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On Yom Kippur in 1967, thousands arrived at the Western Wall for the concluding prayers and to hear the long-awaited sound of the Shofar.
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I am writing this column on September 11. As I got dressed this morning, I saw a shirt emblazoned with the American flag and the words “United We Stand.” It was from the days following the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, a day we came together as a people with a sense of common resolve. We literally rallied around the flag. We supported our firefighters and police officers. The attack on the World Trade Center was not an attack on a building.
I left home for my cousin Gene Samson’s funeral, feeling frustrated that I was losing half my day, begrudgingly donning a black suit on a 90-degree LA scorcher. However, as soon as I entered the mortuary, I was immediately uplifted by seeing the faces of my extended family. There is a palpable soul-satisfaction when we gather together and perform the ancient ritual of burying a loved one.
Gene died at the ripe old age of 83 and was beloved by all who knew him. He had a winning personality and was functioning on all cylinders until he left this world. Funerals for the elderly are bittersweet affairs, combining mourning with humorous anecdotes and descriptions of their legacy. We cried for Gene’s widow, children, and grandchildren, who had clearly lost their patriarch. But our tears were tempered by the awareness that Gene’s was a life fully lived and his departure, at least to me, was a celebration of life, more a bon voyage than a tragic ending.
Rabbi Mark Hyman eloquently led the service, mentioning that the timing of my cousin’s passing coincided with the beginning of Elul. At that moment, I realized I had been too busy to experience Elul, too obsessed with my self-imposed deadlines to make a spiritual accounting. It’s hard to smell the roses with your nose to the grindstone. I took time to wander the cemetery with my parents and pay respects at the various graves of our loved ones. I wept at my grandparents’ graves, an autonomic response whenever I see my dad getting misty-eyed. Perhaps I just needed to open my heart and have a “good cry.” Sometimes G-d’s kindness comes in the form of a funeral, getting interrupted from one’s work and having to wear a suit on a sweltering day.
Reacquainting oneself with the power of tears is the secret to unlocking the storehouse of simchah. Every passage of Torah and N’viim (Prophets) read over the holiday depicts different categories of this uniquely human response to joy and pain. Perhaps the best exercise during Elul is to relearn how to cry by examining the inspiration for our biblical heroes’ most poignant milestones. Here are some of the players in the “Parade of Tears,” based on an intriguing lecture I once heard in Jerusalem.
Our first tale comes from the Torah reading on the first day of Rosh HaShanah, the expulsion of Hagar and Yishmael from the home of Sarah and Avraham. This is the parshah where Avraham is told “do whatever Sarah tells you,” the primal marital survival tactic of saying “yes, dear” to one’s wife. At Sarah’s request, Avraham reluctantly sends Hagar and Yishmael out into the arid desert. When the water runs out, Hagar leaves her son a bowshot away so she won’t have to witness his misery. She cries her own tears of despondence, and remarkably, G-d doesn’t respond to her anguish but instead hears “the cry of the boy.” The lesson: We can and should cry out when we are in pain. But give up? Never.
Next, we have the haftarah describing Hannah as she weeps while beseeching G-d to grant her a child. Eli, the high priest, sees her mouthing words of prayer silently and assumes she’s yet another Jerusalem madwoman. Eventually, Eli recognizes his error and offers consolation and a blessing. Hannah feels confident her prayer has been heard and a year later gives birth to the infant who would become my namesake, the prophet Shmuel/Samuel. We learn from Hannah how to pray fervently, with words silently on our lips, and from Eli, how to respond with compassion.
On the second day of Rosh HaShanah, the Torah introduces the next player in the celestial dance; this time it is Yitzchak, and the scene is the infamous Akeidah, his near-sacrifice at the hand of his father Avraham on Mount Moriah. This is one of the most difficult passages in our canon to grasp. At the age of 40, Yitzchak seems to be complicit in his own demise. Avraham is asked to destroy the fruit of his life’s labor. The Midrash tells us that the angels were crying tears of disbelief and awe at their commitment. These tears fell into Yitzchak’s eyes, leading eventually to his blindness. These angelic tears represent the tears of injury, tears from damaging wounds that stay with us forever. No one is immune from crises, trauma, and tragedy. Our challenge is whether we let destruction sabotage our spirit or if we rise from the ashes stronger and more deeply connected to Hashem.
The final textual character can be found in the second day haftarah with our matriarch Rachel. She is weeping for her exiled children and will not be comforted. Rachel is laid to rest not in the M’arat HaMachpeilah (ancestral burial cave) with the extended family, but along the road, so that her kever (grave) remains a beacon for all those in exile as they return to Jerusalem. Hers are the tears of redemption, tears spilled over millennia of our wandering and persecution, tears that God carefully collects as we march slowly but surely toward a perfected world.
There’s one more dancer in the Parade of Tears. It’s the cry of the shofar! Our shofar blasts, the centerpiece of the holiday, are modeled after the mournful wailing of Sisera’s mother. Sisera? I don’t recall hearing about him in Hebrew school. In the period of Judges, Sisera was the Hitler of his day, a tyrannical Canaanite general with the blood of thousands of Jews on his sword. After the miraculous defeat of his army, led by the prophetess Devorah, Jewish heroine Yael cleverly waited at her tent for him to come by. She welcomed him with soothing milk and comfort and, as he slept, drove a tent peg through his head. The Talmud asks: How did Sisera’s mother cry when her son neglected to return from battle? Long cries, short stuttering rasps or a combination? As usual for the Talmud, the rabbis are in complete disagreement. Hence, we have the t’kiah, sh’varim, and t’ruah blasts of the shofar, just to make sure we cover all the bases.
The blasts of the shofar represent the tears of loss of identity. We never learn Sisera’s mother’s name. Her identity is wrapped up in that of her son, the notorious general. Reclaiming identity is a prerequisite to celebrating Rosh HaShanah. Unless we stand on our own feet, we can never be counted, we are inauthentic, we are defying the very reason we were graciously given the gift of life. The sounding of the shofar reenacts the soul being “blown” into each of our bodies, as Hashem did with Adam in the Garden of Eden.
Preparations for Rosh HaShanah must include more than buying apples and honey. Once we clean our personal slate and regain clarity on our tafkid (life mission), the cries of the shofar mainline straight to our hearts and shatter the walls of complacency. Let us reach out to friends with an understanding ear and help the needy. Our tears of empathy unlock the gates for the prayers of all humanity.
On his deathbed, the chasidic sage Rav Zusha explained that he was crying not because he wasn’t as great as Moses – he just wanted to be the best Rav Zusha he could be. Yes, we must look out for our families and our community, and in the end, we must say Hineni, taking ownership of our own destinies.
Sam Glaser is a performer, composer, producer, and author in Los Angeles. He has released 25 albums of his music, he produces music for various media in his Glaser Musicworks recording studio, and his book The Joy of Judaism is an Amazon bestseller. Visit him online at www.samglaser.com. Join Sam for a weekly uplifting hour of study every Wednesday night (7:30 p.m. PST, Zoom Meeting ID: 71646005392) for learners of all ages and levels of knowledge.