Beyond Words: Heeding the Inner Shofar in an Age of Overwhelm

There are moments that etch themselves into memory, not for their drama, but for the quiet truths they reveal. In 1991, as a newly minted college graduate skipping class at HUC, I stood with Women of the Wall, shofar in hand. As I sounded the blasts near the Kotel, a Haredi woman, disturbed by our presence, emitted a sound beyond normative articulation – a raw, primal cry. Rabbi Dr. Bonna Devora Haberman, z”l, leaned in and whispered, “It’s her inner shofar.”

That phrase, “her inner shofar,” has resonated with me for decades. Most American Jews are intimately familiar with the outer shofar – the ram’s horn that signals shifts in our calendar, calls us to spiritual alertness, jolts our communal memory, and awakens us to repentance. Its blasts, as our tradition teaches, can touch hidden strands of our being, a primal sound preceding all words.

But lately, it is my inner shofar that has been in overdrive. I suspect yours has been too. The overwhelm is immense. For years, it seems, we’ve spoken of “unprecedented times,” navigating crisis after crisis: #MeToo, the fight for racial justice, a global pandemic, and then, the seismic trauma of October 7th, the ongoing war, the plight of the hostages, and the terrifying resurgence of antisemitism worldwide.

WRN members have led strongly. We’ve pivoted, innovated, grieved, and comforted. Yet, the shadows persist. Peace feels distant, democracy frays in both America and Israel, and our communities are strained by polarization. Compounding this, the very issues many of us have championed for decades – reproductive choice, equity, the safety of our bodies – face renewed and aggressive threats, are often overshadowed by other pressing urgencies.

My inner shofar blares, a wordless alarm sounding in my chest and belly. It’s a feeling of being overwhelmed, sometimes silenced by the magnitude of it all, sometimes filled with too many words, none suitable for public utterance.

Yet, this inner shofar is not merely an alarm; it is also a guide. When the overwhelm threatens to paralyze, it shakes me, urging: Take stock of reality. Find your center. Find your voice. Speak out. It reminds me to protect my spirit through prayer, gratitude, and connection, to avoid the corrosive effects of isolation by reaching out to my people. Crucially, it awakens my memory, whispering the enduring truth of our history: Our people have survived so much. We have always found a path forward. And we will again.

My esteemed teacher, Ruth Messinger, rightly states that “despair is not a strategy.” It is a tempting refuge, but one we cannot afford. However, I would respectfully add that going full throttle constantly is not a sustainable strategy either.

The shofar itself, with its varied blasts – the sustained T’kiyah, the broken Sh’varim, the staccato T’ruah – teaches us about pacing. And about finding the right response to a given moment. A single, uniform blast might have been simpler, but our tradition understands that variety is necessary to touch different facets of the soul.

So too, our leadership, our activism, our responses must embrace variety, including the essential rhythm of rest. We must honor our unique voices and leadership styles, tending to our physical and emotional needs to avoid burnout.

This is particularly resonant when we consider how many of our congregations have embraced a more inclusive model for sounding the shofar on the High Holy Days. No longer is it solely a virtuoso performance by one person. Instead, many invite all who have a shofar to participate, creating a powerful cacophony, or perhaps an organized chorus, of blasts.

These tumultuous times call for precisely such a cacophony of response. Not disorganized or slapdash, but a full-throated symphony of all our voices, our diverse approaches, our unique strengths. We need the guidance of both the outer and inner shofar.

As American Jewish leaders, the call upon us is profound. May we each hear our own inner shofar. May we discern what we must do next, understanding not only what action is required, but also what we need to sustain ourselves for the marathon ahead.

The High Holyday liturgy reminds us that when the great shofar sounds, even angels are seized with fear, proclaiming, “Behold! This is the Day of Judgment!” Our current moment feels like such a day of reckoning. Let us meet it not with paralysis, but with the strength, power, and perseverance that is our heritage, ready to affect change, guided by that primal, unwavering call from within.

(This essay is adapted from remarks to the 2025 Women’s Rabbinic Network Convention, May 15, 2025.)