What the shofar says about us
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What the shofar says about us

What do we see when we look at a shofar?

We see an object of Jewish ritual that is sounded on Rosh Hashanah and at the end of Yom Kippur.

What we should also see, though, is that the shofar is a paradox of sorts. While it symbolizes all that is right about Judaism through the ages, it also symbolizes all that is wrong about Judaism today. As such, it symbolizes the great national sin of our time for which we as a people must search our souls from now through the end of Yom Kippur and act to correct.

“In the seventh month, on the first day of the month, you shall observe a sacred occasion: you shall not work at your occupations.” That is what the Torah commands us in Numbers 29:1. It adds, “You shall observe it as a day of teruah for you.”

Three mitzvot — three commandments — are embedded in that verse:

To observe a sacred occasion on the first day of the seventh month, meaning the day we call Rosh Hashanah;

Not to work at our occupations on that day, or to do any kind of creative work; and,

For it to be a day of teruah for us.

This commandment is preceded in Numbers 28 by detailing when and how Passover and Shavuot are to be observed. It is followed in chapter 29 by how Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Shemini Atzeret are to be observed. Each of these has a specific unique requirement — to eat matzah on Pesach, to bring an offering of new grain on Shavuot, to practice self-denial on Yom Kippur, and to bring special offerings each day of Sukkot and on Shemini Atzeret. The Torah is silent, however, about what the unique requirement is for “the first day of the seventh month” or what “a day of teruah” means.

We are left to figure that out for ourselves.

The word teruah comes from an archaic root word that means to trumpet, or to shout, or to cry out. A teruah, therefore, is the cry of a trumpet. Rosh Hashanah, therefore, is “a day of the cry of the trumpet.” We assume this means the shofar is to be sounded on that day.

But are each of us individually supposed to sound the shofar? Or are we merely supposed to hear it being sounded? Or do we need to do both — sound the shofar ourselves and hear it being sounded for us by others?

The Torah does not say, and our Sages of Blessed Memory were divided over all three approaches.

According to the Jerusalem Talmud tractate Sukkah, we have to hear the shofar being sounded. (See 3:1.) The Babylonian Talmud tractate Rosh Hashanah, however, states that we must sound the shofar for ourselves. (See 29a.) It states this several times, but some of these statements imply that hearing the shofar being sounded is what is meant.

Enter Maimonides, the Rambam. In his code of Jewish law, the Mishneh Torah, he ruled that we have “to hear the shofar on Rosh Hashanah.” (See his Laws of Shofar, Sukkah, and Lulav 1:1.) He also listed hearing it as number 170 in his version of the Torah’s 613 mitzvot.

Because every commanded thing requires a blessing, the Babylonian Talmud requires this blessing for the shofar: “who sanctified us with God’s commandments and commanded us regarding the sounding of the shofar.” Rambam, however, requires the version we use today: “who sanctified us with God’s commandments and commanded us to hear the sound of the shofar.”

Who is right? Flip a coin.

Because there was no definitive answer, different rabbis over the last two millennia came to their own conclusions.

In the 13th century, the French Talmudist Moshe ben Yaakov (the S’mag) split the difference. The shofar is sounded by one person, who must keep all his listeners in mind as he (or she) makes the blessing the Babylonian Talmud prescribed. (See his Sefer Mitzvot Gadol, Positive Commandment No. 41.)

We have different approaches to how we are to observe this mitzvah. Which one is correct? All three, because Jewish law is not absolute — and it never was. It allows different interpretations, as I often note in these columns, as long as those interpretations are made “for the sake of heaven.” (See Pirkei Avot 5:7 and elsewhere.)

Rabbi Jacob ben Meir, known as Rabbeinu Tam, is a perfect example of this open-minded halachic system. His rules for constructing tefillin differ significantly from those outlined by his maternal grandfather, Rabbi Shlomo ben Yitzchak, a/k/a Rashi. To this day, there are people who don Rashi’s tefillin at the beginning of the morning service and then switch to Rabbeinu Tam’s later on, just to be sure.

That Rabbeinu Tam could rule differently from his maternal grandfather epitomizes the magnificent beauty of Jewish law. Diametrically opposed opinions can exist side by side, and each is correct — as long as each reflects the desire to serve God faithfully.

