Hearing The Shofar’s Great Cry And The Still Small Voice

By: Rabbi Benny Berlin

Each year, one line shakes me as I practice the Unesaneh Tokef, “Uvshofar Gadol Yitakea Vekol Demamah Dakah Yishama,” The great shofar will be sounded, and a thin still voice will be heard. This single phrase captures the essence of Rosh Hashanah. The Torah calls the day Yom Teruah, a day of blowing (Bamidbar 29:1). Rosh Hashanah is not defined in the Torah by scales of judgment or by apples and honey, but by sound. The shofar is both a cry and a whisper, both thunder and a soft voice.

I once read in Mishpacha magazine about Yoel Turgeman, an artist from Tzfat, who displayed an abstract painting of a shofar at an exhibition in Canada. A woman unfamiliar with a shofar found herself trembling before the painting. She did not know why and could not even identify what it was. Turgeman explained that, in his drawing, he had tried to capture not just the curve of the horn but the sound itself, echoing from the beginning of creation. There is something about the shofar that stirs the soul. It wakes us up, it shakes us, it moves us. As the Rambam writes in Hilchos Teshuvah (3:4), the shofar cries out to us, “Uru Yesheinim Mishinaschem,” wake up from your slumber.

The Gemara in Rosh Hashanah 27a asks whether one can truly hear the shofar when other instruments are played, since in the Beis Hamikdash trumpets accompanied the blasts. The Gemara answers that the shofar is chaviv. What is beloved becomes audible. In a world filled with noise, the shofar teaches that when something is truly precious, its voice can still be heard.

We first encounter the shofar at Har Sinai. “There were thunderclaps and lightning flashes, and a thick cloud upon the mountain, and the sound of the shofar grew louder and louder; Moshe spoke and G-d answered him with a voice” (Sh’mos 19:19). The shofar at Har Sinai was overwhelming, shaking creation itself. Centuries later, Eliyahu returned to that same mountain. The book of Melachim relates: “And behold, G-d passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains and broke the rocks before G-d, but G-d was not in the wind. And after the wind, an earthquake; but G-d was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake, a fire; but G-d was not in the fire. And after the fire, a thin still voice” (Melachim I 19:11-12). At Har Sinai, the shofar thundered. With Eliyahu, G-d revealed Himself in quiet. Rosh Hashanah calls us to hold both together, the great blast and the still small voice.

The Mishnah in Pirkei Avos 1:2 teaches: “Shimon HaTzaddik was among the last of the Men of the Great Assembly. He used to say: The world stands on three things, on the Torah, on the service of G-d, and on acts of kindness.” These three pillars form the foundation of creation, and the shofar speaks to each.

In Torah, the shofar reminds us that the voice from Har Sinai never ended. Every time we open a sefer, that voice still calls. Torah is not only information but a living conversation demanding honesty, humility, and faithfulness. The shofar presses us to ask: do I still allow Torah to speak into my life?

In Avodah, the shofar becomes the sound of prayer. Real tefillah is the heart’s shofar, a raw cry before G-d. Rabbi Nachman of Breslov taught that even when the mind wanders, you can turn those distracted thoughts into dialogue and say, “Here I am, G-d, as I am.” The shofar demands sincerity, the courage to stand unmasked before Heaven.

In Gemilus Chasadim, the shofar reflects the tenderness of a parent for a child. The story goes that a rabbi was practicing tekios before the chag but stopped, as the custom is, the day before Rosh Hashanah. His young grandchild begged for one more blast. “My child, we don’t blow the shofar Erev Rosh Hashanah.” The child cried and cried. Finally, the grandfather relented. The next day, the elder admitted his mistake and prayed: “Master of the World, the custom is not to blow shofar the day before Rosh Hashanah, but my grandchild was crying. I could not ignore his tears. You placed compassion in me, for I, too, am a father. You are our Father. Your children are crying. Please listen to us, even when we do not deserve it.” The heart of kindness that moved a grandfather to hear his child’s cry is the same compassion we beg from Heaven.

The shofar resounds across the three pillars. It affirms that Torah still speaks with a living voice. It deepens Avodah by awakening prayer from the depths of the heart. It calls forth Gemilus Chasadim, acts of kindness, by reminding us that we stand before a Father who hears His children’s cries, and He wants us to be kind to His children as well.

Unesaneh Tokef declares that the great shofar will be sounded and a thin still voice will be heard. That is the challenge of Rosh Hashanah: to hold both together, the overwhelming cry and the quiet whisper. May we merit to crown G-d as King with the great sound of the shofar, and may we hear His voice in the still small moments of our lives. n

Rabbi Benny Berlin is the rabbi of BACH Jewish Center in Long Beach, New York. For more information, visit BACHLongBeach.com.