Shofar Blasts and the Akeidah Today
I honestly don’t know whether shofar blowing on second day Rosh Hashana was good or not.
For many, this was the culmination of a month-long lead-up of shofar blowing, ending davening (the prayer service) with a formulaic refrain. On the first day of Rosh Hashana, the shofar blasts were, technically, perfect. They were crisp and clear, blown with competence and confidence. The 100 blasts like a majestic overture.
Yet the second day…
One set started on one pitch. The next on a completely different pitch. This variation continued throughout the whole series of blasts.
Some notes were clear and strong, others were raspy and somewhat weak…we felt like we were struggling along with the note, leaning in as if we could will it to resolve and emerge clearly. There was no consistency or baseline, no way to level-set or get one’s bearings.
One type of notes, the shvarim, came out angry. There was just a bit of whininess, but the overall effect was something more like a barbaric yawp or primal scream. It was a cry I think we all felt but somehow were still shocked to hear aloud, publicly.
The truah note came out incredibly staccato, each note hit like a hammer on a nail. It felt as if the one blowing the shofar (baal tokeah), and all of us, were holding such tension internally, like athletes trying to keep proper form. Relaxing that tautness could lead to poor performance or collapse; the only way to move forward is through sharp, explosive bursts.
At least once a truah was played instead of a shvarim, almost as if the baal tokeah wanted to assert himself and take control of the situation. He was corrected; back to the anguished cry.
And the last note, the long one, came out tremulously. Weak. Even though it lasted, one felt a bit unresolved afterwards…not exactly how one wants to end the shofar blasts.
Yet that wasn’t the end. On the second day, the baal tokeah added a 101st blast, another tekiah gedolah for the hostages still in Gaza. This one was strong, loud, and clear. And it, too, lasted. I can’t say we were left with a feeling of hope or closure, but we all felt more uplifted afterwards.
We are all looking for something this year, one year since October 7, to rally us and show us the way forward. This sequence of shofar blasts – perhaps more reminiscent of a modern, atonal symphony, with ups and downs, clashing keys and chords, and an imperfect resolution – seemed to be a very apt mirror for the reality we face.
The shofar, in Jewish tradition, was used to call the people together and lead them forward. It was a rallying cry in times of war or crisis, drawing people to the cause and encouraging esprit de corps. I am pretty sure I am in good company in that the shofar blasts this year did not transport me to a more uplifted or inspired headspace. Even though I think we all yearn for it.
Alternatively, I feel like we are participants standing on Mt. Moriah with Abraham and Isaac, at the Akeidah, waiting for an angel to show us the ram caught in the brush so that we can find a way out of this hellish past year. In some ways, I feel like we are that ram caught in the brush and unable to escape.
Thank God there was an angel, able to let Abraham off the hook; he didn’t actually have to make a choice or follow through on the sacrifice of his son. That, in part, is why we blow the shofar – because of the symbolism of the ram caught by its horns…trapped and offered instead as the sacrifice. It was the ram that was put out of its misery. The other participants in the drama could find some form of resolution and move on.
I want to be inspired by the faith of Abraham and wish that the shofar had done its magic this year.
Yet the doubts I had before fill the gaps between the notes. Was Abraham so sure that an alternative solution would appear? What would he have done if there was no ram to take his son’s place? Would he have argued with God before the end, as he did with Sodom, railing about justice and broken promises and the kind of message sacrificing Isaac would send? Would he have insisted on a more constant and less manipulative relationship with the Almighty?
Or was Abraham just taking one step forward after another, following a formula he embraced but without having a clear picture of what would happen at the end? Believing that, somehow, all would work out in the end. How far would he have gone to demonstrate his faith or prove a point? At what point would he stop and say dayenu, enough?
I wonder what we can learn from Abraham’s faith today, when we are not being let off the hook? When we seem bereft of leaders to believe in, lacking vision for a better future that we can actually achieve, and absent malachim, angels, to help point the way forward? What does having faith mean right now? In whom? For what? And how will that help find a way out of the thorny mess we are in?
I don’t have answers. I am not sure who does. Abraham? I am not so sure any more. The shofar blasts on second day Rosh Hashana fit perfectly with being torn up inside, filled with doubt and trepidation.
And I fear that the korban has already been offered – on October 7 and afterwards.
How will we know whether this sacrifice has been enough? Can it ever be enough? Or is it always too much? And how will we know what choices to make in our own Akeidah?