Sound of the silent shofar
By Rabbi Daniel Moscowitz
The late distinguished senator from Illinois, Paul Simon, once spoke at a local Chabad luncheon recounting a conversation with a Jewish constituent about the High Holiday season. As the discussion turned to the intricacies of the Jewish New Year, the senator learned of the integral role of the shofar in Jewish law and tradition.
"Isn't that a little extravagant?" he asked. "It's true that the Jewish people take pride in celebrating their holidays as first-class events. But isn't the use of a shofar a little excessive?"
As the conversation progressed the Jewish voter realized that Sen. Simon was confusing 'shofar' with 'chauffeur.' So he explained, "Our shofar doesn't just drive us — it inspires us. It's an echoing call that lasts all year long."
This year as we enter the portals of our respective synagogues on the first day of the New Year 5767, we will wait in vain to hear the inspiring blast of the shofar. The cantor will chant, the rabbi will sermonize, and the congregation will join in loving praise of G‑d and our people. But the shofar will remain still.
This year, the first day of Rosh Hashanah falls on Shabbat, the day of rest. The Talmud relates, in the name of the great sage Rabbah, that when the New Year coincides with Shabbat; our weekly dose of spiritual respite supersedes the pageantry and the magnitude of the shofar's call.
OK, that's the law; but where is the inspiration? Where is the majesty? How can the routine Shabbat observance replace the sound of the ram's horn heard at Sinai? How will we get a foretaste of the "Great Shofar" that will usher in the time of Moshiach? How can we hear a silent shofar?
I recently found the answer in a most unlikely setting. Last week, I attended a bar mitzvah that will stay etched in my memory forever. As a community rabbi, I attend many life cycle events. Each in its own way is memorable and significant. But attending the bar mitzvah of Shmuel Dovid E., an autistic child with cognitive delays, was difficult. Not for the child or for the family, but for us, the guests.
Don't get me wrong. The parents have their hands full. For years Shmuel Dovid could hardly utter a word or communicate his basic needs. But they handled it. The family, the bar mitzvah boy, the inner circle of professionals and support staff-they are all blessed with unusual insight that goes beyond the superficial and the external. They are privy to a dimension of life that we can only philosophize about. They can look directly into the soul of this beautiful child of G‑d and see a truly stunning work of creation. They nurtured Shmuel Dovid, lovingly and consistently, to achieve his bar mitzvah goals.
And we the outsiders could only hope to observe, to act natural, to say the right things, and to pretend that all is normal and average and mundane.
At the celebration, Shmuel Dovid's father got up to thank the community, the Keshet school, the friends, relatives, and personnel who have walked hand in hand with the E. family at each and every step of this incredible journey.
And then Mr. E. told a story.
Thirty years ago he encountered a Jewish woman in Seattle who told him about her immigrant father coming to Winnipeg, Canada in the very difficult years of the Depression. He had brought with him from the European shtetl a work ethic that nothing was too hard or demeaning. And so when the only job available to him in this newfound land of opportunity was to be a simple milkman, he accepted the job with zeal. Only one problem, though. He also brought with him from Europe his heritage and traditions. The job required he work on Shabbat. He couldn't, he wouldn't.
So each and every week as he pooled together his meager wages that barely covered his family's basic needs, he allocated the money necessary to hire a non-Jew to cover for him on Saturdays. It wasn't cheap, he had to pay his stand-in double the daily rate, but there was no other option; he would not disappoint the Sabbath queen.
Every Friday, as the Jewish immigrant went through this financial ritual, he would repeat to his children the following chant: "If the children of Israel keep the Shabbat, the Shabbat will keep the children of Israel."
Years later this story took on great significance in the life of the E. family. Things were getting tougher. Shmuel Dovid's severely limited ability to communicate was triggering uncontrolled and unpredictable behavior. Eighteen months before their son's 13th birthday, planning a bar mitzvah seemed totally impossible. But even more frightening was the realization that living at home was becoming more and more difficult for Shmuel Dovid and his family.
As they contemplated the future, the possibility of a group home for their beloved child was looming as an uncomfortable but perhaps necessary option. It would bring some long forgotten calm to their home, but what of Shmuel Dovid? Would this be of benefit to him? Then came the religious questions. There was no organized facility in the area that provided kosher food and a Shabbat environment.
Mr. and Mrs. E. went to their rabbi to discuss the latest challenge. What was the Jewish law? Could they even consider a setting for their precious son that had no provisions for kashrut or Shabbat? Is it permissible? What was their Judaic/parental responsibility in this case?
The rabbi was clear. For a child who was unaware of the significance of basic Jewish laws, it would be halachically sanctioned to outplace him, even if the group home could not provide for elementary Jewish practices.
Mr. and Mrs. E. left the rabbi's office with the clarity they had sought. Shmuel Dovid would stay home.
True, his scope of knowledge was limited. His comprehension of things outside his immediate reach was restricted. But he did know of Shabbat. What he did not know was Saturday. His face would shine as his mother lit the Shabbat candles. He anxiously awaited his turn to drink from his father's Kiddush cup. He would drum his fingers and sing along-off tune-as the family broke out in Chasidic song. Shmuel Dovid knew of Shabbat and he even knew of kashrut, carefully examining a package for its kosher symbol and recognizing the difference between meat and dairy. Yes, Shmuel Dovid would stay home.
The decision was made and the next 18 months were a turning point. Together they struggled, they dreamt, they dared, they planned, and they succeeded.
When the big day arrived, Shmuel Dovid was called to the Torah to make the blessings and take his rightful place among those of all generations past. He lovingly cared for his new pair of tefillin and learned to wrap them each weekday morning just as his father and brothers do. He got his own suit and black hat, like all the other yeshiva boys, and he brought to the home a new calm that they hadn't felt in a long time. That day he became a "man."
"If the children of Israel keep the Shabbat, the Shabbat will keep the children of Israel."
When Mr. E. finished his story there was not a dry eye in the shul. Every heart was moved, each of us sat in awe of this amazing boy, this awesome family, our wonderful traditions, and our treasured Shabbat.
So this year on the first day of Rosh Hashanah when the shofar is silent, let us make sure to listen very carefully. We can hear the whisper of generations; we can heed the secret of our survival. We can contemplate those who have sacrificed and of those who have reaped the benefits of our faith.
We can close our eyes and see our mother's Shabbos candles and taste our zayde's sweet wine. We can reach deeply into the age-old wisdom of the weekly Torah message. And we can resolve to emulate the simple devotion and the amazing fortitude of Shmuel Dovid E.
This Rosh Hashanah, listen carefully to the resounding sound of the silent shofar. It calls us to embrace the Shabbat queen.
Rabbi Daniel Moscowitz is the regional director of Lubavitch Chabad of Illinois and vice-president of the Chicago Rabbinical Council. He can be reached at [email protected]