June 9, 2026|כ"ד סיון ה' אלפים תשפ"ו Chatzotzrot: The Sound of Belonging By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

A recent Associated Press article described a surprising development in Spain. In a country often seen as increasingly secular, growing numbers of young adults are embracing Catholicism through vibrant religious youth movements. Many participants speak about a search for meaning, purpose, and belonging in a world where loneliness and disconnection have become increasingly common. Baruch Hashem, the Christian kiruv movement! And while the details differ from country to country, researchers have noted a broader trend: many young adults today continue to pursue spiritual meaning even when they feel disconnected from traditional institutions.

But what is driving this return? It is not primarily about ideas. Many young people describe something more existential and personal – loneliness, disconnection, and a sense of being ungrounded. They are searching for meaning, purpose, and above all, belonging.

That search is striking because we live in an age when it has never been easier to connect with others. Yet many people feel more isolated than ever. Perhaps the reason is that human beings need more than connection. They need belonging. They need to feel that they are part of something larger than themselves – a community, a mission, a shared story. That may be one reason so many are turning again toward religion.

I think that idea helps us understand a fascinating mitzvah in this week’s parsha.

God commands Moshe to make two silver trumpets, the chatzotzrot. At first glance, their purpose seems confusing. They are blown “l’masa et ha’machanot” when the nation travels. They are blown “v’khi tavo’u milchamah b’artzchem al ha’tzar ha’tzorer etchem” in times of war and crisis. They are blown “u’v’yom simchatchem u’v’moadeichem u’v’roshei chodsheichem… al oloteichem v’al zivchei shalmeichem,” in moments of joy and korbanot.

What do all these occasions share?

Perhaps the answer is that the chatzotzrot were not merely signaling devices. They were instruments of achdut, of unity.

When danger threatened – the people were gathered.
When the nation celebrated – the people were gathered.
When they worshipped God – the people were gathered.

The sound reminded every individual: you are not alone. You are part of a people, a shared destiny, something larger than yourself.

This is sharpened by a deep halachic idea about the nature of tefillah.

The Ramban teaches that daily tefillah is rabbinic. But in times of crisis, prayer becomes a Torah obligation. The source is our parsha: “ va’harai’otem ba’chatzotzrot” – when danger arises, the nation must sound the trumpets and cry out to God. The Ramban extends this as well to the individual in distress, who is likewise obligated to cry out, based on a different pasuk.

In other words, the chatzotzrot are not only about gathering people – they are about awakening the heart at moments of urgency before God.

And surprisingly, they are also sounded in times of joy. Crisis and celebration both require awakening; both require being pulled out of spiritual sleep.

The Sefer HaChinuch explains why: “she’ha’adam mihyoto ba’al chomer tzarich hit’or’rerut gadol el ha’devarim… v’ain davar y’oreruhu kmo kolot haniggun.”  Human beings, being physical, need external awakening, and nothing awakens like the sound of music.

Anyone who has tried to exercise knows exactly what this means. We don’t always move until the right music is on. (And yes, apparently ChatGPT tells me cardio is pop, strength training is rock, and endurance requires something rhythmic but steady.)

In the Midbar, there were no playlists – only tekiah and teruah. But the idea is the same: sound awakens intention. It does not just give information; it changes how we feel and respond.

Rav Soloveitchik distinguishes between a machaneh and an edah.

A machaneh is a camp – people together by circumstance.
An edah is covenantal unity – people together by purpose.

A machaneh is standing next to each other.
An edah is standing for something together.

The Jewish people needed both. The chatzotzrot functioned as both: “l’mikra ha’edah u’l’masa et ha’machanot.” They gathered both the camp and the edah.

The Ralbag adds a beautiful point: the call had to reach everyone directly. If it were done through a messenger, some people might not hear in time, or might feel they were forgotten or left out. That can create not just confusion, but a sense of exclusion. The chatzotzrot solved this by making the call public and unmistakable – everyone heard it at the same moment, and everyone knew they were intentionally being called as part of the whole community.

That’s all beautiful – but what about today?

