When we hear the shofar, we prepare ourselves for a desperate and critical battle. And our tools for that moment, are love, truth, presence, and compassion. We gird ourselves in teshuva, tefillah, and tzedakah: sacred returning, prayer, acts of righteousness to create the world we will so desperately pray for during our season of introspection and renewal.The month of Elul is our month to get ready. To clothe ourselves in love, truth, presence. and compassion as we prepare to quench the fires of fear, to extinguish the flames of hate, and to stamp out indifference.
Do you see that? Just over the hill? It’s the High Holy days. They’re coming. Here’s a short parable for the season.
Shmuli lived his whole life in a small village. On his first visit to the big city, he was awakened in the middle of the night by the loud beating of drums. He ran outside to see what the commotion was and ask a young child, “What’s this all about?” She told him that a fire had broken out and the drum beating was the city’s fire alarm.
When he got home Shmuli reported to the village elders. “They have a wonderful system in the big city; when a fire breaks out the people beat their drums and before long the fire burns out.”
The town ordered a supply of drums and distributed them to the population. A few weeks later, unfortunately, a fire broke out. But the people were ready. They all ran into the street and furiously beat their drums. And while they drummed and drummed, the house burned down to the ground, as they waited for the flames to die out.
A visitor to the village asked them what they were doing. “People are beating the drums to put out the fire!” Shmuli responded.
Are you crazy?! The visitor said. You can’t put out a fire by beating drums. You beat the drums to wake people up so they will put out the fire with water, hoses, blankets, and whatever else they can find.
So too, the shofar.
The shofar is an alarm. If we just hear the shofar, but it doesn’t wake us up, then it hasn’t done its job.
And, we started blowing shofar just a few days ago. This past week, we celebrated Rosh Chodesh Elul, the start of the month that immediately precedes the High Holy Day season. (Side note: The beginnings of Hebrew months occur at the New Moon…the same new moon necessary for the eclipse. Ok, back to our regularly scheduled sermon).
So, Elul is our month of getting ready. And, according to tradition, we spend each day this month blowing the shofar—a sound that makes us quake and makes our bones rattle. We blow the shofar to call us to attention. To wake us up.
But really, what a goofy looking instrument. In the Reform Movement generally and here at BJBE in particular, we have modernized so many parts of our Jewish experience. We live stream our services (hi, Mom!), we include egalitarianism and modern notions of science in our prayer, we have an electric ner tamid, we play acoustic guitars that plug-in to a sound system…but we still use a ram’s horn. Wouldn’t a trumpet or bugle provide a cleaner, crisper sound? Why do we use this awkward, rough, imperfect piece instead of a modern instrument?
For sure, the ram’s horn has biblical significance, in particular its tie to a moment of salvation in the story of the binding of Isaac, and I think it’s more than that. We come to expect a rough and imperfect sound out of the shofar. It is jarring and awakens us. We appreciate and are in awe of any sound that someone is able to make, but how powerful the symbolism when someone makes a stunning, melodic sound ring out from such a twisty, rough, and unexpected place.
Just like the shofar, we have our own rough, unpolished edges. We can seem out of place and awkward, but we have the potential. When we prepare and execute in just the right way, we can make music.
The shofar is us. The shofar is rough, twisty, and perfectly imperfect, and we use it to call ourselves to attention in this most critical time of preparation and readiness—the month of Elul.
And, still I wonder, what are we calling attention to?
This past Wednesday in our morning Talmud study class, we studied together some of the reasons for blowing the shofar during this month of Elul, this month of preparation.
We started with the classics: this is a month to ward off sin, do teshuva, and try to clean your slate for the coming new year. The shofar is a loud, stark, soul-shaking call to get to work. To get to the critical, sacred work of teshuva, repentance. And, with its prescient warning, it is a reminder that there is yet time to do the work. Yes, the shofar blasts, and yes you still have time before the big moment arrives.
And then, during our conversation, one of the people around the table asked about the Shofar as a call to battle. At times in our tradition, our heroes sound the shofar as a call to war, a call to arms. And as we spoke, I had a bit of a vision. The words sound strange to say, but I literally stopped the conversation, closed my eyes, and painted a picture.
What if, what if the shofar is a call to battle? In biblical times, a blast of this rough instrument was a call to rise up, gather your sword, your spear, your shield, and head out to defend and protect your people. And today. When we hear the shofar, we too rise. And what is in our hands? This! Our prayerbook. Before and after the call, we need it to speak words of blessing. Our sword and our shield are the words printed in this book. This is how we set about defending our people. This is how we will start a revolution.
The 20th century sage Abraham Joshua Heschel said what I think are some of the most moving and impactful words about prayer. He wrote:
Prayer is meaningless unless it is subversive, unless it seeks to overthrow and to ruin the pyramids of callousness, hatred, opportunism, and falsehood. The liturgical movement must become a revolutionary movement, seeking to overthrow the forces that continue to destroy the promise, the hope, the vision.
When we hear the shofar, we prepare ourselves for a desperate and critical battle. And our tools for that moment, are love, truth, presence, and compassion. We gird ourselves in teshuva, tefillah, and tzedakah: sacred returning, prayer, acts of righteousness to create the world we will so desperately pray for during our season of introspection and renewal.
The month of Elul is our month to get ready. To clothe ourselves in love, truth, presence. and compassion as we prepare to quench the fires of fear, to extinguish the flames of hate, and to stamp out indifference.
Our rabbis teach that the word “Elul” is itself an acronym. But, being rabbis, they have many ideas and cannot seem to agree exactly what it stands for.
First, the quote a line from the book of Esther: איש לרעהו ומתנות לאביונים (eesh l'rei-ei-hu u'matanot l'evyonim)—Elul. Each person shall send presents to their neighbors and gifts to the poor. Elul is a time of doing Tzedakah.
And they cite a verse from Song of Songs, the biblical love poem: אני לדודי ודודי לי (Ani l'dodi v'dodi li)—Elul. I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. Elul is a month of love. Of affirming humanity’s love for God through the love we show our fellow.
We are each a shofar. With our unsmooth edges and our broken notes. Perfectly imperfect. And we are deserving of love. Of love from God and of love from the people around us.
And each of us is called to hear the shofar. To wake up, stand up, and gird ourselves with truth, presence, compassion, and love.
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