2 Tishrei 5775 ~ Rosh Hashanah ~ 26
September 2014
The announcement comes softly. “There is an alert in Ashkelon”. “There is an alert in Ashdod.” “There is an alert in Beer Sheva”. The quiet, calm voice sought to avoid creating panic. It interrupted the regular music, news or call-in conversations on radio all summer in Israel. As I listened, I thought of Dena calling the shofar, the soft announcement of each note followed by the sobbing, raw blast.
As I sound the shofar, I hold in my thoughts people in our congregation, friends, family. I hope for well-lived and healthy life. The shofar for me is an instrument of hope, offering a “prayer without words.” It is a celebration of life, of new beginnings, of the possibility of connecting ourselves to God.
Shofar is a polyvalent instrument. It carries multiple meanings. Rabbi Saadya ibn Yusef, the 10th century Gaon of Babylonia, offered ten interpretations for the shofar sounding:
1. The shofar announces the annual coronation of God as our sovereign.
2. It stirs our conscience to return to God.
3. The shofar reminds us of Sinai, our covenant and Torah.
4. Like the voices of the prophets, it calls us to serve God with justice for others.
5. It reminds us of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem.
6. The shofar recalls the ram offered in place of Yitzhak: a sign of commitment and compassion.
7. It evokes a feeling of humility.
8. The shofar reminds us of a Final Judgment.
9. It foreshadows the return of Exiles to the Holy Land.
10. The shofar anticipates the messianic era and a universal awareness of Divine unity.
This year, as I sounded the shofar, I wasn’t thinking theology. I was feeling other emotions in my gut. Anger, fear, grief, shame, sadness, gratitude, solidarity, gratitude. And hope.
The mitzvah of shofar is mentioned in the Torah three times, but without specifying how this was to be done. In Leviticus, we are told:
וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר ה אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֥ה לֵּאמֹֽר׃
דַּבֵּ֛ר אֶל־בְּנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל לֵאמֹ֑ר בַּחֹ֨דֶשׁ הַשְּׁבִיעִ֜י בְּאֶחָ֣ד לַחֹ֗דֶשׁ יִהְיֶ֤ה לָכֶם֙ שַׁבָּתֹ֔ון זִכְרֹ֥ון תְּרוּעָ֖ה מִקְרָא־קֹֽדֶשׁ׃
Speak unto the children of Israel, saying: In the seventh month, in the first day of the month, shall be a solemn rest unto you, a memorial proclaimed with the blast of horns, a holy convocation (23.24-5).
The uncertainty of how to carry out the commandment led the 3rd century Talmudic teacher, Rav Abbahu of Caesarea to rule that there should be a mixture of sounds.
The Aramaic translation of teru’ah is yebava, a cry, the sound a person makes when one cries. But we are uncertain whether it is like a groan from the heart, the three notes of deep sobbing (shevarim) or comparable to one who cries and laments with the nine rapid, staccato-like sounds (our teru’ah), or a combination of all of them. The teki’ah blast frames each middle set.
It is clear, writes Erica Brown, that “the shofar really doesn't play music in the conventional sense. It plays tears—the primal screams, sobs and whimpers of the human heart when it encounters the soul at its most vulnerable. It is no coincidence that the shofar comes from an animal since its sounds are not sophisticated but more animal-like in their range and treble”.
This world is the territory of tears. This year, I cry for the three Israeli teens kidnapped and killed. I grieve for the Israeli soldiers whose shivas I attended and for all the brave hayyalim who were killed.
I weep for the soldiers who were wounded: for Meir, the son of my friend Moshe, for those that Josette and I visited in Barzelai Hospital in Ashkelon and the many others who will face a changed future.
I sob for the kids and parents in Sderot and Kibbutz Nirim whose lives were on constant alert and for those killed by Hamas attacks.
This year, the shofar also carries my anger and frustration. I am furious at Hamas for its past acts of terror and its present efforts to traumatize innocent civilians. I’m angry that Hamas positions weapons in civilian centres so that in asymmetric warfare innocent people are killed.
