#shofar

The ancient sound that cracks open the sky and awakens the soul: The call of the shofar.

With each blast, we’re asked to look inward, to let go of the year that has passed, and to set our intentions for the one that is about to begin. It’s a powerful call for connection, forgiveness, and peace.

The shofar’s cries are believed to bring balance and harmony to the cosmos for the year ahead. It’s the wordless prayer for a better self and a better world.

This is the sound of a clean slate and new beginnings. ✨

Sending you all blessings for a sweet, healthy, and happy new year. Shana Tova!!

When you give a girl a shofar –

no, not a proper instrument of G!d,

but a rough-cut horn with no real mouthpiece

her aunt brings back from a trip to Jerusalem,

don’t make it easy.

Put it up on the shelf in the living room

where its curled promise of a shout

will tempt her until she can reach it on tiptoe.

Tell her no one has ever found its voice,

that she will only make it grunt, bray and sputter

like the animal it came from.

Then give her a few years.

Give her an empty garage and a neighborhood

Jewish enough to understand what it’s hearing

so she can practice until

tiny tekiot burst forth from the scrap of ram.

She will be the only one who can ever shape its sounds,

can bend the call to tekiah, round off nine drops of t’ruah wailing,

fling the anguished cry of a sh’varim from its mouth.

Let her brag about this. Remember that children

are not humble creatures, that the simple act of being heard

is their great triumph. Let her be heard.

Bring her to Hebrew school.

Teach her the story of the rabbi

who told his students that he would put the words of Torah on their hearts;

that the words would only find their way in when the students’ hearts broke.

Let her sit with that tale for as long as it takes

for her own heart to shatter, for torah and poetry and forgiveness

find their way inside,

play her Leonard Cohen. Let him croon about the cracks in everything,

that’s how the light gets in, let her begin searching for light,

ask her where she thinks the cracks come from,

give her Auschwitz, give her Torquemada, give her pogrom and

quota and blacklist, the ashes of all her burnt bridges,

give her avinu malkenu, ashamnu, ashamnu, ashamnu,

watch her break

her heart

with her fist.

Give her the shofar.

Let the horn steal her breath,

let her begin to understand that she’s not holding a dead piece of animal,

but a living prayer.

Teach her: after every blast

you can hear the echo

of the still small voice.

If you listen for it,

you can hear the calls for the wild cries they are;

salute them with a straight back when they yank you from your amidah;

and should you hear a shofar blower struggle and gasp and strain for each call,

imagine yourself a trapped animal, desperate to be heard.

When it’s over,

Close your eyes.

Be. Broken. Here. Before G!d and your people. Be. Cracked.

feel the light

and the words

come

in.

Date: 18th century (?)

This shofar is made of ram's horn that has been heated and worked to give it a distinctive, flattened profile. It bears a Hebrew inscription that is often found on shofarot:

תִּקְע֣וּ בַחֹ֣דֶשׁ שׁוֹפָ֑ר בַּ֜כֶּ֗סֶה לְי֣וֹם חַגֵּֽנוּ

"Tiku ba'chodesh shofar, ba'keseh l'yom chagainu",

The text can be literally translated as "Blow the shofar when the moon is covered", i.e. when the moon is small, on the 1st day of the month.

This is a reference to the 81st Psalm: “Blow at the new moon, a horn. At the full moon, for the day of our feast.” In modern synagogues and temples the shofar is mostly heard on Rosh Hoshanna and Yom Kippur.

Today is the first day of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. Here, Nathan Cohen, 82, Abraham Pollock, 81, and Harry Brown, 88, as Pollock blew the shofar (ram's horn) betokening the beginning Yom Kippur, Sept. 20, 1942, at the Daughters of Jacob Home at 167th St.

by Dane Kuttler

When you give a girl a shofar –  no, not a proper instrument of G-d, but a rough-cut horn with no real mouthpiece her aunt brings back from a trip to Jerusalem, don’t make it easy.

Put it up on the shelf in the living room where its curled promise of a shout will tempt her until she can reach it on tiptoe.

Tell her no one has ever found its voice, that she will only make it grunt, bray and sputter like the animal it came from.

Then give her a few years.

Give her an empty garage and a neighborhood Jewish enough to understand what it’s hearing so she can practice until tiny tekiot burst forth from the scrap of ram.

She will be the only one who can ever shape its sounds, can bend the call to tekiah, round off nine drops of t’ruah wailing, fling the anguished cry of a sh’varim from its mouth.

Let her brag about this.  Remember that children are not humble creatures, that the simple act of being heard is their great triumph.  Let her be heard.

Bring her to Hebrew school. Teach her the story of the rabbi who told his students that he would put the words of Torah on their hearts; that the words would only find their way in when the students’ hearts broke. Let her sit with that tale for as long as it takes for her own heart to shatter, for torah and poetry and forgiveness  find their way inside,

play her Leonard Cohen. Let him croon about the cracks in everything, that’s how the light gets in, let her begin searching for light, ask her where she thinks the cracks come from, give her Auschwitz, give her Torquemada, give her pogrom and quota and blacklist, the ashes of all her burnt bridges, give her avinu malkenu, ashamnu, ashamnu, ashamnu, 

watch her break  her heart with her fist.

Give her the shofar.   Let the horn steal her breath, let her begin to understand that she’s not holding a dead piece of animal, but a living prayer.

Teach her: after every blast you can hear the echo of the still small voice.

If you listen for it, you can hear the calls for the wild cries they are; salute them with a straight back when they yank you from your amidah; and should you hear a shofar blower struggle and gasp and strain for each call, imagine yourself a trapped animal, desperate to be heard.

When it’s over, Close your eyes.

Be. Broken. Here.  Before G-d and your people. Be. Cracked.

Before the kids left the service for activities, our rabbi let them come up and sit on the steps to talk with them. After, she asked one of the kids if he wanted to blow his shofar again (he'd blown it to open services). He said he wanted his little brother to blow it. So he helped his 4 year old brother to hold up the huge ram's horn and the little guy successfully did it! Everyone laughed and applauded and smiles were abound as the kids left.