How many times do you need to hear something before it
becomes part of you?

Once? Twice? Ten times?

Moshe Rabbenu gathers the people one last time, and he
doesn’t teach them anything “new.” No fresh miracles. No dazzling wonders. He
retells stories they already know. He repeats. Again. And again.

הוֹאִ֛יל מֹשֶׁ֥ה בֵאֵ֖ר אֶת־הַתּוֹרָ֥ה הַזֹּ֖את לֵאמֹֽר׃

“Then Moshe undertook to expound this Torah…” (דברים א׳:ה׳)

Why the repetition? Because Moshe isn’t lecturing. He’s
engraving. He’s searing memory into the soul of a people.

And as we approach תִּשְׁעָה בְּאָב, our national day of
mourning, we learn from Parashat Devarim the sacred power of memory—how
remembering can be redemptive, and how forgetfulness can destroy.

תְּקַע בְּשׁוֹפָר גָּדוֹל לְחֵרוּתֵנוּ.

וְשָׂא נֵס לְקַבֵּץ גָּלִיּוֹתֵינוּ.

וְקַבְּצֵנוּ יַחַד מֵאַרְבַּע כַּנְפוֹת הָאָרֶץ לְאַרְצֵנוּ.

יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלְּפָנֶיךָ ה אֱלֹקינוּ

וֵאלֹהֵי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ, שֶׁכָּל טִפָּה וְטִפָּה שֶׁל זֶרַע שֶׁיֵּצֵא מִמֶּנִּי לַבַּטָּלָה, בֵּין בְּאוֹנֶס בֵּין בִּרְצוֹן, בֵּין בְּשׁוֹגֵג בֵּין בְּמֵזִיד,

בֵּין בְּעֵר בֵּין בְּיָשֵׁן, בֵּין עַל יְדֵי בֵּין עַל יְדֵי אֲחֵרִים, שֶׁלֹּא בְּמָקוֹם מִצְוָה,

עֲשֵׂה לְמַעַן שִׁמְךָ הַגָּדוֹל וְהַנּוֹרָא הַיּוֹצֵא מִפָּסוּק תֵּהִל בַּל וְיִקָּרֵנוּ, שֶׁתַּחֲזִירֵם לִמְקוֹמָם בִּמְקוֹם הַקּוֹדֶשׁ.

The Killer’s Prayer

You didn’t mean to kill.

Maybe a tool slipped from your hand. Maybe you looked away for a second. It doesn’t matter now. Someone died, and the Torah says you must go — to the עיר מקלט.

Exiled. Alone. Separated from your family.

Maybe it feels like you’re in Iowa, and your whole life — your wife, your kids, your parents — are all back in New York.

And every day in exile… you pray.

Not for forgiveness. Not even for understanding. Just one plea:

“Please, Hashem — let the Kohen Gadol die, so I can go home.”

And the Torah says:

כִּ֤י בְעִיר֙ מִקְלָט֔וֹ יֵשֵׁ֖ב עַד־מ֥וֹת הַכֹּהֵ֣ן הַגָּד֑וֹל

“He shall dwell in his city of refuge until the death of the Kohen Gadol…” (במדבר ל״ה:כ״ח)

But here’s the puzzle:

Why should this prayer work?

The Torah tells us that if someone makes a vow or swears an oath to bind themselves, they must not profane their word—“כְּכָל־הַיֹּצֵא מִפִּ֖יו יַעֲשֶֽׂה” — he must do exactly as he has said.

In Jewish law, vows are serious matters. A neder or a shevuah is not just a passing statement. It creates a personal prohibition. And to dissolve such a vow requires either an expert—יָחוֹל לְהָתִיר נֶדֶר—or a בית דין של שלושה הדיוטות.

But what’s striking is how the Torah introduces this mitzvah.

Usually, when Moshe receives a mitzvah to transmit, it’s passed from him to אַהֲרֹן, then to his sons, the זְקֵנִים, and finally to all of בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל.

But here—וַיְדַבֵּ֣ר מֹשֶׁ֗ה אֶל־רָאשֵׁ֛י הַמַּטּ֖וֹת.

Rashi comments: “לכבודם של נשיאים נאמר.” The reason? Because the annulment of vows is a unique halachic tool given to leaders, to experts. Not every judge can do it. It requires שִׁקּוּל דַּעַת, יִרְאַת שָׁמַיִם, and the discernment to distinguish between a vow made in clarity and one made in desperation.

But I’d like to go deeper.