The Space Between the Tekios

Understanding the Avodah of Tekias Shofar through the Lens of Yirmiyahu HaNavi

(This post was originally written last year and has been updated with some revisions. Feel free to print it and read over Rosh Hashanah—I’d love to hear your thoughts and feedback. Wishing you a Kesiva VeChasima Tova, Shui)

I would like to share a very old story that continues to resonate with us today.

Over two and a half millennia ago, Yirmiyahu HaNavi was merely a child when he received a prophecy. Hashem declared to him, "Before you were even formed in the womb, I had chosen you. Before your birth, I set you apart. I ordained you as a prophet to the nations." As Yirmiyahu matured, his mission became evident. He was directed to Yerushalayim to exhort its people to return to the observance of the Torah, cautioning that neglecting this call would lead to their exile. This is intricately described in the initial nineteen chapters of Sefer Yirmiyahu.

Embracing his Divine mandate, Yirmiyahu journeyed through the streets of Yehudah and Yerushalayim, passionately relaying his prophecies and urging the people to return to Hashem.

However, when the reigning Kohen Gadol, Pashchur Ben Immer, heard Yirmiyahu's prophecies, he felt threatened. He ordered Yirmiyahu to be flogged and imprisoned. Upon releasing him the following day, Yirmiyahu rebuked Pashchur, proclaiming, "Hashem has renamed you 'Magor-Missaviv' (meaning 'Terror on Every Side')." Yirmiyahu then forewarned Pashchur of impending doom—both for him and for those he had misled.

Thereafter, Yirmiyahu expressed both lament and conviction about his Divine mission. He voiced his distress, feeling deceived by Hashem and ridiculed by the people. Yet, his commitment was unwavering, comparing the urge to prophesy to a fire burning within him, impossible to contain. Despite the malicious whispers and treachery of those who once called themselves friends, Yirmiyahu found comfort in his unwavering belief that Hashem was his protector and champion.

In a moment of profound anguish, Yirmiyahu questioned his very existence, pondering: "Why was I born to witness such hardship and affliction?" He lamented:

 "אשר לא־מותתני מרחם ותהי־לי אמי קברי ורחמה הרת עולם."

 "Because [God] did not kill me before birth so that my mother might be my grave, and her womb with me forever.”

Though this initial episode ended in imprisonment and public scorn, it was merely one chapter in the life of Yirmiyahu HaNavi. While often branded the prophet of doom, he remains among the most venerable figures in history.

This story seems to be the hidden epicenter of Rosh Hashanah.

Rosh Hashanah holds profound significance in the Jewish calendar, intricately weaving traditions, liturgy, and historical narratives into its fabric. Let's unpack one such strand.

Each Rosh Hashanah, amidst the haunting resonance of the shofar, we recite the piyut, "Hayom Haras Olam." Its common translation, “Today is the birthday of the world,” has often struck me as an intriguing choice of words. What prompts us to employ such an atypical phrasing for “birthday”? The solemnity with which we intone this piyut juxtaposes starkly against the celebratory nature inherent to birthdays. The intricacies deepen when considering that while the world was brought into existence on the 25th of Elul, Rosh Hashanah celebrates the creation of Man. Would not "Hayom Haras Adam" be a more appropriate phrase?

My curiosity was further piqued on a recent Shabbos afternoon when I reached for my Concordancia, a printed precursor to our modern-day Google. I was looking for the origin of this distinct terminology. To my astonishment, its sole mention lies within the story of Yirmiyahu, as recounted earlier. There, the phrase carries a melancholic weight, suggesting an eternal confinement within the womb rather than a jubilant emergence from it. This paints a somber image far removed from our popular interpretation of a world's birthday. Perhaps a more fitting translation might allude to the world being in an advanced state of gestation—on the brink but not quite emerged.

This raises compelling questions: How did a phrase, so rich in its poignant undertones, evolve into a celebration of the world's inception? And why has this expression, layered with sorrow and introspection, become central to our Rosh Hashanah davening?

