This week we learn two Parshiot: Nitzavim and Vayelech. The Parshah of Nitzavim includes some of the most fundamental principles of the Jewish faith: the unity of Israel, the future redemption, the practicality of Torah and freedom of choice.

The Parshah of Vayelech recounts the events of Moshe’s last day of earthly life.  He transfers the leadership to Joshua, and writes (or concludes writing) the Torah in a scroll which he entrusts to the Levites for safekeeping in the Ark.

The mitzvah of Hakhel is given: every seven years, during the festival of Sukkot of the first year of the shemittah cycle, the entire people of Israel—men, women and children—should gather at the Beit Hamikdash, where the king should read to them from the Torah.

The 25th of Elul marks the start of the creation of the world, which culminates on Rosh Hashana with the creation of man. Hashem created this entire universe out of desire for us to live in it and use the physicality we find, to serve Him. He created the world in order so that by the time people were brought into being, they already had access to everything they would need for their divine purpose.

There is an analogy which perfectly explains the feelings we should have approaching Rosh Hashana: There is a boy who is on trial for a crime he may have committed. He is brought to court and is given a lawyer. Although he prepares for trial, he doesn’t worry and seems at ease. The lawyer is confused and demands an explanation. The boy shrugs him off. Finally, the day of the trial arrives and the boy walks in, calm and confident. He looks at the lawyer, points at the judge and says, “look, that's my father.”

At the end of the day, although Rosh Hashana is a serious day, we are not supposed to feel fear. Hashem is our father and loves us and would never hurt us.

Through many journeys through many lives, each of us will find and redeem all the divine sparks in our share of the world.

Then the darkness that holds such mastery, such cruelty, such irrational evil that it contains no redeeming value—all this will simply vanish like a puff of steam in the midday air.

As for that which we salvaged and used for good, it will shine an awesome light never known before.

The world will have arrived.

Hurried, I ran out of the subway station into the bustling street, trying not to be late to my study class.

Hurried, I buried my hands in my leather gloves, attempting to stave off the biting cold.

Hurried, I didn’t even notice him.

Hurried, I barely heard his “Shabbat shalom” as he tipped his hat.

Hurried, when I turned around, I nearly missed him.

I raced back down the street until I caught his attention, and, between my confusion and awkwardness, asked: “Excuse me, sir, have you put on tefillin today?”

There was certainly no place for G‑d in this scene . . .

Pause. He stared at me. In his silence I became acutely aware of my surroundings, the street corner of 96th and Amsterdam. The street seemed to have a life of its own: the sidewalk pulsated with buzzing pedestrian traffic, cars honked and screeched as they whizzed through the settling twilight, and sweet aromas of freshly baked pastries wafted about the vendors peddling their wares. The street corner was busy. Too busy. There was certainly no place for G‑d in this scene.

I gazed at the man I had just met. He was still quiet as he sought his words. The sun was slowly dipping beyond the horizon; it was soon to be sundown, soon to be too late to don tefillin. And then, with a sympathetic nod, he answered, “I do not mean to insult you, but I have no time.”

“Insult me?” I laughed incredulously. “Not a problem at all! It’s a pleasure meeting you.” I smiled as we shook hands and exchanged names. I began to wonder what could possibly be the purpose behind our meeting—surely it was fate, surely it was divine providence, and surely there was a reason!

There were no stage lights and no applause, but I felt G‑d in the audience . . .

But to my surprise, he didn’t turn to leave, and so I lingered. He seemed preoccupied, deep in thought, as he considered his next words. Imagine my surprise when he asked, “How long will it take?”

And for the next few minutes we wrapped the tefillin and said the Shema prayer. There were no stage lights and no applause, but I felt G‑d in the audience, as though He was stopping just to see one man in service of his Creator. It was an act so simple and humbling, yet so very profound in its message: there is place for G‑d in our lives, and we decide this with even the smallest of deeds, embracing our inherent relationship—mind and heart, body and soul.

A week has passed, and every day I look back at the corner of 96th and Amsterdam. I look to the juncture where we met, and wonder if I might see him again. I wonder if he saw G‑d, as I did, on the street corner in those few minutes. And this I may never know; perhaps this is where the story ends. But I do know one thing for certain: G‑d made our paths cross, if only for that one mitzvah.