Waking up in Jerusalem through the fog

I walked through the First Station in Jerusalem today to meet some friends.

It’s been a rough 11 months of October 7s, each day, the news excruciating and grueling, each day, more fog, more exhaustion as we make ourselves stagger through. We are living through history which I suppose in theory is a privilege, but in practice kinda sucks as the war rages on, and more of our people return in body bags — if they return at all.

But I’m Jerusalem, living through history is a given.

Take for example the First Station where history folds into the present—the old Ottoman train line that once connected the Port City to the Holy City now serves as a bustling hub of life and innovation.

Great ice cream, FWIW.

Some days I wish I could go back in time – take a ghost train down the tracks to when the train ran. Some days, all I can think about is the past, maybe because I can’t bear to think about the future.

But time moves, whether we want it to or not, and we are already several days into the Hebrew month of Elul, and though I had been waiting for it, I had yet to hear the cry of the shofar.

The shofar cuts through the stillness of Elul like a heartbeat, a cry that echoes through time, back to Sinai and forward into the uncertain dawn down a track into the fog.

Each blast carries the weight of history, a call to attention, to wake up from our routines, our distractions, and our comfortable slumber. It’s not just a sound, but a visceral moment, felt deep in the bones, as if the breath of ancient ancestors swirls through the air with each note, reminding us who we are and what we are capable of becoming.

In Elul, the shofar feels like a lifeline, tethering us to something greater, something eternal. As we prepare for Rosh Hashanah, the days grow shorter, the sunlight shifts, and we find ourselves suspended between past and future, judgment and mercy. The shofar invites us into this sacred liminal space, urging us to reflect, to ask hard questions, to face ourselves in ways that we may have avoided all year. It’s not a call to fear, but to clarity, a blast that clears the cobwebs, making way for a new beginning.

The beauty of the shofar lies not in its smoothness, but in its rawness, its imperfections. It is wild and untamed, much like the lives we lead. In that wildness is something deeply human, a recognition that while we may not be perfect, we are part of a greater story, one that starts in Elul and stretches toward hope.

And I didn’t realize just how much I had been waiting for the sound, when there it was, primal and piecing, cutting through the late summer air — the wail, the call to wake up.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The fog I’ve been in for the past 11 months of October 7s lifted just enough to fill me with a spark of desperate wonder. I felt alive and wide awake.

And I turned and saw an ultra-Orthodox soldier standing at one of the souvenir stalls, testing out a ram’s horn.

In Jerusalem, the sight of ultra-Orthodox men in army uniform is striking—a blend of faith and duty. With tzitzit beneath the olive green of their IDF gear, they navigate a delicate balance between devotion to religious study and the call to defend their country.

It’s not just about service; it’s about holding onto tradition while stepping into a role that is modern and complex.

In these soldiers, we see a reminder that in a land often divided, faith and duty can find common ground, bridging ancient and contemporary worlds.

Which this soldier was doing as he lifted the ram’s horn and blew.

The stall was run by a Palestinian Jerusalemite, who stood beside him with his own shofar, and together they took turns, each blowing a different shofar, each with as much passion as the other.

It was surreal and beautiful, a moment when boundaries blurred, and two men from different worlds — but with similar robust black beards — stood side by side, sharing the same ancient sound.

Despite the tensions between us, here in Jerusalem we are gifted moments of connection… some accidental, some that we purposefully create.

This felt like both — a chance meeting and an opportunity embraced.

Elul is the month of reflection, of peeling back the layers of who we think we are and who we might become, and in that shared blast of the shofar, I saw a glimpse of the world as it could be. This wasn’t just a sound, it was a moment of unity, as raw and real and desperate and wild and, yes, hopeful as the cry itself.

May we share more moments like this.

I am here for them. And wide awake.