ROSH HASHANAH 1 - The Shattering Shofar: A Cry for Community (AKA Knock it off)

 ROSH HASHANAH 1 - The Shattering Shofar: A Cry for Community  (AKA Knock it off)

Rabbi Robert L Tobin

Bnai Shalom, West Orange NJ

L’Shanah Tovah tikateivu.

::Blow Shofar:: The sound that defines the day, the blast of the shofar. But this year, I feel the sound is different. It isn't the clear, triumphant call of an army marching to victory. Or the wake up call to righteous teshuvah.  It feels more like a sob, a fragmented and broken sound that echoes the state of our hearts. Our communities are torn, our faith has been shaken, and for so many of us, a sense of wholeness feels like a distant memory. We simply can't pretend to be whole right now. Rampant antisemitism is not only on the rise, but it is not seen or understood to actually be antisemitism.  Israel, the nation that is to be the bastion of democracy in the Middle East, ever reaching towards peace, has become embroiled in a war without end or clarity of purpose.  The shofar calls to us from the midst of this brokenness, commanding us to stop, to listen, and to hear not just our own pain, but the pain of one another.  It is not a time to be triumphant or self-centered.  It is a time to reach beyond our own sense of conviction, and make our community whole. 

This year, that brokenness isn't just from the tragedy that befell our people. It's also a raw, jarring reflection of the deep political chasms that have opened up within our own community. We hear the anguish of a father who just can't understand his daughter’s call for a ceasefire, or the despair of a son who is labeled a "traitor" for questioning the Israeli government's policies in Gaza. This is a pain made all the more acute by the fact that each person believes they're acting out of the deepest love for our people and a desperate desire for a secure future. The shofar's sobbing sound, this year, acknowledges this specific kind of internal family rupture. And it commands us toward a new kind of humility, a humility that comes not from weakness, but from the strength to let go of the need to "win" every argument, thereby making the rest of our people "lose" if they disagree with you. With this humility, there is an absolute mandate to reach out to people of difference and find a tangible thing, something concrete, that we can do together. This is a task to be undertaken without debate or animosity, knowing that we will still have very real differences. In the past I gave a sermon about watching the other side’s media for a week.  Many of you tried.  A few of you succeeded.  This year, I ask you to turn your media off for a week.  Find someone you disagree with and do something agreeable with them instead.  The sobbing shofar weeps over the conflict between you.  Hear its call.

This is not a new idea. In the Talmud, Rabbi Abbahu ( a 3rd-4th century Amora who lived in Caesarea, in Land of Israel) debates the nature of the shofar’s blasts. He teaches usTalmud, Rosh Hashanah 34a: "אָמַר רַבִּי אַבָּהוּ, אֵין קוֹל תְּרוּעָה אֶלָּא גְּנוּחָה" — "Rabbi Abbahu said: The sound of teruah is nothing but a groaning," like the weeping of a person. This isn't a victorious fanfare; it’s an honest, raw expression of sorrow.

Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, 11th century, Troyes, France), in his commentary on Vayikra 25:9, connects the shofar to the cries of distressed people. He explains, on Vayikra 25:9: "קוֹל תְּרוּעָה קוֹל אֲנָחָה וּשְׁבָרִים לְעוֹרֵר עַל יְדֵי כָּךְ רַחֲמִים" — "The sound of teruah is a sound of groaning and brokenness to awaken thereby mercy.”. By extension, on Rosh Hashanah, this cry is an appeal to God from a place of vulnerability, an acknowledgment that our suffering is part of our communal experience.

The shofar echoes our yearning lament for wholeness as we turn to God. This is the opposite of calls for vengeance.  Modern Israeli poet Amir Gilboa (1917–1984, Israel), who fused biblical allusion with a modernist voice, gives us a searing emotional language for this ancient feeling of rupture in his poem, "My brother is a dead leaf." He writes:

Amir Gilboa, "My Brother is a Dead Leaf": "אָחִי הוּא עָלֶה יָבֵשׁ שֶׁמִּתְגַּלְגֵּל וְנֶעֱלָם / וַאֲנִי מְלֵא נְקָמָה לֹא נוֹדַעַת. / אָחִי נָשַׁב בְּכָל רוּחַ וְנָשַׁב וְאֵין לוֹ שׁוּם מָקוֹם." — 

"My brother is a dead leaf that rolls and disappears / And I am full of an unknown vengeance. / My brother was blown by every wind and was blown, and he has no place."

