The Shofar Calls
An Invitation, Erev Rosh Hashanah 5786
If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire,
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
This Shel Silverstein poem captures the reality of entering a space or experience: sometimes, we need an invitation. Often, this is because we don’t want to show up rudely unannounced. But what about when we do not literally need an invitation, but feel as though we do? What happens when the barriers aren’t external etiquette, but internal uncertainty—when the voice asking “Do I belong here?” comes from within?
Tonight, at the beginning of the new year, what is holding you back? What is keeping you from moving into this sacred space, this holy time?
If we’re honest—and this season certainly invites honesty—many of us arrive at synagogue carrying the weight of what keeps us hovering at the threshold. Maybe it’s a voice inside of us whispering that we haven’t been here in a while…we don’t know the prayers well enough…we haven’t done enough to prepare for this moment.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion of showing up in a world that often feels hostile, where our very existence feels politicized. Everything feels like too much, and our response may feel inadequate.
Maybe it’s the wounds we carry, from communities that have failed us, from prayers that felt hollow, from a God that felt distant when we needed presence most. We hear our tradition misunderstood and weaponized. We see those speaking in our name cause tremendous destruction.
The pain is real. The disappointment cuts deep. But those narratives we tell ourselves about not belonging, about not being enough—what if they’re just that, stories?
In this space, we are reminded that our tradition tells different stories. Stories that remind us that struggling with faith, wrestling with doubt, arguing with God and community—these don’t disqualify us. They place us in good company.
Company like Moshe Rabbeinu, who vacillated between “I can’t possibly do this” and “Why won’t you people listen to me already?” Our ancestors were beautifully, messily… human. And still they stayed in relationship—with God, with each other, with the inheritance we ultimately came to know as Judaism.
Company like, Yaakov Avinu, our father Jacob, who became Yisrael—”God-wrestler”—only after a night of struggle left him limping and transformed.
Company like Sarah Imeinu, who laughed—not with joy, but with the bitter recognition of promises delayed too long.
And then later wailed over hearing of the binding of Isaac, a wail so powerful, we hear it echoed in the cries of the shofar.
Indeed, we sometimes compare the shofar to Sarah’s cries as she struggles in her faith. We also often think of the shofar as a spiritual wake-up call, jolting us from complacency.
And it is both of these things. But it’s also something gentler, more generous: an invitation.
While grappling with tradition and sitting with uncertainty can be generative, they can also make us doubt if we are welcome in the very place or community that is ripe with potential for healing and growth. Seeking out symbols and cues that welcome us into the space can be grounding. So this year, if you are feeling trepidation or angst, open your ears and your heart to the shofar’s blasts.
In the weekday Amidah, we recite,
תְּקַע בְּשׁופָר גָּדול לְחֵרוּתֵנוּ. וְשא נֵס לְקַבֵּץ גָּלֻיּותֵינוּ
“Sound the great shofar for our freedom, and raise the banner to gather our exiles.”
The shofar blasts have served as a means of gathering our people from near and far for thousands of years. The shofar invites us close.
When the thoughts swirl—about whether we deserve to be here, whether we’re doing it right, whether any of this matters in a world on fire—the shofar brings our attention back to this moment.
To the breath. To the people next to us, in front of us, behind us, who are also seeking, struggling, and dreaming.
Maybe, find one thing—just one—that will help you arrive. Perhaps it’s the sound of the shofar. A repeated phrase in the liturgy. A big idea from a sermon. What’s your invitation?
If you are a seeker, come in.
If you are a believer, a doubter, a cryer,
A hope-er, a pray-er, who wants to go higher—
Fear you’re pretending? Then come join our choir,
For we have some stories that never expire.
Come in!
Come in!
For this is the season of returning—not to who we were, but to who we’re becoming. Not to perfection, but to connection. Not to certainty, but to the terrifying, liberating, constant uncertainty of being human, and Jewish, and alive in this complicated, beautiful, broken world.
The shofar sounds. Here we are. Welcome.