Who’s Really in Control?

We spend our lives planning, preparing, and trying to control the future. But Rosh Hashanah calls us to step back and recognize Who’s in charge.

“Game of Thrones”

This week someone told me they had binged the series Game of Thrones. I asked them, “What’s so special about this show that the whole world can’t stop talking about it?”

They explained: it’s about a war between seven noble houses, each fighting for the throne after the king’s death. In other words, it’s a battle for control. And in war, every trick, every underhanded tactic is used to win.

Why is everyone so hooked on this? Because it touches something real in all of us. Deep down, every person struggles with control. Most arguments boil down to that—who’s in charge. The majority of marital disagreements are about control: should the window stay open or closed? Which restaurant should we go to tonight? Whose family do we visit for the holidays—his parents or hers?

It’s the same with kids. Take a family trip: one child wants to listen to music, the other wants a story. With technology, the arguments have just shifted. Now one wants to watch this movie, the other insists on a different one. Thankfully, today everyone has their own device and headphones, so the fights quiet down—but the issue remains. Everyone wants to be in control.

You even see it in very young children. Try helping a toddler with shoes or a coat, and they’ll push you away: “By myself!” They want to do it all on their own. From the moment a person is born, the drive to control is there.

Are We Really in Control?

The Jewish people wandered in the desert for forty years. They ate manna from heaven, drank water from a rock, and lived under the protection of the Clouds of Glory. In the desert, the days are scorching and the nights freezing—but for the Jews, it was always pleasant.

And yet—they complained. Again and again. The manna was boring. “Who will give us meat to eat? We remember the fish we had in Egypt…” (Numbers 11:4). On and on, one complaint after another. But why? They had everything, and all of it was free! What was really behind the constant grumbling?

The answer is: they had no control. They couldn’t save manna for tomorrow; the Torah commands, “Let no one leave it over until morning” (Exodus 16:19). Normally, a person wants some food put away, so he feels secure—“bread in his basket.” But here, each day they had to rely on the miracle of manna falling from heaven. Their survival was not in their hands.

Even time wasn’t in their control. People like to plan their schedules, make appointments, set vacations. In the desert they never knew how long they would be in one place. Sometimes they camped for a single day, sometimes for years—and not even Moshe knew in advance. You couldn’t plan anything. That lack of control was deeply frustrating.

But why did G-d put them through this training program for forty years—giving them everything, but making them totally dependent? Because that’s reality.

We think we control our health, our money, our time. People exercise daily, walk, run, bike, swim—some even do triathlons, a mix of all three. Others do yoga, Zumba, and more—all in the quest to be healthy and fit. But in the end, do we truly control our health? Sadly, we all know the answer.

People spend their lives working, saving, investing—building portfolios, consulting financial advisors, planning for retirement. And then, suddenly, a market crash wipes it all away. The same with careers—everything can seem stable, until it collapses overnight like a house of cards.

Even with time. A person gets stuck in traffic, misses a flight, and fumes in anger because all his plans fall apart. But who really decided he wouldn’t be on that flight? G-d. So what’s the point of the anger? It’s as if he’s telling G-d: “You don’t want me to travel, but I do.” And G-d answers: “Excuse me, but who’s really in charge here?”

That’s why our Sages said: “Whoever gets angry is as if he served idols.” Because anger is really a struggle for control with G-d. The Alter Rebbe puts it sharply: “At the moment of anger, faith departs from him. If he truly believed that this came from G-d, he would not be angry at all” (Iggeres HaKodesh 25).

My Father’s Dream

Rosh Hashanah arrives. We gather in shul, we blow the shofar, and we proclaim that G-d is King over the entire world. In our prayers we say: “Reign over the whole world in Your glory… Let every being know that You created it, let every creature understand that You formed it, and let everyone who has breath declare: Hashem, the G-d of Israel, is King, and His Kingship rules everywhere.”

I want to share with you a personal story about my late father, of blessed memory.

When World War II broke out, my father was just twelve years old. He lived near the Romanian–Russian border, and when the Nazis advanced, his family fled deep into Russia. The journey was harsh—hunger, cold, and weakness followed them everywhere. To survive, my father found work as a shepherd for a local farmer, receiving just a little food in return.

Along the road, he would often see people who had collapsed and died from starvation. One day—around the time of his bar mitzvah—he went out to the fields, faint with hunger, convinced he would not survive. In desperation, he tried eating grass, but it didn’t help. Finally, he collapsed and fell asleep.

In his dream, he was crying. Suddenly, he saw a rabbi with a long white beard appear before him. The rabbi said: “Moshe, don’t be afraid. Everything will be all right. Just say the prayer Adon Olam every morning and every evening, and G-d will save you from everything.”

When my father awoke, he felt renewed strength, as if new life had entered him. Those words carried him through the war, through the harsh years in Siberian labor camps, and later helped him rebuild his life—raising a family in Russia, eventually moving to Israel, and living to an old age. And to his last day, he never missed saying Adon Olam every morning and evening.

Hashem Is With Me

Adon Olam is one of the very first prayers we say each morning. No one knows exactly who wrote it, but the Jewish people have been reciting this beautiful tefillah for close to a thousand years.

In it, we declare that G-d is the Master of the universe, that everything exists by His will. We proclaim: “He is my G-d, my living Redeemer.” He is the One who helps us “in times of trouble,” the One we trust, the One into whose hands we place our very soul and body when we go to sleep.

This prayer expresses the deepest recognition and trust—that Hashem rules over both the dangers of the night and the challenges of the day, and that nothing can happen outside His care. It ends with the words that give us strength and courage: “Hashem is with me, I shall not fear.”

As the Rebbe once wrote: “On each person it is said, ‘Hashem is with me, I shall not fear’… From this it follows that there is no place for fear at all, since Hashem is your shadow at your right hand, watching and protecting each and every one of us” (Igros Kodesh vol. 9, p. 44).

These words—and more than the words, the mindset behind them—are what each of us should take as our “travel provisions” into the new year. If we remember that Hashem is with me, then I shall not fear—we can walk through the year with calm and confidence.

May it be a good and sweet year for us all.
And let us end together, in song: Adon Olam.