Last week I blew the shofar for a group of Jews assembled in the parking lot of a hotel in Atlanta. We stood just outside the front doors, unintentionally blocking the valet stand. Gathered in Atlanta for a justice-oriented philanthropy gathering, each of us sought out the sound of the shofar. I gathered the group, took a breath, and began.
Tekiyah.
Shevarim.
Truah.
Tekiyah.
The sounds pierced the relative quiet of where we stood. The clarity of the sound and the distinction of the different rhythms were a relief. The sound of the shofar evokes so much – memories, feeling, connection to our ancient text – and to bring that sound out into the world is always an act of faith, a mix of allergies and asthma, hydration, and luck. Folks stood, many with their eyes closed, waiting for the sound to evaporate before moving into the rest of our day.
In many communities, there is the tradition of blowing the shofar each day of the month of Elul, the month that precedes Rosh Hashanah. The Shulchan Aruch, compiled by Sephardi leader Yosef Caro in the mid-16th century, teaches that there is a custom of waking each night to recite selichot, a collection of poem and penitential prayers (Orach Chayim 581:1). The Rema, an additional halakhic text text included within the same pages of the Shulchan Aruch, clarifies that this isn’t the custom in Ashkenazi tradition, which instead marks the season by blowing the shofar after praying the morning service. Neither author provides a motivation for these customs, though the juxtaposition seems to suggest that sounding the shofar brings with it the sense of penitence and preparation that reciting selichot encompasses.
Looking to the Arba’ah Turim, or the Tur, offers us some insight into the custom of blowing shofar during Elul. Written in the 14th century by Yaakov ben Asher, the Tur is both an organizational model and source text for the Shulchan Aruch.
תניא בפרקי ר”א בר”ח אלול אמר הקב”ה למשה
עלה אלי ההרה שאז עלה לקבל לוחות אחרונות והעבירו שופר
במחנה משה עלה להר שלא יטעו עוד אחר ע”ג
והקב”ה נתעלה באותו שופר שנאמר (תהילים
מ״ז:ו׳) עלה אלהים בתרועה וגו’ לכן התקינו חז”ל שיהו תוקעין
בר”ח אלול בכל שנה ושנה וכל החדש כדי להזהיר ישראל שיעשו
תשובה שנאמר (עמוס ג׳:ו׳) אם יתקע שופר בעיר וגו’ וכדי לערבב השטן
It is taught in Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer that on Rosh Chodesh Elul the Holy Blessed One said to Moses, “Come up to the mountain.” He went up to receive the second set of tablets. And they blew the shofar in the camp when Moses went up the mountain so that they would not sin again.
Gd went up with the same shofar blast, as it says “Gd went up with truah and the sound of the shofar.” Therefore the Rabbis instituted that we should blow the shofar on Rosh Chodesh Elul each and every tear and for the whole month, in order to caution Israel to do teshuva, as it says “Shall a shofar be blown in a city and the people not tremble? (Amos 3:6)”
What I love about this text is that it roots the custom of blowing the shofar during Elul at Mount Sinai and after the creation of the Golden Calf. It is rooted in the place of revelation, of Torah, and a mythical moment of growing into the practice of living Torah.
What does it mean to connect the blowing of Torah to the Golden Calf? This moment that we continue to carry with us in our annual Torah readings, in teachings that tell us that the tablets broken in response to this moment are carried with the whole ones that Moses is going up to receive in our teaching. Even as we sound a whole note to begin with, our entire practice of shofar is about moving from wholeness, carrying the brokenness, the notes of shevarim and truah, and moving back towards wholeness. Further, that brokenness is never really far because it is embedded in our human experience and ritual life.
While the shofar is being heard throughout the camp, that same shofar blast calls Gd to ascend the mountain. The sound of the shofar becomes a conduit for our relationship with Gd, calling Gd into relationship with us. For what reason? To do teshuva. The sound of the shofar is an acknowledgement of our brokenness and the ways in which we are out of alignment with Torah, and a sign of our readiness to do teshuva and reach towards wholeness.
Before I blew the shofar last week and most mornings when I blow it home, I am aware of two things at once: the clarity and strength of sound I want to emerge from the shofar and my own inconsistency in blowing it. Some days the call to relationship, teshuva, and alignment is crystal clear. Others it is fleeting or done haltingly, each sound a miracle and a relief. May the sound of the shofar wake us to the possibility of teshuva and wholeness in a world so filled with brokenness and pain.
