Rabbi Michelle: Yom Teruah
Erev Rosh Hashanah 5781
September 18, 2020
View the video here.
L'shanah tovah—it is amazing to see how even this year we are able to come together to mark the beginning of another year, the completion of another cycle.
We now rank Rosh Hashanah among the holiest of holidays, a moment when the gates are open for personal change, but the Torah says very little about this day—this isn't even the first month of the year on the Torah's calendar! This beginning of the seventh month, though, is described in the Torah as a holiday time, a time to refrain from work, and in Numbers, a Yom Teruah—a day of teruah. What is teruah?
Kids and their adults who have sung the shofar blast song with me so many times over the past years know well that teruah is the shofar call that has nine parts. Tekiyah is the full long call. Shevarim, which means broken, is that tekiyah broken into three parts, and teruah is further divided into nine parts.
So what does it mean that Rosh Hashanah is a Yom Teruah? The Biblical Hebrew root resh vav ayin evokes raising a shout of many kinds—raising a shout in war, calling out in triumph, raising our voices in music and worship, or crying out in distress or tears.
This Yom Teruah, let's do all of those. Well, maybe not the war part, but calling out in triumph, raising our voices in music and worship, crying out in distress or tears.
We are collectively pretty good at the teruah of music and worship—even over Zoom, we've seen already tonight, at Selichot last weekend, and so many Shabbatot, that we have that covered. Rabbi Mó, Koach, and Aly will guide us throughout this day as a Yom Teruah in which we can raise our voices musically. Even though we can't hear each other, we can call out from our own homes and ask that our voices be heard as we lift them up. We can still join our voices, our teruot, out loud or over the Zoom chat, and in our hearts. Whether your worshipful teruah is a loud, joyous cry or a silent, inner prayer, you are part of this larger teruah of music and worship.
Yom Teruah is also day of triumph. After all, you are here. You made it to another year, which is never a given and is always worth celebrating. Take that triumphant breath, call out in gratitude for the loving relationships you have, rejoice in whatever goodness you can see. We can all celebrate the fact that our community is strong, we can share the gratitude for the many volunteers who made all of the different offerings of this season possible, the creativity and work that bring us together over Zoom and in person. The fact that--in the midst of a global pandemic, political upheaval, and stunning effects of climate change--hundreds of us are gathered together to make community is a huge reason to cry out in triumph.
And this year especially, I'm hoping we also leave room for Yom Teruah as a day of crying out in tears and distress. In this year that is so unlike other years, in this moment that was so beyond most of our imaginations one year ago, we need to make space to acknowledge the brokenness and let it be a part of how we come together. This moment is hard. So much of this is hard. And you don't need to pretend, even for Rosh Hashanah, that it's all great, or even that it's all okay. Our community is holy because we can share our joy, we can share our celebrations, our wisdom, our Torah learning, our art installations. But our community is also holy because we can bring all of our selves, and that includes bringing our grief and our tears.
I want to share three biblical moments of crying and calling out that are connected to these days, to invite in the tears of those who came before us, and also to help us bring in our own teruot.
In the Talmud, in the middle of a technical discussion about the lengths and number of the blasts of the shofar, a connection is made between the Teruah, the shofar calls of this Rosh Hashanah day, and the wailing of Sisera's mother. Sisera, a commander of the Canaanite army, has been killed by Yael, and, in a poetic retelling in the Book of Judges, his mother is waiting for him to come home. Her son is delayed and she knows that this cannot be a good sign. "Through the window peered Sisera's mother. Behind the lattice she moaned: 'Why is his chariot so long in coming? Why so late the clatter of his wheels?'"
Sisera's mother cries, a cry that the rabbis heard echoed in the shofar calls, tears of mourning and loss. Tears of grief for her son. These tears are familiar to those who are personally mourning and crying for the loss of people we love, but this is also the communal teruah of this holiday in a moment where over 200,000 people in our country alone have died in this current pandemic. We can also share a communal cry of distress for the lives that have been lost to racism and police brutality. If the Teruah that you are bringing into this Rosh Hashanah is that of Sisera's mother, that of grief for lost lives, know that there is space for it here as we come together.
There is also a midrash that connects Sarah's tears to the sounds of the shofar. In the Torah reading for the second day of Rosh Hashanah, we read about Akedat Yitzchak, the binding of Isaac. Isaac's father had taken him away and nearly sacrificed him on God's command, stopped only by the last-minute intervention of an angel. Later generations of commentators are left to wonder what his mother Sarah's response is to this moment. One midrash imagines the conversation between Sarah and Isaac when he returns home.
Sarah says, "Where were you my son?"
Isaac answers with the whole story: "Well, my father took me and brought me over the mountains and down the hills..." He tells her the everything.
Sarah cries out, "Oh no! My son! If it wasn't for the angel, you would have already been killed?!"
Isaac simply says, "Yes."
At that moment in the midrash, Sarah screams and cries out six times, corresponding to the six times the tekiyah (that long note) is sounded on the shofar. They say she didn't stop crying until she died.
