I remember a story told of Baron de Rothschild’s wife going into labor. She cried out, “Mon dieu, mon dieu!” Her husband rushed to the doctor and told him to come quickly.
“What is happening?” the doctor asked. She cried, “Mon dieu, mon dieu!”
“Just wait a bit longer,” the doctor soothed.
Again she cried, My God!” And again the doctor counseled patience, “She is not ready.”
Finally she moaned, “Oy vey!” Then the doctor rushed in.
The words we say over this next month of Ellul leading to the High Holy Days, the Yamim Noraim, are powerful. But when they are infused with meaning they become something that transcends the words on the page or anything that can be uttered. When we cry out in anguish over our internal pain, the ones we have suffered and the ones we have caused, it rises to the highest heights of heaven.
The shofar cries. Shevarim are like the gasps of breath we take between our choked tears. The teruah discharges throaty cries that consume us. The shofar does not simply blast, it weeps. One hundred times the shofar cries. According to tradition, these are the number of tears shed by a mother whose son was killed in battle. A parent who will never again see their child. Each shriek from the shofar is a tear.
One tear for the estrangement between you and your relative.
One tear for the friend lost because of intransigence, the inability to forgive.
One tear for the lies told, even the “white” ones.
One tear for the homeless child who waits for his mother to return home from begging or selling herself. In Columbia.
One tear for the victim of cancer.
One tear for refusing to take five minutes to help someone in distress.
One tear for not rising to our potential.
One tear for love lost.
One tear for saying, “I have no time to help” when what we really meant was, “not interested.”
One tear when we promised to be present but were too preoccupied to be there.
One tear from the promise we made to live Jewishly.
Words are insufficient when the shofar cries its staccato sounds. And words no longer matter when we weep our losses for each tear wends its way to God. Ribbono shel Olam said through the blinding passion of wet tears of regret and sorrow, is enough to penetrate any space between our Maker and us. And more. It is enough to make the Holy One weep alongside us -- just as we once wept on the shoulder of our parent and their heart was ready to burst in compassion.
It takes courage to weep for our insufficiencies, our wrongs, and losses. The shofar and ech meaningful word we shout out to God urges us to take one more step and allow our cheeks to become wet with our pain. It takes empathy to cry for the wounded world we have made, for the hungry eyes that stare at us from Finley Park, for the Israelis that live in constant fear of a state of war, for the Ukrainians that have needlessly suffered and for the neighbor down the street that returns to an empty, silent home at the end of the day.
These yamim noraim are aimed at stopping us from blaming. We hold ourselves responsible. Can we be courageous enough to face ourselves? Are we courageous enough to cry for our pain?
During the year we pray for one another. Now, we pray for us. We pray for the strength and courage to take a long look at what and who we have become. And God? God holds us tightly, enveloping us in celestial arms and weeps at our return.
