Sermon for Rosh haShana Day 1 5786

As a little girl, I was never into princesses or royalty.  Now, as an adult, I’ve found myself more interested in them than I’d care to admit.  I’ve been following Princess Catherine’s cancer diagnosis, observing King Charles’ style of leadership as he assumes the throne in his later years, and for years I was hooked on The Crown, a fictional docudrama that chronicled six decades of Queen Elizabeth’s reign. I’ve found it fascinating how the show portrays her not only as a private individual but as a powerful female leader.

What strikes me about the labels and titles we assign each other – Doctor, Rabbi, President, Queen – simultaneously give us a place in society, yet also limit us.  We all have certain associations with these labels and project certain expectations onto these leaders.

Today, as we gather to celebrate Rosh haShanah, we reflect on the particular title we assign to God, particularly on this day: Melekh—King.  It’s a title that is both powerful and, in many ways, problematic.

Kings are often larger-than-life figures, representing ideals of grace, beauty, power, might, or wisdom. Think of King Arthur, or the regal figures from fairy tales and Disney movies. 

But real-life kings?  Anyone with a knowledge of history would associate monarchies more with tyranny, greed, incompetence, dehumanization and mass servitude. Here in the United States, we were founded on an outright rejection of kingship and all it represents.  Thomas Jefferson described it bluntly in his 1788 letter to George Washington, as he described what he was witnessing during his travels in Europe:  “There is scarcely an evil known in these countries which may not be traced to their king as its source.”

Another founding father, Thomas Paine, who wrote the deeply influential pamphlet “Common Sense” which boldly declared that “monarchy and succession have laid (not this or that kingdom only) but the world in blood and ashes. ‘Tis a form of government which the word of God bears testimony against, and blood will attend it.”  

From where did he derive this radical claim?  By drawing on the teachings of the Bible, of course; specifically 1 Samuel, where the Israelites demand a human king, and Samuel warns them of the consequences. Samuel describes the king’s future abuses, from conscripting sons and daughters to taking a portion of their crops and flocks, leading to oppression and dehumanization. He warns them that this king “will take a tenth part of your flocks, and you shall become his slaves. The day will come when you cry out because of the king whom you yourselves have chosen; and YHWH will not answer you on that day.” (1 Sam 8:12-18)

Samuel based his views on the book of Deuteronomy, which permits kings but imposes clear limitations on their power. Further, Deuteronomy states that a king must have a copy of the Torah with him all the time, to be read constantly, so that he may remain humble, governed by the laws of God, and never act with arrogance or greed. (Deut. 17:14-20)

So it’s abundantly clear: From our beginnings, we Jews have never been fans of monarchies.  And yet, the metaphor of God as King dominates our liturgy during the High Holidays, particularly on Rosh haShanah.

On Rosh haShanah morning, we begin by announcing the presence of “haMelekh” – the King. We recite “Avinu Malkenu“—”Our Father, Our King.” This is not a small or simple metaphor.

During these holy, awesome days, we acknowledge how much is out of our control. The image of a king, with absolute power, may be a way to impress upon us the enormity of God’s sovereignty. We are vulnerable, mortal, and limited—sickness, age, and death are all around us. Perhaps calling God King reminds us of God’s total power and the trust we place in God’s eternal perspective.

But the metaphor of God as King is not without its limitations. It is, after all, an antiquated, gendered, and hierarchical image. Kings sit on thrones in palaces, distanced from the people, symbolizing a system where power is not shared but dictated from above. In this way, the king is less approachable, less of a partner, and more a figurehead of hierarchy.

So, why then would we call God King? How did we come to call God King?

There is almost no mention of God as King in the Torah. Our patriarchs and matriarchs never called God King.  Instead, in the story of the Exodus, God is depicted as the antithesis of Pharaoh —a ruler not bound by mortality, cruelty, or tyranny.  Later, in the wilderness, the people of Israel build God a tabernacle, not a palace.

But obviously somewhere along the line we evolved in our terminology.  The word Melekh is all over our siddur. The basic formula of our prayers starts, “Baruch Ata Adonai Eloheinu MELEKH ha’olam.”  By the time of the Babylonian Talmud, which was compiled around 500-700CE, the tractate Rosh HaShana (16a) tells us, “Recite before Me verses of sovereignty for Rosh HaShana so that you make me King over you.”

So, what changed?  In a word: EXILE.  

The Babylonian exile was a formative and traumatic experience for the Jewish people during which many people from the Kingdom of Judah were forcibly deported to Babylon after the Babylonian Empire, under King Nebuchadnezzar II, conquered Jerusalem in the 6th century BCE. Foreigners in a strange new land, the exiles sang, “By the rivers of Babylon, we wept, as we remembered Zion. How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” (Ps. 137)  

How does a people who has been displaced and dispersed stay connected, both physically and spiritually? 

The answer: They assert that their God is not only the object of their prayers, but also that God is the King of an Israelite nation that is one and connected beyond time and space, unlimited by physical borders. This, Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks explains, is “the single most astonishing ­phenomenon of Jewish history, the fact that Jews retained their identity as a nation for two thousand years in exile, scattered across the world.” 

You could argue that this idea was what sustained Jews through centuries of exile and persecution. No matter where we lived, we were connected as people through this kind of theocracy, with our synagogues as spiritual embassies, Jewish strongholds where God was sovereign. We would, as citizens and subjects of whatever country we lived in, obey that country’s laws, as clearly stipulated several times in the Talmud [see the concept of dina d’malkhuta dina], but we would bow only to God. 