Sarah's tears are also familiar, maybe tears that some of us will cry over this holiday. Sarah's teruah is a cry of wondering how to keep going. She is wondering how to protect the people she loves just as we wonder how we can protect our beloveds and how we give our kids what we know they need. Sarah is mourning something intangible—her son is still alive but her sense of safety, her connection to the world around her, is changed. In this moment, so many of us are struggling with the realities of the world we live in, crying for losses of everyday moments and special occasions, and even grieving the ways we wish we could be together on this holiday. If you are holding Sarah's cry, I invite you to find space for it in these days and to know that we will hold it with you.
The next calling out is connected to the day more than it is midrashicly connected to the shofar. Tomorrow morning, Naomi Segal will read the haftarah with the story of Chanah (it's good to know that even when it seems like everything is changing, some things, like Naomi's haftarah reading, are constants). Chanah is distraught because she has no children—she is miserable because God has closed her womb. Her husband's other wife taunts her for this, making her even more upset. Chanah goes to the temple and prays, weeping as she speaks to God, makes deals with God, and praises God. When Eli the priest accuses her of being drunk, she answers him, "Oh no, my lord! I am a very unhappy woman. I have drunk no wine or other strong drink, but I have been pouring out my heart to God...I have only been speaking all this time out of my great anguish and distress." Chanah's teruah is one of deep personal pain. Chanah's crying is one that might be so familiar—the pain of infertility, a crying for a family that doesn't look like what she wants and is not the family she dreamed of. And Chanah's teruah is also a pain of deep loneliness felt by so many in this time who are isolated or unable to safely spend time with friends and family. These teruot live in many of us as well. If Chanah's cry is also your cry right now, remember that there is room for that here, that we can hold your disappointment and your loneliness even as we gather as holy community.
So, as we begin this Yom Teruah, this Rosh Hashanah, and this whole year together, please bring all of your teruot. I hope that, in some way, today is a day of triumph for you. And I know that if you spend enough time here with us, it will be a day of musical calling out. We will sing with joy, talk about the new year, and look tiumphantly to the future with you.
And please bring your own teruah of tears, of crying out. This is a space where tears are welcome, whether they are the tears of Siserass mother or the tears of our mother, Sarah, and the tears of Chanah. This is a space, albeit a virtual space, with room for you to grieve, to mourn for the losses of this year and the holiday that could have been.
I know that we will continue to find ways to be in sacred community together, whether that is over Zoom, safely distanced and masked in a park, or, eventually, returning to our services together, and I hope that we will continue to hold on to and to share all of the teruot together on this Rosh Hashanah and in this year to come and in future years.
September 18, 2020
View the video here.
L'shanah tovah—it is amazing to see how even this year we are able to come together to mark the beginning of another year, the completion of another cycle.
We now rank Rosh Hashanah among the holiest of holidays, a moment when the gates are open for personal change, but the Torah says very little about this day—this isn't even the first month of the year on the Torah's calendar! This beginning of the seventh month, though, is described in the Torah as a holiday time, a time to refrain from work, and in Numbers, a Yom Teruah—a day of teruah. What is teruah?
Kids and their adults who have sung the shofar blast song with me so many times over the past years know well that teruah is the shofar call that has nine parts. Tekiyah is the full long call. Shevarim, which means broken, is that tekiyah broken into three parts, and teruah is further divided into nine parts.
So what does it mean that Rosh Hashanah is a Yom Teruah? The Biblical Hebrew root resh vav ayin evokes raising a shout of many kinds—raising a shout in war, calling out in triumph, raising our voices in music and worship, or crying out in distress or tears.
This Yom Teruah, let's do all of those. Well, maybe not the war part, but calling out in triumph, raising our voices in music and worship, crying out in distress or tears.
We are collectively pretty good at the teruah of music and worship—even over Zoom, we've seen already tonight, at Selichot last weekend, and so many Shabbatot, that we have that covered. Rabbi Mó, Koach, and Aly will guide us throughout this day as a Yom Teruah in which we can raise our voices musically. Even though we can't hear each other, we can call out from our own homes and ask that our voices be heard as we lift them up. We can still join our voices, our teruot, out loud or over the Zoom chat, and in our hearts. Whether your worshipful teruah is a loud, joyous cry or a silent, inner prayer, you are part of this larger teruah of music and worship.
Yom Teruah is also day of triumph. After all, you are here. You made it to another year, which is never a given and is always worth celebrating. Take that triumphant breath, call out in gratitude for the loving relationships you have, rejoice in whatever goodness you can see. We can all celebrate the fact that our community is strong, we can share the gratitude for the many volunteers who made all of the different offerings of this season possible, the creativity and work that bring us together over Zoom and in person. The fact that--in the midst of a global pandemic, political upheaval, and stunning effects of climate change--hundreds of us are gathered together to make community is a huge reason to cry out in triumph.