Who can judge that need for vengeance?  Gilboa lost his entire family in the shoah. Yet he struggles with and against this primordial rage.  This imagery of a brother who is nothing but a fragile, dried-up leaf, blown away by a wind we can't control, captures the profound sense of loss and powerlessness that comes with a brokenness that is hard to describe. It speaks to the feeling that our own kin are being scattered and erased, leaving behind only the haunting memory of their presence. The raw sound of the shofar is a cry for scattered and fragmented people. Today, we can't help but hear in this the echo of the hostages, lost to us and to the wind, elusive from salvation even by the entire Israeli armed forces’ persistent pursuit.  In a war that continues, with death tolls mounting and results diminishing, we are fracturing far from the unity of the Just War we all saw so clearly two years ago.  Many of you have a card in your machzorim, naming a remaining hostage with a prayer for their return - in life or death.  It should make you angry and frustrated that 718 days later I am still here calling for them in the sobbing throat of the shofar, amidst immeasurable pain, loss and destruction.

This shattered sound, this feeling of profound disarray, makes me wonder about the biblical story of Noach. It is a story of one righteous man in a generation that was utterly corrupt, steeped in hamas— ironically a Hebrew word meaning "violence"—that defined the world around him. "The earth was filled with ḥamas," the Torah tells us, a world so engulfed in violence that it was beyond repair. It is a frightening and devastating context, and it resonates powerfully with our own times. God's response in the telling was the flood, an act of divine judgment to wipe the slate clean - to save the one family who sought righteousness in a broken world and to start again with them. It didn’t work. And in setting the rainbow in the sky at the end of the telling, God promised never to do that again. 

When I look at our world and know that no flood is coming to wipe the filth clean, I wonder about our salvation. It is not our role to bring about a cleansing flood, but to find a different path through the violence. Perhaps the ark itself, then, must becomes our model, because the flood around us is real, though not divine.

In the face of attacks on our people, both physical and ideological, the urge to circle the wagons and simply survive is powerful. We feel a deep, personal instinct to pull in close, to protect our own, and to create a secure space for those who are with us. This is the story of Noah and his family, finding their haven from the storm. Yes, we need to do this. We need to preserve ourselves. But the ark was never meant to be a permanent fortress; it was a temporary vessel for a journey. It was a space designed for one purpose: survival and the preservation of what is most essential. Our Jewish community and the Land of Israel itself are, in fact, our Ark today.

The ark was not a luxurious ship; it was a closed, secure space built to protect what was most essential. In our current storm, we must ask ourselves: what do we need to bring into our ark to survive? This is a question that has now, more than ever, wrongly become a political one. On one side, we see a focus on supporting the State of Israel without condition, believing that a strong Israel is the only way to ensure the future of the Jewish people. On the other, we see a focus on prophetic justice, believing that the future of our people depends on a moral reckoning and a call for peace, even in times of war. Each side is building its own ark apart from each other, and in the process, they can sometimes forget that the other side is also trying to survive the same storm. Competing arks relegate the other half of our people to the waters outside.  Our brothers and sisters in the dark tunnels of Gaza remind us of the desperate urgency of this question, and of the profound responsibility that rests on all of us to ensure their safety and return.  It is not a time for distraction, posturing or division.

Perhaps Bob Dylan is the best modern moral poet for this urgency in the face of the coming flood:  

Come gather 'round people

Wherever you roam

And admit that the waters

Around you have grown

And accept it that soon

You'll be drenched to the bone

If your time to you is worth savin'

And you better start swimmin'

Or you'll sink like a stone

For the times they are a-changin'

In Midrash Tanhuma, a collection of homiletic midrash from the 5th century in the Land of Israel, on Bereshit 6:19, the rabbis teach Midrash Tanhuma, Bereshit 6:19: "אֲפִלּוּ הָאַרְיֵה וְהַשּׁוֹר, הַנָּחָשׁ וְהָעַכְבָּר, כֻּלָּם הָיוּ בְּאַהֲבָה וְשָׁלוֹם בְּתֵיבַת נֹחַ."— "Even the lion and the ox, the snake and the mouse, all were in love and peace in the ark of Noah."   The midrash states that within the ark’s walls, they were able to coexist peacefully, because the shared threat from the flood was greater than their individual animosities. Our survival depends on our ability to protect the entire spectrum of our people, even those with whom we deeply disagree. It is our duty to find ways to do something tangible with our ideological opponents, knowing we may never agree on the big questions, but can always find a small, good thing to do together.

