proclaiming: “The Tailor of Tzippori — that’s me, Yusta.” Although Chazal taught that it was undignified to go out that way, and that carrying a needle stuck in one’s garment on Shabbos did not even count as carrying. But to Yusta, dignity was worth far less than another customer. Perhaps the sight of that needle would remind someone of a loose button, earning him two extra coins. And those two coins might mean salted fish for supper instead of going without.
If this seems trivial to you, well -- perhaps it should. But to Yusta, who knew nothing of lofty aspirations or human greatness, food was everything.
Yusta worked diligently for his customers. He patched tears so skillfully they all but disappeared. He attached buckles like a seasoned craftsman. Occasionally, he even received an order for an entire garment. Yet for all his labor, he was unnoticed and unappreciated, by others and by himself. He neglected his own life, letting it drift by, one day bleeding into the next, one button after another.
At last, he reached the height of his career. All the townspeople acknowledged him as “The Tailor of Tzippori,” the very title for which he had labored his whole life. But then the dark thoughts came: ‘Is this all? Is this how my life will end? Is this what I have devoted my years to?’
We do not know what brought him to the breaking point. Was it the arrival of Elul? The piercing blast of the shofar? Perhaps a single line of mussar that touched his heart? What we do know is that one day, Yusta dared to dream. And on that day, he vanished from Tzippori. No one knew where he went, or which road he took. In truth, no one wondered much. Yusta was quickly forgotten, his “prestigious” post as “Tailor of Tzippori” filled by another eager tradesman.
Many trials befell Yusta — hardships and silent moments of despair, known to no one but himself. Yet one day, he reached the capital city, seat of the king and his ministers. To everyone’s astonishment, the poor tailor from Tzippori soon adapted refined manners as if born into royalty. In that city of grandeur, he discovered human greatness and noble aspiration. Yusta was transformed and reborn, and even won the favor of the royal court. How this wondrous change came about we do not know; the Midrash doesn’t tell us. Obviously, it is not for us to imitate.
In time, the honorable Yusta requested an audience with the king himself, and wonder of wonders, he was granted it. Standing before the throne, Yusta found favor in the king’s eyes. The king discerned in him unusual promise, sensing he was a man of stature, capable of great service to the crown.
“What is your request?” asked the king, graciously. “Whatever you want shall be done. What is your desire? You have found favor with me; whatever you ask will be granted.”
Yusta now stood at the moment of opportunity. Longings for his hometown of Tzippori welled up within him. Though Tzippori had long forgotten Yusta, he had never forgotten Tzippori. He still dreamed of raising its stature, of lifting his city higher.
“If it pleases the king,” Yusta replied with reverence, “and if I have indeed found favor in your sight, appoint me as Duke of my native city, Tzippori.”
Without hesitation the king answered, “Yes, indeed, there is none wiser or more discerning than you to govern Tzippori. You shall be the next Duke of Tzippori.”
Now, for the last time in his life, Yusta returned to his needle and thread, sewing himself a splendid robe with his own hands. He crowned his head with a stately turban, bade farewell to the royal court that had been his home for the past few years, and departed in honor, surrounded by an impressive entourage, to assume his new role in his old hometown.
In Tzippori, excitement spread quickly. The king’s emissary had announced that a new duke was soon to arrive. Curiosity and tension filled the streets: Who was he? Would he be for them, or against them?
The appointed day came. With royal procession, Yusta’s entourage entered through the city gates and ascended the hill to the governor’s palace. As the dignified procession passed, the sages of the city rubbed their eyes in disbelief. “Impossible!” they exclaimed. “It is Yusta! The poor tailor who disappeared years ago, whose fate no one knew!” The city buzzed with speculations. Some insisted, “It can’t possibly be Yusta, the one who once sewed our missing buttons!” while others insisted they could not be fooled by royal robes. Others dismissed it with scorn: “Nonsense!”
Meanwhile, the Duke himself took his seat of authority, and announced his wish to tour the city and fulfill his noble duty.
