Rabbi Andrea’s Sermon 23rd September 2025 / 30th Elul 5785

Yom Teruah — The day of the sound of the Shofar

Rosh haShana in the Torah is called Yom Teruah and Zichron Teruah — a day of shofar-sound and a

remembrance carried by that sound. The Rabbis saw in it many layers: the coronation of God as Sovereign, as trumpets once heralded a new king. The memory of the ram at the binding of Isaac; The echo of Sinai, where a growing shofar-blast welcomed people into covenant.

The very names speak to us: Teruah is an alarm, a cry that cuts through habit; Zichron is remembrance — God remembering us with mercy, and us remembering who we are beneath the noise. The shofar’s notes themselves tell a story: tekiah, whole and steady; shevarim, the sighing, broken breaths; teruah, a rapid, urgent sob. They mirror our condition: — integrity, fracture, yearning. They promise that brokenness, offered honestly, can be gathered back into wholeness.

Notice something subtle: the mitzvah is not to blow the shofar but to hear it — before blowing the shofar we recite a blessing: Barukh Atta Adonay... lishmoa kol shofar, to listen to the voice of the shofar. It is communal: we need one another, the blower and the hearers, intention answering intention, to fulfil it.

And here's something I would like you to notice. Before the first blast, we pause. We become still. We make space so that breath can become sound and sound can become meaning. In that quiet, the shofar speaks beyond words. It is a primal cry. It is a coronation fanfare. It is a memory from Sinai. Its call asks us to realign our lives with what we know to be true. We listen not only with our

ears but with our lives.

On Rosh Hashanah we gather in shul to begin again — with humility, hope, and the courage to look

inward. We come as one congregation, diverse in experience and opinion, yet bound by shared memory and shared promise. Many communities, including ours, have felt strain this year. Not because anyone set out to harm, but because the habits of our wider culture have seeped into our space. Online, everything feels urgent; every message asks for a reaction; every rumour arrives dressed as truth.

We get used to responding quickly, commenting quickly, deciding quickly. Without meaning to, we carry that speed into synagogue life. We talk past one another. We jump to conclusions. We discount generous efforts because we heard only a fragment of a story. Little by little, trust thins. Words — meant to bless — begin to bruise. The shofar tells a different story. The Alter Rebbe teaches that the power of the shofar lies in the fact that it is not words. It is a raw cry, it is a prayer without language. Remember: the mitzvah is not to blow the shofar. We are commanded to listen. To achieve this, before the first blast, we pause. We let the room become still. We prepare to receive.

The shofar demands our silence so we can hear something truer than the chatter around us.

Where does that sound come from? From breath alone, from a place in the soul deeper than speech. They call it neshama, soul. I prefer to call it memory. It is anyway a part of us connected to our people's story, back to Sinai. Or, if you prefer, to God. When we cannot find the words, the shofar gives us a voice. There is another reason we need this sound now.

We speak so much because we believe that with enough words we can stay in control. If we can

explain it, post about it, argue about it, win an argument about it — then maybe it won’t hurt us. But there are limits to our control, and modern life does not train us to honour them.

Our children grow and choose their own paths. We cannot choose in their place, we can help them, we must support them. But in the end, they decide. It's beyond our control. In the same way, a community makes decisions we don’t always agree with. It's beyond our control.

And it's hard to accept that there are things we cannot control.

Also: our parents age and, in their stubbornness, hold fast to ways we struggle to change. We do our best, yet so much remains beyond our reach. From family life, from community life, come frustration and anger; from those places words can spill out, words of frustration, words of anger.

The shofar gently teaches another way. Words are precious, but they are not everything. There are

realities they cannot fully define and outcomes they cannot command. The sound of the shofar invites us to accept this — to breathe with it, to let go a little, to stand in the presence of what we cannot control without turning our sharpness on one another. Acceptance here is not surrender; it is wisdom. It is the strength to face what is real.

The pause before the sound of the shofar reminds us that we do not need to fill every silence. The

listening reminds us that we do not need to win every point. The cry reminds us that it is safe to bring our longing, our grief, and our hope before God without pretending we are in charge.

Listen to the patterns: tekiah — the clear, whole note — reminds us of who we are when we remember our belonging. Shevarim and teruah — the broken and trembling notes — name our fractures and fears, the places where we feel powerless and hurt. And tekiah gedolah — the great, sustained call — teaches endurance: that we can hold steady together even when we do not agree, even when outcomes are uncertain, even when we cannot fix everything.

“Life and death are in the power of the tongue,” says the book of Proverbs [18:21] In a public

environment, words travel farther and hit harder. When impatience or fear steers our speech, we

weaken the bonds that keep us strong. Internal fractures make any community easier to tear.

And in a time of rising antisemitism — felt here and faced by our brothers and sisters in Israel —

division at home becomes a gift to those who wish us ill. Unity does not require uniformity. It asks for patience, for slow judgments, and for the humility to admit that we do not control everything and do not see everything. Rosh ha Shanah is a gift.

If the shofar can reach the place in us that is deeper than words, perhaps our conversations can begin from that place too. Imagine pausing before speaking, as we pause before the blasts. Imagine listening all the way through another person’s story, as we listen all the way through tekiah–shevarim–teruah. Imagine speaking with the aim not to control an outcome but to honour a relationship. Imagine letting the parts of life we cannot control teach us compassion for one another, instead of contempt.

In a few moments, the room will become still. The shofar will sound: a clear tekiah — what wholeness can be; the broken notes — what needs tending; and the long, held tekiah gedolah — the hope that we can endure together. Let that sound wash over us. Let it steady our speech, soften our certainty, and teach us to accept what we cannot shape with words. Let it reconnect us — to God, to one another, and to the long story that holds us when we feel unsteady.

May the One who hears the sound of the shofar hear the quiet intentions of our hearts. May our words this year give life. May our synagogue be a place of respect and kindness. May those who build and protect in Israel be strengthened, and may Jews everywhere be safer because we stand together. May we be written and sealed for a year of health, sustenance, and peace.

Shanah tovah — may it be a good and sweet year.

Rabbi Dr. Andrea Zanardo, PhD