There is an old joke my grandfather is fond of telling me. There is a struggling actress who desperately wants to make it in show business. She is thrilled when she finally gets her big break with a walk-on, one-line role in two-act operatic masterpiece.
She remembers the old adage: There are no small parts – only small actors; and so she is determined to make the most of her big chance. Her only line is "Hark, is that the cannon I hear?" uttered at the beginning of the second act, after a cannon shot is heard in the distance.
She is absolutely thrilled. She comes early to every rehearsal and stays late as well. She can be seen wandering around the theater repeating her one line over and over again. She desperately wants her line to be said with the perfect intention.
"Hark, is that the cannon I hear?" she asks inquisitively.
"Hark, is that the cannon I hear?" she pontificates curiously.
Everywhere she goes – “Hark, is that the cannon I hear?”
Finally, the evening of the play arrives and our girl is ready. The audience is packed, anxious for a spectacular performance. As the orchestra finishes the prelude to the second act the curtains open; the lights go up; she finally takes the stage and the cannon blasts loudly behind her.
She jumps back, and shouts "What the heck was that?"
Perhaps my grandfather didn’t know it, but he was making a crucially important point about this time of the Jewish year. Almost a month ago we began to blow the shofar each morning after morning prayers to usher in the month of Elul; a time for soul-searching and self-improvement leading up to the High Holy Days.
When I led prayers on the morning on the 1st of Elul, I purposely did not inform those present what we were about to do. The result was startling, funny and perhaps cause for litigation; everyone jumped out of their seats!
Hearts stopped for a second and then surely beat on. Hands were clasped to chests and people cried out “what the heck was that?” as the shofar sounded for the first time from the back of the room. “This is precisely what we are after,” I thought to myself, “this is what will serve as the impetus toward improving ourselves – a shot in the arm, a blast of a cannon, the surprise of the shofar.”
In just one week’s time the entire Jewish world will gather with bated breath, ready to hear the shofar’s call. It is no doubt one of the most anticipated sounds of the Jewish year, and indeed no one’s Rosh Hashanah is complete without it.
But the problem is – everyone expects it. We read introductions, explain its spiritual significance, all before that sacred first t’kiah. And perhaps this is precisely the problem.
The shofar is not meant to be a one-liner. Despite the fact that we blow it each morning throughout the month of Elul, the shofar is not intended to be something rehearsed for weeks in the back of our minds.
It is meant to be sudden, startling and unexpected. It is meant to be a terrifying jolt to our souls, the realization that spiritual revolution is upon us, that the time to turn is now and not a minute later. But instead we expect it, we anticipate it, we wait for it to happen. “Hark, is that the shofar I hear?”
This year, as we sit in shul for Rosh Hashanah, try something:
Pretend as if you were completely unaware of what is about to happen. Close your eyes, and allow yourself the surprise of being startled. Remind yourself, this is not a line to be rehearsed in a play; this is not a pledge of allegiance to be memorized.
This is an alarm clock blaring. This is cymbals clashing. This is a cannon sounding. The shofar is teaching us that the time has come for us to change our lives, our communities, our world. The time is now – and not a moment later.
Rabbi Joel Seltzer is a rabbi at Temple Emanu-El in Providence, Rhode Island.