I’m frustrated that media images are so much more powerful and instantaneous than the careful analytic post-conflict accounting.
The Talmud, when describing the “sobbing" of the shofar, uses a word that describes the sound made by the mother of Sisera who waits for her son to return from battle. Sisera is a Canaanite general who gave Israel no peace. He was lured into the tent of Ya'el and killed by her.
בְּעַד֩ הַחַלֹּ֨ון נִשְׁקְפָ֧ה וַתְּיַבֵּ֛ב אֵ֥ם סִֽיסְרָ֖א. B’ad hahalon nish’k’fa va’t’yabev em Sisera—through the window Sisera’s mother peered and sobbed (Judges 5:28). In the sobs of the shofar is the weeping of a mother who has lost her son. Sisera was an enemy, but even he had a mother. We should weep for others.
Our tears represent awareness that even when necessary to defend, even when required to attack, Israeli soldiers know that there will be death and pain for others. As one young soldier—a former Shinshin/ Emissary—wrote to his Toronto family: “I think I killed someone today.”
The young Israelis who returned from army service did so with a sense of having fulfilled their mission, gratitude for their own safety, sadness at the loss or injury of their comrades, and pain at the damage they inflicted.
I’ve been to Gaza, enjoyed its beaches, and eaten its produce. I supported the withdrawal in 2005. I am outraged that years before Hamas kicked out the PLO, and well before Israel curtailed cross-border traffic, the people and leadership of Gaza did not use the existing hothouses, did not seek to build resorts and failed to develop its own resources. And I’m frustrated that no one remembers or realizes what opportunities were lost.
I’m vexed by those who seek to transform self-defence into war crimes, at those who besmirch Zionism, at those who attempt to delegitimize a Jewish state whose Arab citizens have more freedom than anywhere else in the Middle East.
At the same time, I felt the shofar of shame this year. Not only when I read of Lev Tahor and its treatment of women and children. I felt horror when Jews could attack and burn to death an innocent Arab child. I feel shame when gangs of Jews frighten others by shouting “death to Arabs”.
I’m anxious—and that also comes through the shofar. I’m concerned about the increase in anti-semitism in Europe from the ultra-nationalist right-wing, such as Jobbik in Hungary, the religious hatred of Muslim extremists, and the left-wing loathing that takes the form of anti-Zionism. I’m troubled by the uncertainty for Jews in Ukraine. And I am concerned about attacks here - in Montreal, Calgary and Toronto.
There are not a lot of shofar stories. This is an old one:
Jack and Sam are having a conversation. Jack asks Sam what time it is. Sam answers him and asks Jack why he doesn't have a watch. Jack answers that he doesn't need one since he could always ask someone else for the time.
"But, what do you do if you get up during the night and you want to know what time it is", asks Sam.
"I have a shofar." answers Jack.
"A shofar? How's that going to help?", asks Sam.
"Simple", answers Jack. "I just open the window and start blowing. Soon the neighbours start yelling. . . . Are you crazy, blowing shofar at three in the morning!”
Maurice Samuel once wrote that, “no one likes his alarm clock.” He believed that the fate of the Jews provided an early warning to humanity, who resented the awakening, however necessary.
In the midst of the negativity, my shofar is also an expression of gratitude. For the strong positions that Prime Minister Harper has taken for Israel and against anti-Semitism. I welcome the statement of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom who said: “we will not tolerate anti-Semitism in Britain. No disagreements on politics or policy can ever justify racism or extremism in any form.” What begins with Jews, rarely ends with us. To protect our society, leaders must speak up with force and strength against Jew hatred of all forms.
That is why I also appreciate the President of Germany, Andrea Merkel, saying:
It is a monstrous scandal that people in Germany today are being abused if they are somehow recognizable as Jews or if they stand up for the state of Israel. I will not accept that and we will not accept that. … It’s our national and civic duty to fight anti-Semitism. … Anyone who hits someone wearing a skullcap is hitting us all. Anyone who damages a Jewish gravestone is disgracing our culture. Anyone who attacks a synagogue is attacking the foundations of our free society.