Today, we no longer have silver trumpets. The Shulchan Aruch makes no mention of this mitzvah, and the Magen Avraham already wonders at its absence. The P’ri Megadim and Mishnah Berurah suggest that the mitzvah applied only in Eretz Yisrael under Jewish sovereignty. Rav Chaim Shraga Feivel Frank even argued that with the return of sovereignty, the mitzvah might once again be operative, and there were rare attempts to sound chatzotzrot in times of crisis. For example, there is even a video online of Rav Shmuel Eliyahu, the Chief Rabbi of Tzefat, together with other Rabbanim, blowing chatzotzrot after October 7.

But this is not our practice.

Rav Moshe Feinstein suggests that the chatzotzrot could only be used when they were also used in the Mikdash for korbanot. Since we no longer have a Mikdash, we cannot fulfill the mitzvah in its proper form.

But beneath the halachic question lies a deeper one:

If we no longer have the trumpets, what calls us together today?

One answer is tefillah b’tzibur.

Every minyan is a modern-day chatzotzrah.

We derive the concept of a quorum from the word “edah,” referring to the ten spies who spoke against Eretz Yisrael – an edah defined even by a negative unity. If even a fractured group can constitute an edah, how much more so a community united in prayer and purpose.

Every time we daven together, we are reminded: you are not alone.

One is carrying a health concern, another financial stress, another family worry, another loss, another simcha.

We come with different stories—but together we become an edah.

The Sefer HaChinuch teaches that sound awakens the heart in a way words alone cannot. Tefillah b’tzibur does the same. It is not just people praying at the same time—it is what turns individuals into a community.

There is a beautiful story of the Berditchever Rebbe. A young man told him he could no longer daven with feeling. The words were there, but his heart was empty.

The Rebbe brought him to shul and showed him an elderly Jew davening with broken grammar and many pauses, but with tears streaming down his face: “Ribbono shel Olam… I don’t know how to say this properly… but You know what I mean.”

Afterward the Berditchever said: “In Heaven they don’t count pronunciation. They count what is breaking the heart.”

And then he added: sometimes the words themselves open the heart.

Sometimes showing up comes before feeling.

Sometimes the greatest avodah is simply being present.

Being present for God. For the community. For someone saying Kaddish. For someone carrying an unseen burden.

Because an edah is built one person at a time.

Now, I am aware that for many of us, part of coming to shul – especially on Shabbat – is also social. It is a chance to connect, to catch up, to be part of a community in a very human way. That is not incidental; it is part of what community means.

But when we are in a larger minyan, we also have an opportunity: to tap into something deeper – the power of the chatzotzrot without the actual trumpets, turning a group of individuals into an edah of purpose and meaning.

And practically, that means that when we are in shul, there is one primary focus: meaningful tefillah, attentiveness to the Torah reading, and helping create a genuine atmosphere of kavannah and shared presence. Not schmoozing with friends, not even catching up on the Knicks – but entering, even for a short time, into something more focused and elevated: a collective standing before Hashem.

And even if we don’t always feel it – that itself is addressed by the Berditchever. Sometimes the words create the feeling. Sometimes showing up creates the heart.

And beyond Shabbat, this becomes even more practical. Every extra minyan we attend. Every weekday tefillah we join. Every commitment to be part of more “mikra edah” moments – we strengthen that sense of shared calling.

Because perhaps the real question is not only what happens when we come to shul—but what kind of people we become when we decide to come more often.

The article we began with observed that people are searching for belonging.

The Torah answers that belonging is not only found inwardly. It is built outwardly, through covenant, community, and shared responsibility.

The silver trumpets gathered the nation in crisis and in joy, because both remind us that we are not meant to stand alone.

And even today, without silver trumpets, the sound still exists:

The sound of a minyan forming.
The sound of Jews answering Amen.
The sound of an edah standing before God.

That is the modern chatzotzrah.

I say this now at the end of davening, but I hope we can hold onto it beyond this moment—to remember it at the next minyan, and the next Shabbat morning, every time we walk into shul.

And sometimes, even when we do not feel inspired, the simple act of showing up is itself what creates the inspiration.