The 15th-century philosopher Rabbi Joseph Albo (c. 1380–1444, Spain), in his Sefer HaIkkarim, Sefer HaIkkarim 3:20:"שֶׁהַתֵּיבָה לֹא הָיְתָה רַק לְהַצִּיל הַנִּמְצָאִים מִן הַמַּבּוּל, אֶלָּא שֶׁהָיְתָה מוֹרָה עַל דָּבָר שָׁלֵם יוֹתֵר, עַל קִיּוּם הָעוֹלָם."— "For the ark was not only to save those who were in it from the flood, but it indicated a more complete thing, the preservation of the world." It was a space where the world's most essential elements, both physical and moral, were protected from a corrupted world. Our task today is to build a spiritual and communal ark to preserve our core values in a time of flood.

The Ramban (Nachmanides, Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, 1194–c. 1270, Spain and Acre), offers an even more profound reading on Bereshit 6:14. He notes that the ark was dark, with only one window and a sealed door. He sees this as a journey of internal spiritual work in a time of eternal darkness. On Bereshit 6:14, he writes, "וּמִפְּנֵי שֶׁהָיְתָה יְצִיאָה מֵהָעוֹלָם הַזֶּה אֶל הָעוֹלָם הַבָּא, שֶׁאֵין אוֹר חוּץ בּוֹ אֶלָּא רַק אוֹר פְּנִימִי, לְפִיכָךְ נֶאֱמַר בָּהּ 'צֹהַר תַּעֲשֶׂה לַתֵּיבָה'."— "And because it was a departure from this world to the world to come, which has no external light but only an internal light, therefore it says regarding it, 'make a window for the ark.'"  He saw the Ark as a passage from the world of the past to the world to come, not just as a metaphor for our souls in life and death, but for the live people in the ark to the new reality they would have to live.  He reinforces the idea that our survival in the face of a shared threat requires us to turn inward, focusing on what is truly essential to our spiritual and communal identity - to literally make the light in the midst of the darkness.

Having found refuge in our shared commitment to survival, we must now confront the difficult truths of our shared history, of what is past if we are to seek together a new world in the days ahead. Rosh Hashanah is a time for teshuvah, a return. But to what do we return? 

Our tradition venerates the past.  The commandment of kibud av va-em, to honor our parents, is central to our tradition, in large part because the are not only the source of our lives but also the holders of accumulated past wisdom. But it becomes immensely complicated when our historical narratives clash with those of the generations who came before us.  

We revisit Bob Dylan, who warns 

Come mothers and fathers

Throughout the land

And don't criticize

What you can't understand

Your sons and your daughters

Are beyond your command

Your old road is rapidly agin'

Please get out of the new one

If you can't lend your hand

For the times they are a-changin'

We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. But we will also not be cursed to relive it like some eternal torment in Dante’s Inferno.

In Maimonides' (Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, 1135–1204, Spain and Egypt) Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Teshuvah 2:1, he writes Maimonides, Hilchot Teshuvah 2:1: "וְאֵיזוֹ הִיא תְּשׁוּבָה גְּמוּרָה? זֶה שֶׁבָּא לְיָדוֹ דָּבָר שֶׁעָבַר עָלָיו, וְאֶפְשָׁר בְּיָדוֹ לַעֲשׂוֹת, וּפֵרֵשׁ וְלֹא עָשָׂה." — "And what is complete repentance? It is when a thing comes to one's hand that he had previously sinned with, and it is possible for him to do it, and he separates himself and does not do it."  While Maimonides applies this to personal sin, we can extend it to our collective history. Our teshuvah as a people isn't just to regret past choices, but to confront the complex historical truths and to choose a more moral path forward.  What Israel has done in the past doesn’t work today.  What America has done in the past doesn’t work today.  What you have done in the past doesn’t work today.  

This applies to our current political rifts. It is a time for both the hawkish and the dovish parts of our community to honestly confront their past. It is for those who have always prioritized military strength to ask themselves: have we adequately questioned when and how that strength is used? And it is for those who have always prioritized a prophetic voice to ask: have we adequately balanced our criticism with an honest acknowledgment of the very real security concerns of a sovereign state? Whether the gathered nations of the world recognize an amorphous Palestinian State or not is not our greatest challenge. We are our own greatest challenge.  And none of us is 100% right.  The work isn't to finish the job, but to choose to engage in it ethically. The enormous price paid in human life and the continued suffering of the hostages and their families makes this ethical burden all the more urgent and our teshuvah all the more necessary.  

War is essentially obscene.  At times it is also just.  But it is always obscene, and never to be praised in glory or endured for its own sake.  Nothing said at the synagogue kiddush, or in this sermon, will move the war, the white house or the prime minister.  But we can move towards each other, and we must.   

