September 10, 2026|כ"ח אלול ה' אלפים תשפ"ו When the Shofar Speaks By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

The sound of the shofar is extraordinary. It does not speak in words, yet it communicates with a power that words often cannot match. Perhaps that is precisely why the Torah commands us to hear it on Rosh Hashanah.

The Rambam describes the shofar as a wake-up call: “Awake, you sleepers, from your sleep; search your deeds, return in repentance, and remember your Creator.” The shofar interrupts the rhythm of our lives and asks us to pay attention, not simply to what we are doing, but to what is happening within us.

A remarkable story about Rav Kook captures this beautifully.

A group of young Jewish construction workers in Jerusalem were pressed for time to complete a building and continued working on Rosh Hashanah. When the neighbors became aware of this, they immediately sent someone to inform Rav Kook.

A short while later, Rav Kook’s representative appeared at the construction site carrying a shofar. The workers were astonished to see this religious man. He wished them a good year and explained that Rav Kook had sent him to blow the shofar for them. He politely asked them to interrupt their work and pay attention. He then recited the blessing and began to blow.

What followed was nothing short of amazing.

Each blast touched the hearts of these young workers and awakened something Jewish within them. They put down their tools and gathered around the shofar-blower. Some had tears in their eyes.

In that skeletal, unfinished building, the ancient sound of the shofar echoed through the space. It reminded them of their fathers’ homes, their grandfathers, their towns and synagogues, of a world of Jews standing together in prayer.

And suddenly, questions began to emerge. What has happened to us? Where are we? How did we get here?

They stood there in silence, confused and reflective.

When the shofar blowing ended, no words were necessary. The workers decided to stop working. Some asked Rav Kook’s representative if they could accompany him. They quickly changed their clothes and walked with him to Rav Kook’s beit midrash.

What had happened?

The shofar had spoken to them in a language that did not require words.

The Gemara describes the sound of the shofar as a yebava, a broken, crying sound. The sequence of tekiah, shevarim, and teruah is striking in its simplicity. There is no carefully constructed message, only breath transformed into sound.

And perhaps that is exactly what we need.

We live in a world filled with words. We explain ourselves constantly. We tell others, and ourselves, why we acted as we did, why we could not do more, and why something can wait. Sometimes, however, the most important truths are the ones we cannot adequately articulate.

The shofar bypasses all of that.

It reaches beneath our explanations and speaks to something deeper. It reminds us that there is a Jewish core within each of us that can sometimes become buried beneath the demands, distractions, and habits of daily life. We may not always be able to articulate what we are missing, but we can recognize its sound when we hear it.

The Torah calls Rosh Hashanah Yom Teruah, a day of shofar. The central mitzvah of the day is not merely to make a sound, but to hear one: lishmoa kol shofar. We are commanded to listen.

That distinction is important. Rosh Hashanah is not simply about what we say to God. It is also about whether we are prepared to hear what God is saying to us.

What might that sound awaken in us?

Perhaps it is the recognition that a relationship needs our attention. Perhaps it is a mitzvah we have allowed to become secondary. Perhaps it is a responsibility we have been avoiding or a value we know we have neglected. Sometimes we already know the answer. We simply need something to break through the noise and make us listen.

The shofar does not give us a list of resolutions. It gives us a moment of honesty.

As we hear its sound this Rosh Hashanah, may we listen beyond the noise of our lives. May we hear the call that connects us to Hashem, to our ancestors, to our community, and to the deepest commitments within ourselves.

And when the final tekiah fades, may we not simply have heard the shofar.

May we have listened.