The Aleinu prayer, originally a unique part of the Rosh haShanah liturgy, reflects this vision of a world ruled by God. On Rosh haShanah, we proclaim the Great Aleinu as a kind of coronation ritual, affirming that God, not any earthly monarch, is the true King.

This notion was so powerful that we took the Aleinu, which was originally recited once a year to crown our King at the head of the year, and made it part of our daily prayers. It became the spiritual punctuation mark at the end of each service—a way of reaffirming our highest vision of a world ruled not by fear, but by compassion and justice.

The Aleinu prayer is a vision of a world under God’s rule, when “all the world’s inhabitants will realize and know that to You every knee must bow.”  In our vision, God rules not as a tyrannical despotic king, but as a benevolent redeemer and caretaker. Albeit overqualified, God has the added benefit that we need not worry about succession for eternity. 

Even today, when we live in a time of relative safety and prosperity compared to generations past, we still need that reminder. We still need to declare God’s kingship—not to elevate God, but to hold ourselves accountable to Godly values.

But, here lies the tension: If God is King, then no other being can claim that title. This idea has political implications, as it challenges the legitimacy of any earthly ruler. As the prominent Israeli scholar of Jewish thought and ethics, Moshe Halbertal, put succinctly: “God is King; therefore, the king is not God.”

When we use the metaphor of King for God, it does not mean that we like kings.  Rather, it is a repudiation of any human claiming that right. You could say that Rosh haShana was the original “No Kings” demonstration! 

This could get us in trouble, and it has. What is our religious identity versus national identity?  In our history, Jews have been persecuted on the premise that we are outsiders, even threats, and not true and loyal to the country in which we reside. Our allegiances have been questioned; our loyalty has been met with suspicion.  

But this is partly why Jews have felt so comfortable in the U.S. up until now.  We shared the same wariness of kings and those with absolute power with those who founded this country. Thomas Paine, the founding father I previously mentioned, wrote in 1894: “But where, say some, is the King of America? I’ll tell you, friend, he reigns above.” 

Indeed, where is our King, today?  When the vulnerable are attacked, arrested, and displaced instead of protected—can we truly say that justice reigns? Where is our King when cities are threatened and occupied, when leaders stir division and fear instead of offering help?  (I could go on and on.)

From a Jewish perspective, these are not only political questions— they are spiritual ones. Because if we believe God is King, then today we recommit ourselves to God’s kingship: where dignity, mercy, and righteousness rule supreme and are made manifest. 

The Great Aleinu coronation ritual does more than that: The medieval sages coined the idea “Ein melekh b’lo am – There is no king without a people.”  The implication here is that one cannot be a ruler if there is no people to reign over.  THe Chasidim of the 18th century took it further, stating that there can be no King if there is noone with Him. One cannot be a monarch over trees and rocks.  One cannot be monarch simply by owning a lot of physical possessions.  In order to be King, God needs a people, and God needs us as His partners.

It is a poignant image.  There is a beautiful metaphor that comes from chassidic teachings that during the month of Elul, which precedes the High Holidays, “the King in the field,” meaning that God is more accessible to us at this time of year.  Imagine a king who usually lives in a royal palace, far removed from the everyday people. To meet him, you’d need an appointment, dress properly, and go through guards and protocol.  But once a year, the king goes out into the field — into the open, among the people — and anyone can approach him. 

Lovely, yes, but why would God go out into the field?  Perhaps because the high and lofty King is searching for us.  We are God’s subjects, yes, but also are God’s creation.  Like is calling to like.  As the New Year approaches, God needs us. God searches for us.

We are created in God’s image, inherently holy, and our task on Rosh haShanah is to rediscover that godliness—the “king,” if you will, within each of us.

There is a midrash that teaches that when a human king mints coins with his image, they are all the same. But when the King of Kings mints coins, all bearing his image, each one is unique. (Sanhedrin 38a) While a human king’s treasure is his wealth, God’s treasure is each one of us. God’s sacred image is stamped within every human being.

So what does it mean for us to crown God as King today? It means standing up for the divine image in every human being—regardless of faith, background, race, gender, or nationality. It means building a world where power serves justice, not self-interest. Where compassion and love for our shared humanity guides our laws and our actions.

The liturgy on this most sacred day calls us to affirm God as the true King, the only true King.  While human leaders rise and fall in power, ours is Eternal. While human rulers issue orders from their inner sanctum and prey on the vulnerable – the poor, the stranger, the orphan and the widow – in order to feel powerful, our King’s power lies in compassion and in partnership with us.  

Our God gives voice to the voiceless, an aspect we celebrate in the themes of our Torah and Haftarah readings today as we hear Hagar’s cry and Hannah’s prayer.  Our King sees each one of us in our distress and lifts us up and clothes us in dignity.  Our God shows us the path forward, not dictating by executive order, but through acts of kindness and justice, through mitzvot that remind us of our responsibility to one another, our interdependence and connection with each other as God’s treasured creation.

Because to recognize God’s kingship is not to abdicate responsibility. It is to embrace it. God’s sovereignty does not diminish our agency—it calls it forth. 

HaMelekh! The King is here. Not in a palace or a far-off throne—but in this sanctuary, in our hearts, and in the work ahead.

Shanah Tovah.