“Once the Baal Shem Tov commanded Rabbi Zev Kitzes to learn the secret meanings behind the blasts of the shofar, because Rabbi Zev was to be his caller on Rosh HaShanah. So Rabbi Zev learned the secret meanings and wrote them down on a slip of paper to look at during the service, and laid the slip of paper in his bosom. When the time came for the blowing of the shofar, he began to search everywhere for the slip of paper, but it was gone, and he did not know on what meanings to concentrate. He was greatly saddened. Brokenhearted, he wept bitter tears and called the blasts of the shofar without concentrating on the secret meanings behind them.
Afterward, the Baal Shem Tov said to him: "Lo, in the habitation of the King are to be found many rooms and apartments, and there are different keys for every lock, but the master key of all is the axe, with which it is possible to open all the locks on all the gates. So it is with the shofar: The secret meanings are the keys; every gate has another meaning, but the master key is the broken heart. When a man truthfully breaks his heart before God, he can enter into all the gates of the apartments of the King above all Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.” (Or Yesharim)
As we prepare for the shofar's cry this Rosh HaShanah, we carry the weight of a year marked by unimaginable pain and uncertainty. Since October 7, we, like Rabbi Zev, have lost our sense of certainty, holding only our broken hearts and crying a torrent of tears as we plead for comfort, healing, and peace.
But after so much loss, is it time to set our tears aside? After all, Rosh HaShanah — at its core — is a day of rejoicing. No fasting or mourning allowed. We should be celebrating b’simcha, dipping apples in the sweetest honey, and looking forward to a year filled with good news (and the arrival of Mashiach!).
Why, then, does Rosh HaShanah bring so much heartache and so many tears? We read about Hagar's despair over Ishmael, the mockery of Chana as she longs for a child, and Rachel’s earth-shattering cries for her children. These stories and the tears shed with them resonate more deeply with us now because we’ve spent nearly a year in continuous mourning and fear. Our tears are more real and painful than ever.
At various points throughout history, congregations would hire chazzanim based on their ability to move congregations to tears at the right time. In fact, the famed Roedelheim machzor is said to have featured instructions to bochim kan — “cry here” — throughout davening. Even Rabbi Yitzchak Luria, the Ari, is said to have believed it was good to cry (and did so abundantly) on Rosh HaShanah.
Several sources approach the “to cry or not to cry on Rosh HaShanah” question by saying that crying on Rosh HaShanah is okay and even encouraged, but not because we’re sad or depressed or because we feel like it’s what we’re supposed to do.
Rather, Rosh HaShanah tears should be shed out of a genuine place of awe, enthusiasm, and devotion.
This year, we stand before HaShem with not just broken but shattered hearts and beg for the ability to transform our pain into strength. The trauma of this year indeed mirrors the cries of the shofar. The blasts are sharp, sudden, and filled with emotion. Yet just as the narrow opening of the shofar produces a powerful sound that echoes from person to person and place to place, so too can our cries lead us from sorrow to hope, pain to strength, and from fear to trust.
Like Rabbi Zev's forgotten notes, we approach this Rosh HaShanah without clear answers. But our collective cries, like the shofar's blasts, are the master key.
The shofar’s deeper message is for us to live with love, faith, and trust for HaShem despite the brokenness we feel and see around us. The blasts remind us that after the broken heart comes relief and renewal — if we are open, willing, and present.
As we face this new year with hope and uncertainty, we must trust that the deep suffering of this past year will be answered by HaShem’s boundless love, compassion, and mercy. We pray for the return of our precious hostages, the end of the war, a safe homecoming for all of our brave soldiers, and a mending of our broken hearts.
