Rosh Hashanah is a day of profound duality, where emotions blend between awe and solemnity, pride and joy.
We stand before God in judgment, fully aware of our inadequacies and helplessness, yet we also reflect on the loyalty and love that have marked Jewish history while urging God to remember our devotion. For one day, we glimpse the world we hope to create – a world imbued with heightened spiritual awareness, where God’s presence fills every corner.
This day of awe magnifies the frailty of human life, while simultaneously elevating the nobility of a life lived in God’s presence. It is both a day of the book of Ecclesiastes, in which we confront the mortality and limitations of man, and also a day of the book of Song of Songs, where the destiny of the Jewish people shines brightly. The power of Rosh Hashanah flows from this tension – the paradox between humility and strength, fear and pride. The day is intense precisely because of this internal paradox.
The shofar, the central symbol of the day, captures this dichotomy. Its sound, primal and raw, echoes a cry beyond words, stripping away the artifice of human language to reveal the purest prayer – a primordial scream to God.
Yet, at the same time, the shofar also brings harmony to our prayers, adding melody to our words. In the Temple, it was part of a grand orchestration, blending with other instruments to amplify the moment of standing before God. The shofar embodies both simplicity and grandeur, and humility and celebration.
Historically, some would fast on Rosh Hashanah, intensifying the solemnity of standing in judgment before the divine. Though this custom has largely faded, the day remains one of muted joy, filled with reverence and gravity. We celebrate, but our joy is tempered, framed by the seriousness of the moment. Rosh Hashanah is a day of proud reverence, tinged with solemnity – its symbols and customs perfectly balancing these dual emotions.
Though each Rosh Hashanah calls us to navigate a spectrum of emotions, this moment in history feels particularly challenging. We are surrounded by dark clouds – our people continue to suffer on so many levels.
Recently, I was asked to reflect on the “post-traumatic truth” and what our people have learned from Oct. 7. I politely reminded the questioner that we haven’t even reached the post-trauma stage. Each day brings fresh pain, and the wounds of this past year have not even begun to heal.
In such bleak times, it feels almost impossible to summon the joy, pride, or power traditionally associated with Rosh Hashanah. How can we celebrate a day of glory when so much of our world is cloaked in tragedy and darkness and so many of God’s people remain mired in misery and agonizing pain?
The first bleak Rosh Hashanah
In the midst of a disheartened Rosh Hashanah in our past, we received a blueprint for navigating such bleak occasions. During the late 6th century BCE, we gradually returned to Israel from a Babylonian exile. Despite our efforts to rebuild the Temple and erect an altar, local opposition swiftly rose against us, accusing us of sedition and betrayal. Our efforts were halted for years, and the hope of national restoration seemed distant.
Two decades later, we resumed this project. Led by Ezra, a modest and vulnerable group of 42,000 people made their way back to Israel. Poor and barely defended, they set to work rebuilding the Temple and Jerusalem. But progress was slow.
Fourteen years after this second stage, the situation had hardly improved. The walls of Jerusalem were in such ruin that it was impossible to walk around them. Our enemies mocked us, predicting our inevitable failure.
Internally, the community was fractured, as the aristocracy largely remained in Persia, leaving the returnees struggling without leadership or resources. Rosh Hashanah arrived under a veil of bleakness and uncertainty.
Ezra and Nehemiah gathered the small, weary group of returnees in the city square of Jerusalem for a public reading of the Torah. A special platform was erected for this occasion, and as the words of the Torah filled the air, an outpouring of tears erupted from the crowd. The people wept as they recalled lost glories that seemed so distant, and so impossible to reclaim.
Jewish destiny seemed to hang in the balance, and their hopes for renewal felt futile. How could they possibly feel joy this Rosh Hashanah? So much suffering, so many struggles. With trauma weighing so heavily upon them, how could they even think of celebrating?
The joy of God is our strength
Nehemiah responded with a powerful announcement: “Go, eat rich food and drink sweet beverages, and send food to those who have nothing prepared, for today is holy to God. Do not be sad, for the joy of God is your strength.”
Amid the helplessness, Nehemiah urged them to tap into a greater truth and a more profound force. No matter how bleak conditions seemed, they were still part of a larger divine narrative. The joy of God would be their strength. Pondering the eternal purpose and significance of a life before God could momentarily lift them above their sorrow and futility.
First, because despite the darkness, God holds larger plans and can swiftly reshape even the most dire reality. Second, because faith in God and a relationship with Him surpass any fate we endure. And third, because faith itself provides courage, strength, and resilience. Faith would be their strength – not merely weapons, strategies, or armies. No bullet can destroy faith, and it will always endure.
They didn’t ignore the calamity or the difficult conditions they faced; they simply took a pause to replenish their faith. Immediately after the festival season concluded – on the day following what we now call Simchat Torah (though it had not yet been designated as such) – they returned to mourning and fasting. They tearfully uttered one of the most heartfelt and remorseful confessions in all of the Bible.
Yet, Rosh Hashanah itself called for emotional transcendence without succumbing to indifference toward the sadness – a moment to reach for the heavens and return to Earth with renewed courage and vigor.
Jewish history often repeats itself. Here we stand, 2,700 years later, facing a similar Rosh Hashanah. Ignoring the sadness and suffering is unimaginable – we are surrounded by it. Yet for these two days, we must rise above it without forgetting. We must find a way to merge our struggles and traumas with the glory of standing before God. We must tap into the larger historical mission we are part of: bringing God’s presence into a godless world.
Rosh Hashanah must remind us of why this battle is so crucial. It’s not just a conflict over land or boundaries. This isn’t about occupation or apartheid – it’s about God’s presence in our world.
We are battling against those who falsely speak in the name of an angry and vengeful god who does not exist. We fight against those who desecrate the divine dignity endowed to every human being, violating their bodies and spirits. This is a battle against a culture that glorifies death instead of celebrating life, against a world that has lost its capacity to discern truth and uphold objective moral standards.
Rosh Hashanah is the day of divine authority, and we are currently locked in a struggle to preserve His presence. One day, His presence will be palpable and undeniable. Until that day, we have faith.
The writer is a rabbi at the hesder Yeshivat Har Etzion/Gush with ordination from YU and a master’s in English literature from CUNY. He is author of Dark Clouds Above, Faith Below (Kodesh Press), on religious responses to Oct. 7, and the soon-to-be published Reclaiming Redemption: Deciphering the Maze of Jewish History (Mosaica Press).