We must take on our historical and ethical burdens, not with the expectation of a perfect, finished product, but with a commitment to active and ongoing engagement. This means not trying to win a zero-sum game of ideology, but humbly accepting that our role is to contribute to a mending process we may never see completed.  It means continuing to go to Israel, not to wave a flag for or against the government, but to see - to really see, know, hear and support the people themselves - in as granular, personal and local a manner as possible.

That continues to be why I support movements like Masorti and the JNF. Because they are with people in their work, their lives, their communities - one school, one shul, one person at a time.  That is something I can do. And you can do it with me.

The Maharal of Prague (Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel, c. 1525–1609, Prague), in Tiferet Yisrael, argues that the Jewish people are inherently paradoxical—both a divine and a physical entity, both a nation and a faith. Maharal, Tiferet Yisrael 1: "שֶׁיִּהְיֶה יִשְׂרָאֵל דָּבָר מֻרְכָּב, רוּחָנִי וְגַשְׁמִי, כִּי הָאֻמָּה הַיִּשְׂרְאֵלִית הִיא מְחֻבֶּרֶת מִשְּׁנֵי הַקְּצָווֹת."— "That Israel should be a compound entity, spiritual and physical, for the nation of Israel is a combination of two extremes." He writes that our essence is found in the synthesis of these seemingly contradictory elements. We are a people who can love Israel and be critical of its actions; we can be a people of faith and a nation of power. We are a people who can honor a complex past without needing it to be perfect.

I beg of you to let go of your need to be right all the time.  It is destructive in our time of need.

Yehuda Amichai (1924–2000, Israel), in "The Place Where We Are Right," speaks to the danger of absolute certainty in a time of ideological conflict. He writes:

"מִמָּקוֹם שֶׁבּוֹ אָנוּ צוֹדְקִים / לֹא יִצְמְחוּ לְעוֹלָם צִידִים נִפְלָאִים. / הַצִּדִּים לֹא יִצְמְחוּ, וְלֹא הָאֲדָמָה תִּתְפַּקַּע, וְלֹא הָעֵץ יִתְפַּתַּח, וְלֹא הָרַחֲמִים יִרְכְּבוּ. / הַמָּקוֹם שֶׁבּוֹ אָנוּ צוֹדְקִים, הוּא מָקוֹם לֹא מְכֻסֶּה בְּחוֹל, / וְלֹא מָקוֹם לְמִלְחָמָה, וְלֹא מָקוֹם לְבֶּצֶר. / הַמָּקוֹם שֶׁבּוֹ אָנוּ צוֹדְקִים, הַמָּקוֹם שֶׁבּוֹ אָנוּ מִתְרוֹצְצִים, / מָקוֹם שֶׁל חָצִים וְרֶבַע וְשָׁמַט." — 

"The place where we are right / is a barren place and full of barbed wire. / The sides won't grow, and the earth won't break open, and the tree won't develop, and mercy won't ride. / The place where we are right is not a place covered with sand, / and not a place for war, and not a place for a fortress. / The place where we are right is a place for madness, / a place where there is no mercy, / a place where there is no repentance, / a place where there is no whole, / a place where there is no one. / The place where we are right, the place where we run to, / a place of halves and quarters and ruins."

He’s telling us that a place of absolute righteousness, where there is no room for doubt or other perspectives, is ultimately a place of isolation and destruction. Amichai encourages a more empathetic stance, one that allows for different perspectives and recognizes the possibility of a different truth. It is a profound call for humility in the face of our most cherished convictions.

And as we seek for some way to bring this all together, we ask, “where is God in all this?” The Shekhinah, the Divine Presence, has always been with us in exile. But since October 7th, many have felt abandoned. We must find God not in the absence of tragedy, but in the presence that dwells within our pain and our solidarity. This solidarity is often most challenged when it comes to our political differences. God is not with Republicans but not Democrats, or with Israeli settlers but not Tel Avivi secularists.  God is always here, real and ready.

The Talmud, in Megillah 29a, famously states: "בְּכָל מָקוֹם שֶׁגָּלוּ יִשְׂרָאֵל, שְׁכִינָה עִמָּהֶם" — "In every place that Israel went into exile, the Shekhinah went with them." This powerful idea teaches us that the Divine Presence is not confined to a single place or a singular moment of triumph. It is found in our suffering, in our wandering, and in our struggle. This directly counters the feeling of divine abandonment and transforms our shared pain into a sacred experience. As we consider the hostages, we must hold on to the belief that the Shekhinah is with them in their darkness, a source of strength that we must mirror with our own relentless action and prayer.