I've consulted with many individuals, ranging from scholars to academics, to try to understand this enigma. Some cited interpretations from the Maharal, Malbim, and others, suggesting that the creation of Man had different phases, likening Rosh Hashanah to the moment just before birth. However, that perspective didn't resonate with me. Others argued that the author of the piyut might have been using poetic license—a common occurrence—and advised not to delve too deeply into it. Yet, I believe there's a deeper meaning. After all, these are the words we recite right after the tekias shofar, so they must hold special significance.

When I discussed this topic with my Rebbe, Rav Yehoshua Gerzi, he shared an insight that was both straightforward and deeply insightful. I'd like to share what he said.

When discussing textual interpretation, poetic license can sometimes distort the simple or direct meaning (p’shat). However, it's crucial to recognize and understand the p’shat itself. Indeed, one aspect of daas, or self-awareness, is rooted in p’shat. As conscious beings, we interact with situations based on their actuality, not on what they aren't. Instead of taking situations at face value, there are often multiple layers of depth to uncover and interpret.

The Gemara teaches us a profound insight: "Reb Eliezer said: One who does not possess daas cannot be the recipient of rachamim."¹ To a casual observer, this might seem counterintuitive. However, as Rav Gerzi explained, this underscores a vital truth. For Hashem to bestow rachamim upon us, we need to cultivate daas, which translates to “self-awareness.” Indeed, the Sefarim poignantly refer to Rosh Hashanah as Yom Hischadshus HaDaas or "the day of renewal of daas." Here, Rosh Hashanah symbolizes the connection of Am Yisrael to Hashem, while Yom Kippur portrays the reciprocal relationship—that of Hashem to Am Yisrael.

Let’s explore rachamim to understand its value in a relationship. Empathy and compassion, though often used interchangeably, are inherently distinct. Empathy allows you to feel with someone without exposing your own vulnerabilities. Compassion, on the other hand, is an act of transparency and vulnerability. It requires you to open yourself to the other. The term “rachamim,” as explained by both the Vilna Gaon and Kesav V’Hakabbalah, is derived from “rechem,” indicating a shared space or womb. Rachamim implies shared vulnerability. Reb Eliezer warns us of the hazards of such vulnerability with someone devoid of daas. They might exploit our openness and sincerity, hence it's essential to be empathetic toward them but not necessarily compassionate.

Rosh Hashanah is a testament to the symbiotic relationship between Hashem and humanity. The celebration is empty without either; a king is non-existent without a nation. In the grand tapestry of existence, if Am Yisrael fails to voice the presence of Hashem, His essence remains obscured. Both our daas and Hashem's rachamim are intertwined. It's not a statement on the non-existence of the Creator sans the world but rather the Divine's longing for us.

During Rosh Hashanah, we recognize and appreciate Hashem's daas, extending our rachamim toward Him. We acknowledge His vulnerability, pledging to magnify and cherish His light in the world. As Rav Gerzi aptly puts it, "You are the King, and we are the crown adorning Your head." It's a call for reverence, a plea to never exploit the vulnerability of Hashem.

Yom Kippur flips the dynamic. As Hashem was vulnerable on Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur witnesses the vulnerability of Am Yisrael. We open up to Hashem, trusting in His boundless rachamim to embrace us as we did Him.

Life, in all its intricacies, never offers simple narratives. There are layers, and while we may seek the “p’shat” or basic interpretation, we must also humbly accept that it might remain elusive. With that awareness, in that space of not knowing, in the vulnerability of the “rechem,” the womb, we find comfort in the certainty of Hashem's protection.

As Rav Joey Rosenfeld delves deeper into this paradigm, he speaks of “ibbur” or pregnancy. It's a state of potential awaiting expression—an expression manifested through the blowing of the shofar.

Rosh Hashanah is not a festival of euphoria. It's a solemn phase, a time when we might feel distant from our fullest spiritual potential. It is a time of spiritual concealment, as we say “keseh le’yom chageinu.”

The Tzemach Tzedek poetically describes this as “he’elam,” a term for hiddenness, which aligns with “olam,” indicating the commencement of this concealment. Yet, from this space of seeming emptiness, we find our true essence. We return to the rechem. When all seems silent, we yearn for remembrance, realizing our inherent worth. By seemingly moving backward to a place of gestation, we can move forward in a stronger way. It is from this very constriction that the sound of the shofar is expressed. It is at this moment of shofar that Hashem reveals to us His light, guiding us through the ebbs and flows of existence.

