By: K.J. Kruger

“Blow the trumpet in Zion; sound the alarm on my holy hill. Let all who live in the land tremble, for the day of the LORD is coming. It is close at hand.”
Joel 2:1

I love Rosh Hashanah. The air in Jerusalem feels a bit crisper in the mornings and evenings as a light breeze drifts through the valleys and hills. School has started again, and the children proudly carry their new book bags, notebooks, and colorful pencils, their faces full of bright smiles. There's an unmistakable sense of anticipation, a feeling that something imminently positive is about to happen.

The familiar fragrances of apples, cinnamon, and butter fill the air, while the sound of the shofar is heard every morning during the month of Elul (except on Shabbat). My husband practices chanting his portion of the service, and I find myself polishing the house and reviewing our fall and winter clothes. The atmosphere is as full of promise as the ripened pomegranates, bursting with juice and ready to be picked.

However, the blowing of the shofar isn’t meant to be comforting. Its purpose is to awaken us, to stir us to repentance. It’s a call to attention, a reminder that something is about to happen. The blast is meant to jolt us into awareness—our next day is not guaranteed. During this season, we engage in a process called *heshbon nefesh*, literally an “accounting of the soul.” Just as we track our finances—what we spend, what we save, where we can cut back or give more—so too must we assess our deeds and behavior. To what do I devote my time? What patterns in my life need to change? What responsibilities am I called to take on in the coming year?

Never has the call to repentance felt as vivid and chilling as it did during the Rosh Hashanah following the tragic day of October 7, 2023. On that day, people were literally sleeping in their beds when they were awakened to a nightmare. We don’t need to recount the horrors—we’ve seen the videos, heard the testimonies, and mourned together. We are painfully aware of the families who face the torment of uncertainty each day, not knowing if their loved ones are alive, cold, hungry, or suffering unimaginable abuses. Every passing day feels like an eternity, and we are left clinging to prayer, hoping for a glimmer of light, some sign of life or hope to end this prolonged night of suffering.

In response to the crisis, Israel showed its true strength. The nation's resilience shone through as grassroots movements sprang up to support those displaced and grieving. It felt as if everyone volunteered for something. People delivered food to soldiers, helped harvest crops, educated displaced children, and provided therapy to those in need. It was Israel at its finest, rallying together in a time of darkness.

Yet, we must face a hard truth. The tragedy of October 7 didn’t happen in a vacuum. While it's true that we have enemies who seek our destruction, and each generation faces this reality, we must also ask ourselves: How did we allow ourselves to be so unprepared? How were our defenses so dramatically breached? Warnings had been given by soldiers stationed near Gaza—warnings that something was terribly wrong. And yet, those warnings went largely unheeded.

In effect, the shofar had sounded, but we ignored the alarm. Or perhaps we heard it but convinced ourselves it wouldn’t be as severe as the warnings suggested. Now, the entire nation is in a state of shock, regardless of political leanings. If we learn anything from this tragedy, it must be this: We always have a chance to return, to listen, to adjust our path. We cannot afford to be complacent, because this war cannot be just another chapter in a cycle. It must be the last.

Just as the nation is called to reflection and action, so too are we on a personal level. Each of us knows there are things in our lives that God is urging us to change. Some of these changes may seem small—like cutting back on overspending or overeating—but others may be more significant, such as forgiving long-standing enemies or shifting our perspective on a difficult situation.

The question the shofar asks is urgent: What attitudes and behaviors need to be adjusted in our lives? Who do we need to forgive? What steps must we take? The question is literally one of life and death. Albert Einstein once said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” What must we do differently in our personal lives? What do we need to change physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually? How can we improve in our families, workplaces, congregations, and communities? What small steps can we take today that will lead to significant change in the future?

The sound of the shofar is a corporate call to gather. It calls us together as a community, urging us to bring our hopes, failures, and gifts to the altar of the Creator of the Universe. There is only one thing we are not permitted to bring: our excuses. These must be left behind in the dustbin of history. With open hearts and minds, we must look toward the future—a future we can only begin to imagine and create.

We are part of a people with a glorious destiny, a people who have a “future and a hope.” The question before us is this: Will we walk into that future with optimism and faith, or will we remain trapped in old patterns and old ways? Will we heed the shofar’s call?

What is the shofar saying to you?