The Charlotte Jewish News- September 2025- Page 21
Celebrating The High Holidays In Charlotte
By Rabbi Chanoch Oppenheim
Every year on Rosh Hashanah we gather in shul hoping to begin again. And then the shofar sounds— a raw, ancient cry that cuts through the air. A brokenness that’ s somehow whole. A scream that’ s somehow a prayer.
But this year, I’ m hearing it differently. This year, the shofar isn’ t just a mitzvah, it’ s a mirror. There are still hostages and victims of terror. In free democracies in North America and in Europe, Jews on campus, in the workplace, and socially are hiding and are in fear. They cannot speak, scream, or express their pain over the pain their Jewish brothers and sisters continue to endure.
And sometimes, neither can I. Not because I’ m bound or
From The Bimah Blowing the Shofar for the Silenced The Cry That Can’ t Be Spoken Waking Up What’ s Gone Quiet
gagged, but because part of me has gone quiet and it has nothing to do with Jew-hatred or Israel. It is the part of me that’ s gone quiet due to hurt, being discouraged, confused, or stuck. The part of me that doesn’ t know how to forgive. The part that’ s too tired to hope. The part that is angry at someone— or at myself— without giving that person the benefit of the doubt. It’ s the part that whispers:“ What’ s the point of trying again? I’ ve already failed.”
When I hear the shofar this year I’ m not just listening for inspiration, I’ m listening on behalf of the silence in myself and others.
The Talmud says the shofar must sound“ like a human cry”— a shever, a break. It must not be musical, not orderly. It must be real. The broken blasts— shevarim and teruah— are meant to reflect our soul’ s inarticulate cry.
Sefat Emet( 19th century Chassidic leader) goes deeper and said( in a discourse on Rosh Hashanah in 1883) that the shofar isn’ t only a sound we make, it’ s a sound that awakens what’ s hidden. It doesn’ t just cry for us; it draws out the cry we’ ve buried.
( הדוקנה הלגמ רפוש תעיקת הלוכי הניאש םדאבש תימינפה ליגרה רובידב אטבתהל)
We’ re told that Rosh Hashanah is a day of judgment, but sometimes the greatest judgment we face is internal— Why haven’ t I changed? Why am I stuck? Why do I keep repeating this pattern?
Of course, we cannot forget that hostages still sit in darkness and that fear haunts Jewish students and soldiers, but then, there are the people in our lives who are dealing with their own struggles. It might be as a result of a poor life choice and painfully living with the consequences or, for others, having to deal with unexpected emotional or physical health circumstances that have tossed their lives into a whirlwind.
And then there’ s the question that haunts me because it leads to thoughts of helplessness and giving up: What can I even do? I’ m one person. I’ m not there. I’ m not enough.
But then I remember, the shofar isn’ t blown in the battlefield or hospital corridor, it’ s blown in the synagogue. In the inner sanctum of quiet space. That is where worlds shift.
So, this Rosh Hashanah, I’ m not asking how I can fix the world, I’ m asking a new question: What in me needs a voice again? What part of me has gone silent due to fear, resentment, or emotional exhaustion. What relationship needs teshuvah?
Although teshuvah is translated as“ repentance,” it literally means“ return”— coming back to your truest self, your core essence, and your connection with G-d that was never fully lost, only covered. Teshuvah is like cleaning a foggy mirror. Life, mistakes, or pain may have clouded your reflection, but deep down, the real you is still there— beautiful, whole, and waiting to shine through again. Not only asking forgiveness, but returning to who I am and how I want to show up.
This year, I’ m not asking what can I, just one person, do. Instead, I’ m asking how I can show up with presence, compassion, and purpose:
What small act of kindness can I offer someone whose world is falling apart, even if I can’ t fix their pain? What prayer, letter, or donation can I send to those across the world whose only wish is to hold their children again? Which domestic Jewish organizations need support right now? Who have I been meaning to call but haven’ t? What word of encouragement can I offer someone who feels overlooked and disregarded? What Jewish value or practice can I live more fully today— honoring Shabbat, speaking gently, showing up for a friend? Can I say a chapter of Tehillim( Psalms) for a soldier I don’ t know but whose struggle is real? Is there a child or student who would appreciate being noticed? What complaint or cynical thought can I trade for one of gratitude or believing in others?
The Shulchan Aruch [ Code of Jewish Law( 585:1)] rules that the shofar must come from a ram’ s horn, to recall the Akeidah— the binding of Yitzchak. That moment of silence, that near-sacrifice, still reverberates through our prayers. We are the inheritors of that cry.
This year when we sound the shofar, let’ s listen for the silenced— for those who cannot scream, including us, who can neither pray nor even hope. At that time let’ s declare to the Almighty and to ourselves: I may be broken, but I’ m not giving up; I am still trying even though I may be afraid.
Most importantly, I may not be able to scream but I can listen, feel, and choose to take one step, even a tiny step, toward bringing goodness, joy, and light to others.
A Thread and a Pool: The Spiritual Work of the High Holy Days
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By Rabbi Asher Knight
The gates of the New Year open like dawn, not with triumphant clarity, but with the pale light of questions we’ ve been carrying all year long:
What if I’ ve grown distant
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from what matters most? What if I’ ve spoken when I should have listened, or stayed silent when I needed to speak? What if I’ ve been afraid to change?
There is a particular kind of vulnerability that lives inside the Jewish New Year. We are invited not only to reflect, but to return. Not just to who we were, but to who we are still becoming.
Rabbi Michael Marmur writes that anxiety has long been one of the great engines of Jewish life. Ours is a tradition built by worriers, of people who live with the tension between fear and faith, silence and speech, loss, and love. Our ancestors saw the world as it was and still reached for what might yet be.
But anxiety alone cannot carry
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us. For that, we need tikvah( hope).
Rabbi Marmur goes on to explain that in Hebrew, tikvah holds two meanings. One is a thread. The other is a pool. A thread is what we hold onto when the way forward is unclear. It’ s what links one generation to the next, one prayer to another, one soul back to itself. A pool is what holds us when we are too tired to hold ourselves. It’ s the mikveh, which shares the same root as tikvah— the sacred waters of immersion, renewal, and release.
The spiritual work of the High Holidays is to consider both the thread and the pool. We pick up the thread when we say,“ This year, I will try again.” We enter
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the pool when we say,“ This year, I will help myself become.”
There’ s a teaching hidden in plain sight in the prayer V’ ahavta. We are told to pass the teachings of Judaism on to b’ nei Yisrael, the children of Israel. But the rabbis hear something deeper in the Hebrew. Not just b’ nei— children. Bonei— builders.
We are not just inheritors of the Jewish story. We are its authors, its architects, its caretakers, and question-askers.
To live with hope is not to deny our ache. It’ s to stitch meaning into it. It’ s to say: I don’ t know what’ s coming, but I will still plant. I will still show up. I will still love. We don’ t wait for hope. We make hope.
That’ s my prayer for this new
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year: Not perfection. Not certainty. But the quiet courage to make hope, together.
So here we are again. The gates will open! The thread is here for you to hold onto. The pool is waiting. We are not only b’ nei Yisrael, children of Israel. We are bonei Yisrael, the builders of what will come next.
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