The Sound of the Shofar
The Torah does not tell us explicitly why we are commanded to blow the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. Over the centuries, countless explanations have been offered. Some say: “On Rosh Hashanah we acknowledge God as King of the world. The shofar’s call heralds this majestic event.” Others point to Sinai: “It reminds us of the sound that was heard when God descended and gave us the Torah.” Still others emphasize memory: “Since the shofar is made of a ram’s horn, it recalls the Binding of Isaac, when God provided a ram in Isaac’s place.”
All these explanations are true and profound. Yet there is something more. The sages teach that the piercing cry of the shofar represents the cry of a soul with no words. It is the cry of a heart that cannot even formulate repentance, but longs to be heard by God. Don’t we all know this cry? We want Him to know our deepest desire—רצוננו לעשות רצונך, “It is our will to do Your will”—and yet we fail again and again. Judaism speaks of the yetzer hara, the evil inclination; Paul confesses, “For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do.” We are all stained by failure, yet long to be cleansed.
The shofar gives that longing a voice. Even when lips cannot frame a prayer, its sound ascends like a wordless plea. Some may sit unmoved, their hearts asleep; yet for others the shofar pierces deep within, awakening recognition, repentance, and hope.
The Journey of the Soul
Rosh Hashanah is called Yom Zichron Teruah—“the Day of Remembering with a Blast.” The sound of the shofar is not only a reminder of past events but an awakening of the soul itself. In Scripture, whenever God “remembers”—whether Noah in the ark, Sarah longing for a child, or Joseph languishing in prison—it is never passive recollection. Divine remembrance always leads to action.
So too with us. When our soul “remembers” at the sound of the shofar, it cannot remain still. Awakening must be followed by movement, by action, by the work of repentance. The cry of the shofar begins the Ten Days of Awe, days of trembling joy and sober reflection, days of return.
These days trace the soul’s path. At first, the soul rejoices: “My Beloved belongs to me.” Gradually, awe deepens: “I belong to my Beloved.” By Yom Kippur, the climax of this journey, we are commanded to “humble our souls.” What begins as jubilation before a Father who is also King becomes humble surrender before a King who is also Father.
Atonement Hidden in Genesis
When we think of Yom Kippur, we immediately recall Leviticus 16 and the solemn rituals of the High Priest. But surprisingly, the root of the very word kippur (כפר, kafar) first appears in Genesis, long before the laws of atonement were given.
The first occurrence is in the story of Noah: “Make yourself an ark of gopher wood… and cover it inside and outside with pitch” (Gen. 6:14). In English, it looks like a simple technical command. But in Hebrew, the root kafar is used twice. The same root that later means “to atone” here means “to cover.” Without Hebrew, this connection disappears in translation.
What is God hinting at? The ark was not just a lifeboat; it was a vessel of redemption. Just as pitch covered and protected the ark, so atonement covers and protects the soul. The floodwaters were judgment, but within the ark there was safety through covering. From the very first story of salvation, the language of atonement is already present.
The next time kafar appears is in the story of Jacob and Esau (Gen. 32). After years of exile, Jacob returns to Canaan, fearful of his brother’s anger. He sends gifts ahead, saying: “I will appease him”—in Hebrew, אֲכַפְּרָה, from the same root. Jacob does not merely send a gift; he seeks to “cover” the wrong he had done, to make atonement. Reconciliation between the brothers was not a private matter; it was of cosmic significance, shaping Israel’s destiny. That is why God met Jacob in that mysterious night struggle before he faced Esau. Forgiveness and reconciliation, repentance and humility—these are at the heart of Yom Kippur. And once again, the Hebrew root kafar shines through where translations conceal it.
Judah and the Power of Confession
Another central element of Yom Kippur is confession. Leviticus 16 describes how the High Priest confessed over the scapegoat the sins of Israel. Today, each of us stands before God with Selichot—prayers of confession. But is confession found earlier in Torah?
Indeed, it is—through Judah, the fourth son of Jacob. In the painful story of Tamar (Gen. 38), Judah acknowledges his wrongdoing: “She is more righteous than I.” Later, in Egypt, when Benjamin is accused of stealing Joseph’s cup, Judah speaks the words that still echo in our liturgy: “What can we say to my lord? What can we speak? And how can we justify ourselves? God has uncovered the iniquity of your servants” (Gen. 44:16).
Remarkably, neither Benjamin nor his brothers were guilty of that particular crime. Yet Judah confesses, recognizing God’s hand exposing their deeper guilt. Their long-hidden sin against Joseph had come to light. Judah stands speechless before divine truth.
This is precisely the spirit of Selichot. We may come to prayer thinking ourselves innocent in certain matters. Yet as God’s light shines, hidden faults are revealed, and confession becomes real. That is why Judah’s words were woven into the prayers we recite before Yom Kippur.
Even Judah’s very name holds this truth. Yehudah (יהודה) comes from lehodot, which means both “to thank/praise” and “to admit/confess.” Gratitude and confession, praise and repentance—these are inseparably bound. From Judah, the confessor, came the royal line of David and, ultimately, the Messiah. God so values repentance that He built Israel’s kingship upon it.
Humbling the Soul
On Yom Kippur, we are told to “humble our souls.” What does this mean? The sages connected it to confession, to fasting, to standing stripped of all pretense before God. It is the culmination of the soul’s journey that began with the shofar.
The shofar awakened us with its wordless cry. The Ten Days of Awe taught us to walk the path of remembrance and repentance. Yom Kippur now brings us to the silence after the cry—the silence in which words fail, and only humility remains. Judah’s confession becomes our own: “What can we say? What can we speak? How can we justify ourselves?”
And yet, in that very silence, atonement is given. Just as the ark was covered inside and out, so God covers us with mercy. Just as Jacob sought to cover his sin with Esau, so reconciliation is offered to us. Just as Judah confessed before Joseph, so we confess before God—and from that confession, the Kingly line emerges, and redemption unfolds.
Conclusion
From Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur, from the cry of the shofar to the hush of confession, the journey of the soul is one of awakening, humbling, and covering. The Torah’s language reveals hints of atonement already in Genesis, long before Leviticus codified the rituals. The stories of Noah, Jacob, and Judah whisper the themes that the High Holidays bring to their fullest expression.
May the sound of the shofar awaken us, may confession humble us, and may the covering of atonement shelter us—so that we may return to our true Father and King with hearts made new.
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