One of my favorite children’s books is called The Monster at the End of This Book. Its protagonist is the lovable, furry old Grover—the hapless character we know from his recurring role on Sesame Street.

I didn’t fully appreciate the book until I started reading it to my children. Now, it’s become my favorite to read as the High Holidays approach.

The book begins with Grover realizing what the title implies: “On the first page, what did that say,” Grover wonders. “Did that say there will be a Monster at the end of this book?” The dread starts to set in. This is not a book Grover wants to finish.

Grover does everything he can to avoid the monster. He begs the reader not to turn the page, ties down the pages, and even builds brick walls, all in the hope that he can stop the story from progressing. I’ve used similar tactics myself—distract, don’t show up, don’t pay attention—anything to avoid the monstrous experience of the High Holidays.

As the book nears its end, Grover attempts one final plea. “The next page is the end of the book, and there is a monster at the end of the book,” Grover supplicates. “Please do not turn the page—please, please, please.”

Of course, despite Grover’s protests, the reader—in my case, usually my daughter—forges ahead. And as you turn to that last ominous page waiting to be confronted by the terrifying monster the book cover portended, there is a surprise. The only person on the last page is Grover. 

“Well look at that,” an astonished Grover realizes. “This is the end of the book, and the only one here is me—I, lovable, furry old Grover, am the Monster at the end of this book.” For all of his angst and fear, the only monster confronting Grover at the end of the book was himself. 

As I once wrote about in an article entitled, “The Monster at the End of the Machzor,” this book always felt like an analogy for the dread leading up to the High Holidays:

As we approach the High Holidays, it can feel like that monster is coming. We think of pages left, the seat we have in shul, the guilt and shame we may have about our own Jewish lives. But the confrontation this entire period is ultimately meant to facilitate is with ourselves. 

For a time that, for so many, is filled with anticipatory dread it is interesting that in fact the way our parsha describes the process of teshuva is deliberately as something accessible and easy.

The mitzvah of teshuva—assuming it even is a mitzvah—is presented as follows:

כִּי הַמִּצְוָה הַזֹּאת אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מְצַוְּךָ הַיּוֹם לֹא־נִפְלֵאת הִוא מִמְּךָ וְלֹא רְחֹקָה הִוא׃

Surely, this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach.

לֹא בַשָּׁמַיִם הִוא לֵאמֹר מִי יַעֲלֶה־לָּנוּ הַשָּׁמַיְמָה וְיִקָּחֶהָ לָּנוּ וְיַשְׁמִעֵנוּ אֹתָהּ וְנַעֲשֶׂנָּה׃

It is not in the heavens, that you should say, “Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?”

וְלֹא־מֵעֵבֶר לַיָּם הִוא לֵאמֹר מִי יַעֲבׇר־לָנוּ אֶל־עֵבֶר הַיָּם וְיִקָּחֶהָ לָּנוּ וְיַשְׁמִעֵנוּ אֹתָהּ וְנַעֲשֶׂנָּה׃

Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, “Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?”

כִּי־קָרוֹב אֵלֶיךָ הַדָּבָר מְאֹד בְּפִיךָ וּבִלְבָבְךָ לַעֲשֹׂתוֹ׃ {ס}        

No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it.

Interestingly, it is not entirely clear which mitzvah these verses are actually talking about. Rashi seems to think it is talking about Torah. The Ramban, however, assumes it is talking about teshuva. He writes:

וְטַעַם כִּי הַמִּצְוָה הַזֹּאת, עַל כָּל הַתּוֹרָה כֻּלָּהּ. וְהַנָּכוֹן כִּי עַל כָּל הַתּוֹרָה יֹאמַר (דברים ח':א'), כָּל הַמִּצְוָה אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מְצַוְּךָ הַיּוֹם, אֲבָל הַמִּצְוָה הַזֹּאת, עַל הַתְּשׁוּבָה הַנִּזְכֶּרֶת, כִּי וַהֲשֵׁבֹתָ אֶל לְבָבֶךָ (דברים ל':א') וְשַׁבְתָּ עַד ה' אֱלֹהֶיךָ (דברים ל':ב'), מִצְוָה שֶׁיְּצַוֶּה אוֹתָנוּ לַעֲשׂוֹת כֵּן. וְנֶאֶמְרָה בַּלָּשׁוֹן הַבֵּינוֹנִי, לִרְמֹז בַּהַבְטָחָה כִּי עָתִיד הַדָּבָר לִהְיוֹת כֵּן. וְהַטַּעַם לֵאמֹר כִּי אִם יִהְיֶה נִדַּחֲךָ בִּקְצֵה הַשָּׁמָיִם וְאַתָּה בְּיַד הָעַמִּים, תּוּכַל לָשׁוּב אֶל ה' וְלַעֲשׂוֹת כְּכֹל אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מְצַוְּךָ הַיּוֹם, כִּי אֵין הַדָּבָר נִפְלָא וְרָחוֹק מִמְּךָ אֲבָל קָרוֹב אֵלֶיךָ מְאֹד לַעֲשׂוֹתוֹ בְּכָל עֵת וּבְכָל מָקוֹם. וְזֶה טַעַם בְּפִיךָ וּבִלְבָבְךָ לַעֲשׂוֹתוֹ, שֶׁיִּתְוַדּוּ אֶת עֲוֹנָם וְאֶת עֲוֹן אֲבֹתָם בְּפִיהֶם, וְיָשׁוּבוּ בְּלִבָּם אֶל ה', וִיקַבְּלוּ עֲלֵיהֶם הַיּוֹם הַתּוֹרָה לַעֲשׂוֹתָהּ לְדוֹרוֹת, כַּאֲשֶׁר הִזְכִּיר (דברים ל':ב'), אַתָּה וּבָנֶיךָ בְּכָל לְבָבְךָ, כְּמוֹ שֶׁפֵּרַשְׁתִּי (שם)

Which one is it? In fact, in one of the most famous stories in the Talmud, known as the Tanur shel Achnai, it seems clear that these verses are talking about Torah. In the story of Tanur shel Achnai, a rabbi tries to bring proofs to his opinion through miracles and heavenly voices. Despite the acts of wonder performed on his behalf, the other rabbi is not convinced. “The Torah is not in Heaven,” the rabbi explains, citing our parsha’s statement, לא בשמים היא.

The phrase לא בשמים היא makes sense when it applies to Torah—rabbinic interpretation is how we approach Torah, not through prophecy, but what on earth does it mean when applied to teshuva? And why do we use the same verses to seemingly discuss two vastly different topics—Torah and teshuva?

To understand all this let’s explore the incredible story of the Hasidic Rebbe who left traditional Jewish life and finally returned.

Read the rest on Substack, and listen to the full shiur above!