Rosh Hashana is a day of profound duality, where emotions blend between awe and solemnity, pride and joy. We stand before Hashem in judgment, fully aware of our inadequacies and helplessness, yet we also reflect on the loyalty and love that have marked Jewish history, while urging Hashem to remember our devotion, our love, and our zechuyot. For one day, we glimpse the world we hope to create – a world imbued with heightened spiritual awareness, where Hashem’s presence fills every corner.
This day of awe magnifies the frailty of human life, fraught with imperfections, while simultaneously elevating the nobility of a life of Torah and mitzvot. It is both a day of sefer Kohelet, in which we confront the mortality and limitations of man, and also a day of Shir HaShirim, where the destiny of the Jewish people shines brightly. The power of Rosh Hashana flows from this tension – the paradox between humility and strength, fear and pride. The day is intense precisely because of this paradox at its core.
The shofar, the central symbol of the day, captures this dichotomy. Its sound, primal and raw, echoes a cry beyond words, stripping away the artifice of language to reveal the purest form of prayer – a primordial scream to Hashem. Yet, at the same time, the shofar also brings harmony to our prayers, adding melody to our words. In the Mikdash, it was part of a grand orchestration, blending with other instruments to amplify the moment of standing before Hashem. The shofar embodies both simplicity and grandeur, humility and celebration.
Historically, some would fast on Rosh Hashana, intensifying the solemnity of standing in judgment before the Divine. Though this minhag has largely faded, this day remains one of muted joy, filled with reverence and gravity. We celebrate, but our joy is tempered, framed by the seriousness of the moment. As the Gemara observes, it is unfitting to sing a loud Hallel while the Books of Life and Death lie open before us, with the stakes so high and the moment so weighty. Rosh Hashana is a day of proud reverence, tinged with solemnity – its symbols and customs perfectly balancing these dual emotions.
Though each Rosh Hashana calls us to navigate a spectrum of emotions, this current moment, Rosh Hashana 5785, feels particularly challenging. We are surrounded by dark clouds – our people continue to suffer on so many levels. Just days ago, I was asked to reflect on the “post-traumatic truths” that our people have learned from October 7. I politely reminded the questioner that we haven’t even reached the post-trauma stage. Each day brings fresh pain, and the wounds of this past year have not even begun to heal.
In such bleak times, it feels almost impossible to summon the joy, pride, or power traditionally associated with Rosh Hashana. How can we celebrate a day of glory when so much of our world is cloaked in tragedy and darkness, and so many of Hashem’s people remain mired in misery and agonizing pain?
The First Bleak Rosh Hashana
In the midst of a disheartened Rosh Hashana in our past, we received a blueprint for navigating such bleak occasions. During the late 6th century BCE, we gradually returned to Israel from a Babylonian exile. Despite our efforts to rebuild the Mikdash and erect a mizbei’ach, local opposition swiftly rose against us, accusing us of sedition and betrayal. Our efforts were halted for years, and the hope of national restoration seemed distant.
Two decades later, we resumed this project. Led by Ezra, a modest and vulnerable group of just over 42,000 made their way back to Israel. Poor and barely defended, they set to work completing the reconstruction of the Mikdash. But progress was slow.
Fourteen years after this second stage, the situation had hardly improved. The walls of Jerusalem were in such ruin that it was impossible to walk around them. Our enemies mocked us, predicting our inevitable failure. Internally, the community was impoverished and socially fractured, as much of the aristocracy remained behind in Persia. The returnees, left without leadership or resources, found themselves struggling to rebuild. Many Jews had also married foreign wives, further complicating the situation. Rosh Hashana arrived under a veil of bleakness and uncertainty.
On this fraught day, Ezra and Nechemia gathered the small, weary group of returnees in the city square of Jerusalem for a public reading of the Torah. A special platform was erected for this occasion, and as the words of the Torah filled the air, an outpouring of tears erupted from the crowd. The people wept as they recalled lost glories that seemed so distant, so impossible to reclaim. Surely Hashem’s protection was no longer with them. It felt as though the divine shield had been withdrawn, leaving them exposed and vulnerable.
Jewish destiny seemed to hang in the balance, and their hopes for renewal felt futile. How could they possibly feel joy this Rosh Hashana? So much suffering, so many struggles. Uncertainty clouded their vision, and fear gripped their hearts. With trauma weighing so heavily upon them, how could they even think of celebrating? Nechemia (see Nechemia perek 8) responded with a powerful proclamation: “Go, eat rich food and drink sweet beverages, and send portions to those who have nothing prepared, for today is holy to our L-rd. Do not be sad, for the joy of Hashem is your strength.”
Amid the helplessness, Nechemia urged them to tap into a greater truth and a more profound force. No matter how bleak conditions seemed, they were still part of a larger divine narrative. The joy of Hashem would be their strength. Pondering the eternal purpose and significance of a life before Hashem could momentarily lift them above their sorrow and futility.
First, because despite the darkness, Hashem holds larger plans and can swiftly reshape even the direst reality. Second, and more significantly, because faith in Hashem and a relationship with Him surpasses any fate we endure. And third, because emunah itself provides courage, strength, and resilience. Emunah would be their strength – not merely weapons, strategies, or armies. No bullet can destroy faith, and it will always endure.
They didn’t ignore the calamity or the difficult conditions they faced; they simply took a pause to replenish their faith. Immediately after the chagim season concluded – on the day following what we now call Simchat Torah, though it had not yet been designated as such – they returned to mourning and fasting. They tearfully uttered one of the most heartfelt and remorseful confessions in all of Tanach. Yet, Rosh Hashana itself called for emotional transcendence without succumbing to indifference toward the sadness – a moment to reach for the heavens and return to earth with renewed courage and vigor.
Jewish history often repeats itself. Here we stand, 2,700 years later, facing a similar Rosh Hashana. Ignoring the sadness and suffering is unimaginable – we are surrounded by it. Yet for these two days, we must rise above it without forgetting. We must find a way to merge our struggles and traumas with the glory of standing before Hashem. We must tap into the larger historical mission we are part of bringing Hashem’s presence into a godless world.
Rosh Hashana must remind us of why this battle is so crucial. It’s not just a conflict over land or boundaries. This isn’t about occupation or apartheid – it’s about Hashem’s presence in our world. We are battling against those who falsely speak in the name of an angry and vengeful god who does not exist. We fight against those who desecrate the divine dignity endowed to every human being, violating their bodies and spirits. This is a battle against a culture that glorifies death instead of celebrating life, against a world that has lost its capacity to discern truth and uphold objective moral standards.
Rosh Hashana is the day of divine authority, and we are currently locked in a struggle to preserve His presence. One day, His presence will be palpable and undeniable.
Until that day we have faith.