That is why the shofar symbolizes all that is right about traditional Judaism. We may choose any of the three approaches without violating what the Torah intended.

And yet, the shofar also symbolizes all that is wrong about traditional Judaism as it is now defined. Today, if a rabbi dared to choose the “wrong” approach, that rabbi would be branded a heretic. Today, the law is considered absolute, immutable, and no longer open to interpretation. There is only one way; any alternative, no matter how well documented in halachic literature, is unacceptable, heretical, and reformist.

Here is another example. Among the series of morning blessings found in traditional siddurim is this: “who did not make me a non-Jew.” Non-Orthodox siddurim exchanged the negative formulation for a positive one: “who made me an Israelite.”

Loud voices were raised in protest even though nearly 1,900 years ago, Rabbi Meir, the Sage who played a pivotal role in forming the Mishnah, the Talmud’s foundational text, required that “who made me an Israelite” is to be recited as part of the morning blessings. (See BT M’nachot 43b. Some modern editions of the Talmud — the Steinsaltz Talmud, for example — inexplicably changed Rabbi Meir’s words, making it appear like he ordered the negative version.)

Over the millennia, others have followed Rabbi Meir’s rule. Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel, the great rabbi of Prague known as the Maharal, adopted Rabbi Meir’s version 430 years ago. The Vilna Ga’on (Rabbi Eliyahu ben Shlomo Zalman) did so in the late 18th century, and Rabbi Yaakov Tzvi Meklenburg adopted it in the early 19th century.

The liberal-thinking Orthodox Rabbi Avraham Berliner went even further in the late 19th century. There are three negative blessings in the series of morning blessings, not just one: “who did not make me a non-Jew,” “who did not make me a woman,” and “who did not make me a slave.” He turned all three into positive blessings. (Some Sefardi siddurim use the positive version, but only for the blessing regarding women.)

These scholars were bothered by the negative tone of the text; they thought it was wrong, and they changed it. They did not say, “we cannot change it because this is the way Jews have been praying for 1,500 years.” They said it was wrong and they changed it.

You cannot get away with that today. Everything is seen in absolute terms. There are no shades of gray. There is no opening allowed for interpretation.

And that is the great national sin of our time, for which we all must atone.

We are no longer civil to each other. We no longer listen to or respect the other’s opinions. We no longer tolerate differing interpretations of the law. We no longer follow the Talmud’s dictate that “this one and this one are both the words of the Living God.” (See BT Eruvin 13b.)

A case in point: The Shulchan Aruch — what today we unofficially call the official Code of Jewish Law — was assembled by the revered Sefardi Rabbi Joseph Caro, who codified halachah as Sefardim interpreted it. The equally revered Ashkenazic authority Rabbi Moses Isserles, the Rema, wanted the Shulchan Aruch to serve all Jews, Ashkenazim and Sefardim. Rather than issue a separate Code of Jewish Law, which would call into question the validity of Sefardi halachah, he took the “this one and this one” approach by placing his rulings alongside Caro’s rulings.

That cannot happen today. The Kitzur Shulchan Aruch, which is the more accessible go-to version of the Code for most people (it first appeared in 1864), is based solely on the Rema’s rulings. Caro’s rulings have no place in it.

And that is why we all must atone.

To paraphrase Rabbi Nathan Sternhartz, Rav Nachman of Breslov’s scribe and one of the great early proponents of Breslov chasidism, “Let the holy sound [of the shofar] penetrate deep into our hearts and fill us with holiness…. Let the sound of the shofar become louder and stronger until it overwhelms and destroys all kinds of unholy arrogance…, [including] the self-seeking assertiveness of those who are not ashamed of anything.” (See his Likutei Tefilot 1, 22:46-47.)

And may we all say, “Amen.”

May all of us, of every Jewish stream and wherever we may live in this world, be inscribed for a year of peace, health, happiness, joy — and tolerance for each other, whatever are our differences. Kol Yisrael areivim zeh bazeh, all Israel is responsible one for the other, is not a suggestion. It is a requirement.

Shammai Engelmayer is a rabbi-emeritus of Congregation Beth Israel of the Palisades and an adult education teacher in Bergen County. He is the author of eight books and the winner of 10 awards for his commentaries. His website is www.shammai.org.

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