One of the core foundational elements of teshuva is the formula of the Thirteen Attributes. It is said in the build up to and the culmination of Yom Kippur.

The Gemara cryptically allegorises that in order to teach them to Moshe, Hashem put on a Tallis like a chazan and shliach tzibbur – a prayer leader. In this guise, Hashem instructed Moshe that if people said the Thirteen Attributes, forgiveness would be abundant.

But why does the allegory need God to dress up in order to forgive us?

R’ Moshe Einstadter explains that the function of the shliach tzibbur (literally – agent of the community) is to enable those who don’t know how to join in. People who don’t know how are dependent on people who do in order to participate.

But this is a one-way relationship – the chazzan does not need an audience to pray – he can do it perfectly well on his own.

Yet should people have need of him, he can take on a greater role and responsibility than otherwise.

The same relationship exists between man and God.

We can’t help ourselves. When we make mistakes, why should teshuva make a difference? Should feeling bad suddenly make right wrong actions?

Yet the allegory offers a powerful resolution.

Hashem can be our shliach tzibbur. And so He gives us this formula for teshuva. Because we need Him to.

Judaism is all about how to live a meaningful good life, through the Torah. One of the most revolutionary concepts innovated by the Torah is that everyone is special and important, and not just a ruling elite.

Beyond this empowering belief, is that the door is never closed to people who lose their way. There is always room for the wayward to come back. No matter what they’ve done, people can find peace and redemption.

One of the absolute worst things a human can do is to take a life. Murder, which means to kill another, with intent, is so bad that the murderer is subject to capital punishment:

מַכֵּה אִישׁ וָמֵת מוֹת יוּמָת – One who strikes and kills a man, must absolutely be put to death. (21:13)

Yet someone who kills another inadvertently, manslaughter through negligence or some other tragic mistake, has a different remedy:

וַאֲשֶׁר לֹא צָדָה וְהָאֱלֹהִים אִנָּה לְיָדוֹ וְשַׂמְתִּי לְךָ מָקוֹם אֲשֶׁר יָנוּס שָׁמָּה – But if you didn’t stalk him, yet God brought it about by his hand, I will make a place for you to flee. (21:14)

The straightforward meaning of this cumbersome construction is that this killer must flee to a city of refuge.

Yet the words lend themselves to a deeper interpretation as well. The Arizal teaches that אִנָּה לְיָדוֹ וְשַׂמְתִּי לְךָ is the acronym of Elul, the month that culminates in the days of atonement. This law also contains an aspect of teshuva: the impetus to do teshuva at all.

R’ Moshe Einstadter beautifully reads this back into the words.

אִנָּה לְיָדוֹ – Something awful has happened. Running away is part of the process, but once the killer gets there, he must live with his conscience for the rest of his days. How can the guilty person live with himself?

וְשַׂמְתִּי לְךָ מָקוֹם – Hashem reassures us that there is nothing irredeemable; there remains a place for all of us. There is hope; there is a future.

Perhaps it is worth nothing that אִנָּה לְיָדוֹ is a matter of passive inaction, and the solution is one of action –
וְשַׂמְתִּי לְךָ. It takes real action to make a change.

But if we do, there is a place for all of us.