When the Shofar became a call for peace

There is something extraordinary about the sound of the shofar. It is piercing, yet somehow quiet. It can startle us, yet it can also comfort us. On Rosh Hashanah, its ancient sound calls us to stop, listen, remember, and begin again.

When the Second Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed by the Romans in  70 AD, Jewish life changed forever. The Temple had been the center of worship, including sacrifices. Without it, Judaism needed another way to maintain its relationship with God. The rabbis transformed Jewish worship, making prayer central. Jews could now pray wherever they lived, carrying their traditions with them throughout the world.

The shofar became one of the sounds connecting Jews everywhere. It does not belong to one denomination or generation. Men blow it, women participate in shofar services, and children eagerly listen. We may worship differently, but when the shofar sounds, we listen together.

The prophet Elijah encounters God through  — kol demamah dakah, “a still, small voice.” Perhaps the shofar teaches us something similar. Between its powerful blasts are moments of silence, reminding us that listening is as important as speaking.

Rosh Hashanah also brings us Tashlich, when we gather near water and symbolically cast away our mistakes. Micah says, v'tishleech beemtzulot chatotam— “You will cast all their sins into the depths of the sea.” We cannot erase our mistakes, but we can take responsibility, learn from them, and decide what we are willing to leave behind.

When Rosh Hashanah falls on Shabbat, the shofar is traditionally not sounded. The rabbis were concerned that someone might carry a shofar to learn how to blow it, thereby violating Shabbat restrictions. Sometimes we have to wait. This year, the shofar will be heard for the first time on Sunday, following Selichot and the Days of Repentance.

For me, the shofar has an especially personal meaning.

When I was thirteen, I experienced a respiratory arrest and was hospitalized during Rosh Hashanah. I missed services and was far from my synagogue and Jewish community. But my brothers, sisters, and friends were determined that I would hear the 100 traditional shofar blasts.

They came to my hospital room and blew the shofar.

I was surrounded by love, commitment, and peaceful determination. Hearing those blasts invigorated me. They made me want to get better, to live, and to remain Jewish for another year. Without words, my family and friends told me, "You are not alone." You belong. There is another year waiting for you.

That experience changed how I hear the shofar. I no longer hear only a religious commandment. I hear love. I hear hope. I hear a call to life.

That is why I think of the shofar as an instrument of peace. It does not divide us; it calls us together. It reminds us that Judaism is carried not only through institutions and buildings, but through people who show up for one another.

I also remember the joy of childhood Rosh Hashanah—putting on a pretty dress and wearing something new. We say — sheh'titchadesh aleinu, “May it be renewed for us.” A new year gives us the opportunity to become more patient, forgiving, and compassionate.

When I hear the shofar, I remember that thirteen-year-old girl in the hospital—and the people who came to her. I hear their message: Begin again.

May we hear that call this Rosh Hashanah, and may we answer it with love, compassion, and peace.

Shanah Tovah U’Metukah — May we all have a good, sweet and peaceful New Year.