From ancient Piyyutim to the call of the Shofar, Jewish tradition weaves exile, hope, and faith into a story of resilience and renewal that unites generations. We, the generation of wonders, have seen it.
Synagogue
In the Diaspora, synagogues served as community centers and as a link to the Jewish people's heritage and aspirations. I enjoy visiting different synagogues, experiencing their liturgical variations, and hearing unfamiliar melodies. Take the prayer book of the synagogue you are visiting and immerse yourself in its tradition. Do not insist on your own version of the prayers; instead, connect to the chain of generations of Jews who prayed in that community's style. Compare it to your own familiar version. Listen to the tunes – they are different from what you are used to. When we stick to one version, there is a risk of reciting the prayers mechanically, without true intention. But when the liturgy and melody change, prayer is renewed.
And yet, it is remarkable that despite our people's dispersion across the world and the thousands of years we were separated, the differences ultimately came down only to a few chosen phrases or words, while the substance remained identical, and all versions end with the same blessings. We may have found different ways to express the same ideas, but in the blessings, we are united.
Piyyutim
"A tiny sister, her prayers prepared, her praises recited, O God, please heal her afflictions, may the year end with its curses." I remember my father opening the Rosh Hashanah and High Holiday prayers with this piyyut in a dramatic melody. Its author, Rabbi Abraham Hazan of Girona, lived in 13th-century Spain. He was part of the circle of kabbalists whose leading figure was Nachmanides. Deep in exile, Rabbi Abraham sensed that the calm of his generation was only temporary; the storm was near. The "tiny sister" represents the people of Israel, and the plea is to heal her illness – not individual sickness but the national condition: exile.
The land was in foreign hands: "How long will You hide Your eyes and see strangers consuming her inheritance?" The nation was humiliated in exile, and its redemption would come with the restoration of sovereignty: "Raise her from humiliation to the head of a kingdom, for her soul has melted in the pit of exile." Like Joseph in Egypt, the nation was imprisoned: "When will You lift Your daughter from the pit and break her bonds of captivity?" The prayer is for a peaceful return, not through suffering, to the land where she will dwell in security: "Lead her gently to her resting place…" Again comes the plea to fulfill the covenant and promise to return to Zion: "Trust in the Rock who kept His covenant for you, and you will ascend to Zion…"
The recurring refrain is: "May the year end with its curses," and finally: "May the new year begin with its blessings." This stems from the Talmud, Tractate Megillah, where Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar taught that Ezra the Scribe ordained that the curses in Deuteronomy be read before Rosh Hashanah. The reasoning, explained by Abaye or Resh Lakish, is "so that the year and its curses will be concluded" – to finish reading the Torah's curses before the New Year begins.
Redemption
Consider Rosh Hashanah and the Day of Judgment, when the "Books of Life and Death are open." Yet the High Holidays open not with the individual, but with the nation's condition: the curse of exile and the blessing of redemption, which means the return to Zion. From there flows the fate of individuals. This order makes sense, for it is the Day of Judgment for the whole world: "Over the nations it is decreed: which to the sword, which to peace, which to famine, which to plenty." Thus, it is fitting that on this day the nation prays for its own state, especially in the depths of exile, where the longing for national redemption grew stronger each year.
About three centuries later, another kabbalist, Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz, composed a similar Piyyut – this time not for Rosh Hashanah but for Shabbat. The famous "Lecha Dodi" begins with verses about the Sabbath, but most of it addresses the degradation of the Jewish people in exile and the plea for redemption, together with the rebuilding of Jerusalem. Even Shabbat itself is incomplete when Zion lies in ruins and the people are dispersed.
The Shofar
When a baby emerges from the womb, the sign of health is a primal cry. Having left a sheltered, protected place, the infant is suddenly exposed and vulnerable. On Rosh Hashanah, we are born anew with the New Year, and we reenact that primal cry through the simple blast of the shofar: "Today the world was created." Then life unfolds and grows more complex, like the broken notes and the wailing sounds – groans and cries, moments of sorrow and of joy – until life ends, after 120 years, with a final long blast, followed by the "still, small voice." Listen to the shofar; it is the essence of the holiday.