It is noteworthy that that the leader of Germany recognizes that Israel stands alone when its policies become a vehicle for questioning its very existence. Rav Harvey, who has been teaching in Germany, will speak about this when he visits next June.
I am disturbed that on the 70th anniversary of the deportation of Hungarian Jews to death camps, we must still justify our existence as a people, as a region, as a nation. My shofar expresses my anxiety.
On Rosh Hashanah, we are commanded to listen to the sound of the shofar. For other mitzvot, we are told to do them- wave the lulav, eat the matzah, light the candles. Listening requires receptivity, openness.
I hope that when you hear the sounds of shofar, the feelings evoked in you will not only be those of anger and frustration, grief and sadness. I hope that the shofar will also awaken you to gratitude and hope for I also heard positive notes in the tearful sounds of the shofar.
The tears created solidarity. In responding to the cries of others, in opening ourselves up to their pain and challenge, we are joined with them.
I heard the shofar of solidarity. Jews around the world sound tekiah, shevarim, and teru’ah,. Jews in Caracas and Kyev, Buenos Aires and Brooklyn, Toulouse and Tofino, Oslo and Odessa, Lakewood and London, Marrakech and Mumbai. We do not live in as many different places as we once did, but wherever we travel, we find a home with other Jews. Sound the shofar through the entire world.
The shofar of solidarity was also part of our summer. The unity of Israelis during the conflict was quite impressive. The north provided shelter and support for the south. Programs and shelters everywhere made space for the embattled families. Masorti rabbis became crisis counsellors. The country spoke with one voice. Everyone understood that Israel had more at stake together than advancing particular political agendas.
The rallies and marches in Toronto brought us together from north and south, secular and traditional, Orthodox and Reform. The Talmud reminds us that the shofar was heard at Sinai “in the ears of all Israel”. When we experience that cohesion- even if only temporary—we feel the covenant of past and future connecting us in the present. We are am ehad.
I also heard a sound of personal possibility. The shofar notes begin with teki’ah, an unbroken sound. It is followed by broken notes and then concluded with a whole sound. Even when we feel shattered, there is the possibility of renewal and wholeness.
When blowing the shofar, halakhah tells us that we must breathe into the small opening so that the sound will emerge from the wide opening. On the one hand, this is obvious, since it would be much harder- maybe impossible—to create sound the other way.
But our tradition adds another explanation that carries a moral and spiritual lesson. We blow into the narrow end because we act out the verse from Psalms, “I called to the Eternal from the narrow place. God responded from the wide expanse”. The small opening we make when we call to God leads to a reciprocal broad opening of the divine to us.
Some may hesitate to turn to the Holy One, thinking that they are distant from a religious-spiritual way of life. Others may feel a spiritual yearning, but feel that they have done things that make it impossible to approach God.
The Talmud teaches that if you make a small opening, creating the possibility of a relationship with God, then the Ancient One will open up God’s gates for you and facilitate your return.
If the shofar is a kind of alarm, its sound is like a siren. It warns and alerts us. It awakens us to the sovereignty of God, to the gravity of our deeds, to solidarity with others, to the possibility of return. Each blast rouses us to a greater seriousness about our souls.
You may think it is natural to be awake. But, like the big cats in the zoo, somnolence is actually our natural state—not just in synagogue. Wakefulness necessitates the flow of a hormone called orexin. It is natural to sleep, and the task of the Torah tradition, both for the world and for Jews, is to promote genuine alertness.
The shofar siren calls us to take shelter, then to act. It elicits our feelings of anxiety and anger, fear and frustration, gratitude and hope. It calls us to trust and thank God so that we will all have a shana tovah u’metukah— a good and peaceful, sweet, safe and secure new year.
Inspired by the words of Yossi Klein Halevi