Lamentations Rabbah, a collection of midrashic interpretations on the biblical Book of Lamentations compiled between the 5th and 7th centuries in the Land of Israel, 2:9 Lamentations Rabbah 2:9: "שֶׁהַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא אָמַר: אֲנִי בָּא עִמָּכֶם לְבֵית הַמִּדְרָשׁ, וּשְׁכִינָה עִמִּי, וְאֶבְכֶּה עִמָּכֶם בְּצַד הַכֹּתֶל." — "For the Holy One, blessed be He, said: I am coming with you to the study hall, and the Shekhinah is with Me, and I will weep with you at the side of the wall."  It states that God's presence, the Shekhinah, is weeping in the corners, grieving over the devastation. This makes God not a distant observer but a co-sufferer with humanity. Our tears are not shed alone. The sorrow we feel for the hostages and their families is a shared sorrow, and in that shared sorrow we can find a glimpse of the divine.

In his poem, "That a Man Is a Tree of the Field" ("She-ha-adam Hu Etz Ha-sadeh"), the  modern Israeli poet Nathan Zach (1930–2020, Israel) explores the search for meaning in a brutal, unpredictable world. His core text is from Deuteronomy 20:19

 כִּֽי־תָצ֣וּר אֶל־עִיר֩ יָמִ֨ים רַבִּ֜ים לְֽהִלָּחֵ֧ם עָלֶ֣יהָ לְתׇפְשָׂ֗הּ לֹֽא־תַשְׁחִ֤ית אֶת־עֵצָהּ֙ לִנְדֹּ֤חַ עָלָיו֙ גַּרְזֶ֔ן כִּ֚י מִמֶּ֣נּוּ תֹאכֵ֔ל וְאֹת֖וֹ לֹ֣א תִכְרֹ֑ת כִּ֤י הָֽאָדָם֙ עֵ֣ץ הַשָּׂדֶ֔ה לָבֹ֥א מִפָּנֶ֖יךָ בַּמָּצֽוֹר׃ 

When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding the ax against them. You may eat of them, but you must not cut them down. Are trees of the field human to withdraw before you into the besieged city? 

כִּ֤י הָֽאָדָם֙ עֵ֣ץ הַשָּׂדֶ֔ה לָבֹ֥א מִפָּנֶ֖יךָ בַּמָּצֽוֹר׃

The poem grapples with the inherent vulnerability and paradox of human existence, culminating in a poignant and powerful expression of theological and existential doubt. 

"כִּי הָאָדָם הוּא עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה, וְהוּא אֵינוֹ, אֵין לוֹ שׁוּם מָקוֹם. / הוּא עָלֶה יָבֵשׁ, מִתְגַּלְגֵּל וְנֶעֱלָם, וְהוּא מְלֵא נְקָמָה לֹא נוֹדַעַת. / שֶׁהָאָדָם הוּא עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה, אוּלַי זֶה טָעוּת."

"For a man is a tree of the field, and he is not, he has no place. / He is a dry leaf, rolling and disappearing, and he is full of an unknown vengeance. / That a man is a tree of the field, perhaps it's a mistake."

Zach tells us that the simple, rooted certainties we once held are gone. The poem offers a perfect counterpoint to the idea of a distant God, and instead, points to a God who is as perplexing and difficult to comprehend as a broken world. Zach's honest expression of spiritual uncertainty creates a space for a deeper, more mature faith—one that can live with unanswered questions and still seek to reveal the Shekhinah in the small, human moments.

The unifying message of this Rosh Hashanah is that we are a people in rupture, but we are also a people of purpose. Our work isn't to wait for the world to heal, but to actively begin the work of mending. This is a personal and collective responsibility. It is a form of teshuvah that goes beyond individual sin and becomes a sacred act of communal repair. This includes the repair of our own internal disagreements. We begin by hearing the shattered sound of the shofar, we find safety in our shared community, we confront the complexities of our history, and we seek the Divine Presence in every act of loving-kindness. You will not find what we need on Fox or CNN. They are not even trying to do what needs to be done.  Our prayers and our actions are the tools with which we can begin to stitch our world back together, one broken thread at a time, including reaching out to those who hold different views to find a shared, tangible project to build together, so that we may remember our shared humanity. So turn off the cable, and pick up the phone. Carve out time and space to rediscover what you have in common and leave alone what keeps you apart so we can be together. May our unity be an ark not only for our survival, but within which we discover new light to bring us forward to a different world.  The Times they are a changin’.  Indeed.  May we have the strength and the courage to do this holy work in the coming year. Amen.