Today the world was created
"Today the world was created; today all creatures are brought to judgment." The phrase in the Rosh Hashanah prayers is usually interpreted as "today the world was born." Originally, it meant the opposite: not rebirth, but a pregnancy that never reaches delivery – eternal gestation, meaning death.
The prophet Jeremiah, foretelling the destruction, said of Jerusalem: "I am bringing disaster on this place that will make the ears of everyone who hears it tingle" (Jeremiah 19:3). The authorities, angered by his warnings, beat him and put him in stocks. The next day, released, Jeremiah cursed his own birth. He had never wanted to be a prophet, yet whenever he tried to escape the burden, the call of prophecy consumed him: "It was like a fire burning in my heart, shut up in my bones, and I could not hold it in." He lamented the day he was born, wishing instead he had died in the womb – in a never-ending pregnancy. "Cursed be… the day in which my mother bore me… That he did not put me to death from the womb, that my mother should be my grave and her womb a perpetual pregnancy" (Jeremiah 20:14,17).
Our sages took this dreadful phrase and reinterpreted it positively, incorporating it into the Rosh Hashanah prayers as a symbol of renewal and birth. True, Rosh Hashanah is the day of divine judgment, but first we must recall that it is the day of creation, of new beginnings. Mercy (birth) precedes judgment, offering hope.
Often, failure stems from the stories we tell ourselves. If the story is of defeat, despair, and "why me," change seems impossible. But if we tell the story differently – as one of struggle and growth – then challenges become the source of renewal.
The foundation of renewal
Isaac stands at the center of the Torah readings for Rosh Hashanah: his birth and the binding. He was the first of our people never to leave the land of Israel. On the surface, he seems passive, mocked by Ishmael while his mother protected him, taken to Mount Moriah for sacrifice, and tricked by his son for a blessing.
Yet Isaac (in Hebrew: "He will laugh") is the one who laughs in the face of adversity, embodying Jewish endurance throughout history. When Sarah first heard she would bear him, she laughed: "After I am worn out, will I have pleasure, and my lord is old?" Isaac represents the renewal of the Jewish nation: despite its age, it finds rejuvenation, returns home, and rebuilds its land from ruins.
The last laugh
During World War II, poet Natan Alterman wrote about the "gazelle of dawn" – the morning star that rises just before sunrise, when darkness is deepest. Our sages saw in it a powerful symbol of redemption: "So is Israel's redemption – at first little by little, then growing greater and greater" (Jerusalemite Talmud, Berachot).
How did we succeed in surviving in the valley of death among nations, through war and destruction? Many have tried to answer. Alterman's answer was simple: "Therefore, the forefather laughed, from tooth to nail, and the maiden with him, radiant and noble. Generations of nations passed like ruin at noon, between sin and judgment and sin, only folly and betrayal. Prophets blinded, plagues endured, yet this laughter remained a mystery."
Why did our forefather laugh, and why did Rabbi Akiva laugh when he saw Jerusalem in ruins? The riddle is easy to solve: ask the schoolchildren who study the Bible and prophets: "It is the riddle of faith and strength, of hope without end, The foolish may still stumble on this mystery in vain…". Yes, but we who live in these awe-inspiring times know the answer.
The Binding
On Rosh Hashanah, we reflect not only on our beginnings as a people who "struggles with God and man and prevails," but also on the Binding of Isaac. Around us are the memories of parents who gave their children's lives for the rebirth and freedom of our nation. The Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard wrote with awe about the Binding:
"Many fathers lost their children, but then it was God, the unchangeable and inscrutable will of the Almighty, and His hand which took it. Not thus with Abraham. For him was reserved a more severe trial, and Isaac's fate was put into Abraham's hand together with the knife. And there he stood, the old man, with his only hope! He knew it was God the Almighty who now put him to the test.
"Who strengthened Abraham's arm, who supported his right arm that it drooped not powerless? For he who contemplates this scene is unnerved. Who strengthened Abraham's soul so that his eyes grew not too dim to see either Isaac or the ram? For he who contemplates this scene will be struck with blindness."
We, the generation of wonders, can testify that we have not gone blind; with our own eyes we have seen.
Wishing you a good inscription and sealing in the Book of Life.