The people of the city so curious as for his identity that they proposed a test: “If, during the tour of the marketplace, the duke passes by his old stall without so much as a glance, then the rumor is false, and he is not Yusta. But if, when he approaches, he casts even a fleeting glance at that dark little niche where he once labored, then we shall know beyond doubt that he is Yusta.”
Their plan seemed to make sense and everyone gathered to see what would happen.
The moment of truth soon arrived. The noble duke advanced slowly through the marketplace until he reached the familiar corner. There he paused. His eyes lingered on the humble stall, peering inside with a long, searching gaze.
Whispers rose at once, swelling into a murmur and then into a cry that filled the marketplace:
“It is he! It is Yusta!”
And Yusta himself heard it. Indeed, it seemed he had long anticipated that very moment.
The duke suddenly ordered the royal carriage to halt. He turned to the whispering crowd. Silence fell, and with a meaningful smile, he said:
“Ah! You marvel at the transformation that I underwent. You are utterly astonished. But know this — I am more astonished than you! Upon myself I could say the pasuk (Shir HaShirim 6:12): ‘I did not know; my soul made me chariots for a princely people (Amei Nadiv).’”
A charming story indeed. But the Midrash did not write it in order to record the history of the dukes of Tzippori. Why, then, is this story considered Torah? How is it meant to change our lives? What is its eternal message? Why was this preserved for the generations? And what is the meaning of the pasuk that Yusta quoted about himself?
Rabbi Ezrachi raised yet another searching question on the Midrash. The people’s wonder at the poor tailor who had risen to become ruler of the city is clear. Yusta’s own wonder at himself is also understandable. But why, asked Rabbi Ezrachi, does Yusta tell them that his astonishment is greater than theirs? Were they not all marveling at the same miracle?
Rabbi Ezrachi explained that no, their amazement and his astonishment were worlds apart.
The people marveled at an enigma beyond their grasp how a tailor could have become a duke. But Yusta was shaken by something far deeper.
Let’s take a careful look again and understand what he said to the people of Tzippori:
“You wonder how Yusta the tailor became Duke Yusta. But I wonder over something else entirely: how could Duke Yusta have ever been a tailor?
“If within me lay the talents, the gifts, the potential to rule, how could I have wasted the best years of my life hemming garments and mending buttons? I labored, I strove, and in the end I won the ‘great title’ of ‘The Tailor of Tzippori!’ And what was it worth? Trivialities, vanities! Was this to be the summit of my life?
“I, Duke Yusta, once thought my highest aspiration was a neighbor’s torn cloak or an extra coin to buy a supper of salted fish. Could such smallness really have defined me?!”
And he continued:
“Your amazement lies in how I have changed, which is indeed a wonder. Perhaps one day I will even write a self-help book and call it ‘From Tailor to Duke.’ But this is not the true marvel. The real wonder is: I did not know not my own soul.
“How could I, the tailor, not recognize myself? How could I have failed to see that the gifts within me were chariots prepared for greatness? How could I not have known that Heaven had set me apart for nobility?”
Then Yusta proclaimed: “I have come to raise up Tzippori. And the first truth you must learn from this little stall, this dark alcove in the marketplace where I once sat, is to choose: will your life’s goal be trifles and distractions, or will you walk as one who lives for eternity?
“Do not remain tailors. You are rulers! Cast off the pettiness, the empty pursuits that consume your days. Think of eternity. Walk as one who knows he is eternal. If only you will yearn for it, if only you will it, the help of Heaven will be yours, for the Creator stands at your side.” As the Midrash teaches: “Nadiv - ‘the noble one’, is Hashem.” Thus, the pasuk, ‘Ami Nadiv’ means “with me, Hashem’. If you set Hashem as your aim, He Himself is with you to bring your success.
And Yusta’s cry filled the marketplace of Tzippori. It lamented, “I knew not my own soul.” Don’t be ignorant, don’t neglect yourself. Know yourself, know your power, aspire! G-d is with you!
