As we begin our Rosh HaShanah ritual together, I want to tell you about a story in the Bible, specifically from 1 Kings 19. As our chapter opens, controversy and confrontation engulf the prophet Elijah. Threatened by the actions of the king and queen of the time and surrounded by perils, violence, and conflict, Elijah escapes into the wilderness. He attempts to find quiet and seeks a sense of safety. Yet, even with some rest and a good snack (1 Kings 19:5-7), Elijah still feels terrified and isolated. (1 Kings 19:10) As he stands amongst the mountain tops, God asks: “why are you here, Elijah?” Elijah replies with the grief that he feels. He feels betrayed by others, communities that he lived amongst for years and thought he could trust and rely on. In just the past relatively short time, he witnessed violence and division and despair. He feels threatened and sad and just so utterly alone.
“Come out,” God says to Elijah, to stand on this mountain and be in My Presence. Then, the Bible relays:
“There was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks by GOD’s power; but GOD was not in the wind. After the wind—an earthquake; but GOD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake—fire; but GOD was not in the fire. And after the fire—a still, small voice softly murmured. When Elijah heard this still, small voice, he wrapped his mantle about his face [because he knew that now he was in God’s presence.” (1 Kings 19:11-13)
In these Days of Awe, we gather in a world seemingly filled with violence, buffeted by rock-shattering winds, earthquakes, and fire. Like Elijah, our worries pull deeply at our hearts. Throughout 1 Kings 19, Elijah makes it clear that he already knows fear. He already sees the dangers around him.
What changes him is his ability to deepen his awareness, to listen beyond his fears. Waiting after the wind, the earthquake, and the fire, Elijah discovers that the deepest truths are rarely the loudest ones. The world contains fear. Elijah felt fear. We feel fear. But the spiritual task as we stand amongst our mountains is not eliminating fear. The spiritual task is remaining attentive enough to hear the still, small voice anyway.
Rosh HaShanah invites us to cultivate this kind of awareness: the awareness that listens beneath fear and remains open to the soft call of hope and even joy.
And so our tradition provides this sacred re-awakening. It is an opportunity to do as Deuteronomy 4:39 offers: Va-hashevota el levavecha—”Return it to your heart.” To hear that still, small voice within our hearts, within Creation. To re-envision our purpose, to realign ourselves with our values. And so the shofar sounds its alarm and the liturgy calls. This morning, this Rosh HaShanah is our opportunity to awaken ourselves—to the possibilities around us, to the people beside us, and to the still, small voice that so often goes unheard amid the noise of daily life. As we enter into today’s sacred rituals, we return to the ancient conversation of our people, trusting that the wisdom preserved across generations still has something to teach us about how to live, how to hope, and how to begin a year again.
This morning, as we take the opportunity opened by taking part in these services, as we return to our hearts, may we become just a little more awake. Awake to the truest needs and desires of our own hearts. Awake to community and connection and the sacred work that awaits our hands. Awake to the divinity and beauty of Creation around us. And in that awakening, may we begin the holy work of creating a new year filled with greater compassion, courage, and hope.
As we awaken ourselves to this moment, we turn to page 108 for Modeh Ani, our prayer in gratitude upon awakening.
Iyyun: Barchu
In the Book of Kings, we meet a remarkable woman whose remains unnamed. We know her simply as the Shunammite Woman.
The Bible tells us that whenever the prophet Elisha (who, I promise, is different than Elijah!) passed through her town, she would welcome him into her home. Over time, she turned to her husband and said: “I know that he is a holy man of God who comes our way regularly. Let us make a small room on the roof and furnish it with a bed, a table, a chair, and a lamp.” (2 Kings 4:9-10)
The Shunammite Woman demonstrates a rare quality: she notices what others might miss. She recognizes holiness already moving through her ordinary life and she makes space for her and her family to choose to make room for this holiness that comes in and out of their presence. Before there is blessing, there is often the ability to notice that there is something present that can be blessed. Before there is gratitude, there is awareness that there is something to be grateful for.
It is such a simple moment that it is easy to overlook its significance. The Shunammite Woman does not perform a miracle. She does not deliver a prophecy. Instead, she demonstrates a rare quality: awareness. She notices what others might miss. She recognizes holiness passing by and chooses to make room for it to dwell. Before there is blessing or transformation, there is the ability to see what is already present and respond with intention, and importantly, to invite it into our lives..
Rosh HaShanah invites us into that same sacred work. This New Year invites us into this second kind of awareness: the awareness that notices goodness, blessing, and possibility already present in our lives. We gather at the threshold of a new year carrying the joys and sorrows, successes and regrets, connections and disconnections of the year now ending. We come together to deepen our awareness, to repair what has been broken, to reconnect with one another and with the Divine, to strengthen our vision for our futures, and to renew our commitment to the people we hope to become.
Before this moment, each of us has been preparing a room within our own hearts. As we return to this space in our hearts, we make space for reflection, for memory, for gratitude, for envisioning, for hope. Yet Judaism reminds us that holiness is rarely found in solitude alone. Like the Shunammite Woman, we become builders of sacred space when we open the doors of our hearts and our inner homes to one another.
The Barchu invites us to do exactly that. One voice calls. Many voices respond. Together, we make room for prayer. Together, we make room for community. Together, we make room for the possibility that this new year can transform us.
And in that shared act of welcome, an ordinary room becomes a sacred one.