And this year especially, I'm hoping we also leave room for Yom Teruah as a day of crying out in tears and distress. In this year that is so unlike other years, in this moment that was so beyond most of our imaginations one year ago, we need to make space to acknowledge the brokenness and let it be a part of how we come together. This moment is hard. So much of this is hard. And you don't need to pretend, even for Rosh Hashanah, that it's all great, or even that it's all okay. Our community is holy because we can share our joy, we can share our celebrations, our wisdom, our Torah learning, our art installations. But our community is also holy because we can bring all of our selves, and that includes bringing our grief and our tears.
I want to share three biblical moments of crying and calling out that are connected to these days, to invite in the tears of those who came before us, and also to help us bring in our own teruot.
In the Talmud, in the middle of a technical discussion about the lengths and number of the blasts of the shofar, a connection is made between the Teruah, the shofar calls of this Rosh Hashanah day, and the wailing of Sisera's mother. Sisera, a commander of the Canaanite army, has been killed by Yael, and, in a poetic retelling in the Book of Judges, his mother is waiting for him to come home. Her son is delayed and she knows that this cannot be a good sign. "Through the window peered Sisera's mother. Behind the lattice she moaned: 'Why is his chariot so long in coming? Why so late the clatter of his wheels?'"
Sisera's mother cries, a cry that the rabbis heard echoed in the shofar calls, tears of mourning and loss. Tears of grief for her son. These tears are familiar to those who are personally mourning and crying for the loss of people we love, but this is also the communal teruah of this holiday in a moment where over 200,000 people in our country alone have died in this current pandemic. We can also share a communal cry of distress for the lives that have been lost to racism and police brutality. If the Teruah that you are bringing into this Rosh Hashanah is that of Sisera's mother, that of grief for lost lives, know that there is space for it here as we come together.
There is also a midrash that connects Sarah's tears to the sounds of the shofar. In the Torah reading for the second day of Rosh Hashanah, we read about Akedat Yitzchak, the binding of Isaac. Isaac's father had taken him away and nearly sacrificed him on God's command, stopped only by the last-minute intervention of an angel. Later generations of commentators are left to wonder what his mother Sarah's response is to this moment. One midrash imagines the conversation between Sarah and Isaac when he returns home.
Sarah says, "Where were you my son?"
Isaac answers with the whole story: "Well, my father took me and brought me over the mountains and down the hills..." He tells her the everything.
Sarah cries out, "Oh no! My son! If it wasn't for the angel, you would have already been killed?!"
Isaac simply says, "Yes."
At that moment in the midrash, Sarah screams and cries out six times, corresponding to the six times the tekiyah (that long note) is sounded on the shofar. They say she didn't stop crying until she died.
Sarah's tears are also familiar, maybe tears that some of us will cry over this holiday. Sarah's teruah is a cry of wondering how to keep going. She is wondering how to protect the people she loves just as we wonder how we can protect our beloveds and how we give our kids what we know they need. Sarah is mourning something intangible—her son is still alive but her sense of safety, her connection to the world around her, is changed. In this moment, so many of us are struggling with the realities of the world we live in, crying for losses of everyday moments and special occasions, and even grieving the ways we wish we could be together on this holiday. If you are holding Sarah's cry, I invite you to find space for it in these days and to know that we will hold it with you.
The next calling out is connected to the day more than it is midrashicly connected to the shofar. Tomorrow morning, Naomi Segal will read the haftarah with the story of Chanah (it's good to know that even when it seems like everything is changing, some things, like Naomi's haftarah reading, are constants). Chanah is distraught because she has no children—she is miserable because God has closed her womb. Her husband's other wife taunts her for this, making her even more upset. Chanah goes to the temple and prays, weeping as she speaks to God, makes deals with God, and praises God. When Eli the priest accuses her of being drunk, she answers him, "Oh no, my lord! I am a very unhappy woman. I have drunk no wine or other strong drink, but I have been pouring out my heart to God...I have only been speaking all this time out of my great anguish and distress." Chanah's teruah is one of deep personal pain. Chanah's crying is one that might be so familiar—the pain of infertility, a crying for a family that doesn't look like what she wants and is not the family she dreamed of. And Chanah's teruah is also a pain of deep loneliness felt by so many in this time who are isolated or unable to safely spend time with friends and family. These teruot live in many of us as well. If Chanah's cry is also your cry right now, remember that there is room for that here, that we can hold your disappointment and your loneliness even as we gather as holy community.
So, as we begin this Yom Teruah, this Rosh Hashanah, and this whole year together, please bring all of your teruot. I hope that, in some way, today is a day of triumph for you. And I know that if you spend enough time here with us, it will be a day of musical calling out. We will sing with joy, talk about the new year, and look tiumphantly to the future with you.
And please bring your own teruah of tears, of crying out. This is a space where tears are welcome, whether they are the tears of Siserass mother or the tears of our mother, Sarah, and the tears of Chanah. This is a space, albeit a virtual space, with room for you to grieve, to mourn for the losses of this year and the holiday that could have been.
I know that we will continue to find ways to be in sacred community together, whether that is over Zoom, safely distanced and masked in a park, or, eventually, returning to our services together, and I hope that we will continue to hold on to and to share all of the teruot together on this Rosh Hashanah and in this year to come and in future years.