I would like to suggest that the reason we recite "Hayom Haras Olam” during tekias shofar is that within the rhythm and cadence of tekias shofar lies an invitation for profound introspection. Amidst the enveloping silence, our minds drift, contemplating our identity, our origins, and the mysteries of existence. Indeed, while the shofar’s blasts might interrupt these thoughts, it is a gentle reminder that though life might be enigmatic and the p’shat elusive, with the journey to discover, it is our sacred responsibility. The p’shat materializes in that space of unknowing, a delicate balance between seeking and accepting.

Taking a deeper look into the shofar’s blows helps us understand the balance further. The shofar's teruah is bounded by tekiah on both ends. This structured harmony hints at life’s very essence. The teruah, a manifestation of pain, anguish, and heartbreak, is cradled by the tekiah, a jubilant expression. Rosh Hashanah’s core might revolve around the somber teruah, but joy, as signified by tekiah, is indispensable. The interval between these tekios is a sacred space where we channel the spirit of Yirmiyahu HaNavi. It's a space of daas where we can simultaneously embrace human vulnerability and our bond with our vulnerable Creator. Here, the dual states of teruah, signifying heartbreak, and tekiah, symbolizing joy, converge. As we navigate through these contrasting emotions, we emerge from our introspective cocoon, attaining unparalleled clarity. And from this vantage point, we declare, "Hayom Haras Olam." For this very juncture, this very moment of clarity and connection, is the essence of creation.

The interval between these tekios is a sacred space where we channel the spirit of Yirmiyahu HaNavi.

Elie Wiesel, when reflecting on the haunting memories of the Holocaust, proclaimed, “Judaism has its silences, but we do not speak about them.”² While the depths of a Holocaust survivor's experience are unfathomable and beyond judgment, there's an inherent truth in Wiesel’s words. Perhaps it isn't in the articulation but in the silence itself that we find our greatest comfort.

The act of tekias shofar, therefore, is more than a ritual; it's a return to daas. It’s a journey to a heightened state of awareness—of the past, the impending future, and the present moment. In this realm, we acknowledge the paradox: understanding our lack of understanding. Here, humanity stands tall, building on the foundation of our past experiences, ever ready to move forward with renewed clarity and purpose.

Each of us, at various junctures of our lives, encounter what can be referred to as our "Yirmiyahu moments." Quite possibly, these moments arise with more frequency than even Yirmiyahu himself faced. We are nurtured and educated with an unwavering commitment to do the right thing—to do the ratzon Hashem. But as life unfurls, the road often takes turns we didn't anticipate. We grapple with burnout, succumb to temptations, wrestle with the yetzer hara, and confront life's myriad challenges. There are phases where despair sets in so deeply that, mirroring Yirmiyahu, we may question the very essence of our existence, even to the extent of lamenting the day of our birth.

However, even within this maelstrom of emotions, there lies a transformative space—the Haras Olam. It's a space defined by its constrictions but brimming with potential. It reminds us that life isn't always about straightforward interpretations or “poshut p’shat.” More often than not, the deeper meanings and nuances lie beneath the surface, waiting for our discernment, even if they remain elusive.

It's in this profound silence, this spiritual liminality, that the shofar pierces through, echoing our feelings. Our immediate response, "Hayom Haras Olam," is a testament to our unwavering faith. It's a declaration that even amidst our struggles and uncertainties, we stand steadfastly with Hashem, recognizing His omnipresence in our lives, for after all, we are in this space together.

By holding this space of daas, may we see the fulfillment of the berachah that Hashem said to Yirmiyahu, 

בעת ההיא יקראו לירושלם כסא ה’ ונקוו אליה כל־הגוים לשם ה’ לירושלם    

At that time, they shall call Jerusalem “GOD’s Throne,” and all nations shall assemble there, in the name of GOD, at Jerusalem. ³

The day when the keseh, the concealment, will turn to kisei, the throne of Hashem. The day everyone will see p’shat clearly and the ultimate Malchus of Hashem in this world.

1.  Sanhedrin 92a.

2.  Quoted by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, Covenant & Conversation: Studies in Spirituality, Bamidbar. 

3. Yirmiyahu 3:17