c. 2007 Religion News Service

NEW YORK _ Sounding the shofar, or ram’s horn, in the synagogue on Rosh Hashana is the high point of my year. No other mitzvah (precept) in Judaism is so dependent on a personal skill, or entails such high drama. And, at least for me, no other mitzvah renders quite the same sense of achievement and fulfillment.

I often hear people talk about the awakening power of the sound of the shofar _ how awesome a moment, how inspiring an experience, it is for them to hear it. For me, it is both a very public and intensely personal experience.

As I approach the lectern, I find myself quite alone, yet I am also highly conscious of being surrounded by hundreds of people who are relying on my ability to enable them to fulfill the central observance of the day.

In Numbers 29:1, the Torah designates the first day of the seventh month, that is Rosh Hashana, as a “a day of blowing the shofar.” The Oral Law, as interpreted by the rabbis, sets out a number of regulations concerning both the instrument itself and the manner in which it is to be sounded.

The shofar must be fashioned out of a ram’s horn. With the smaller end cut off, the horn is straightened out a little by heating it, so that a hole can be bored through it. A mouthpiece is formed out of the horn itself. No finger holes, or reed, or valves _ like you would find on other wind or brass instruments _ may be added to help vary the notes. The only control you have over the notes is how you use your lips and your tongue.

The sequence and the length of the notes must follow the established pattern with great accuracy. The three mandatory sounds are designed to awaken thoughts of repentance in the mind of the listener, and of subservience to God. First comes the teki’ah, a long, clear note of alarm. This is used to bracket each of the other sounds, which are meant to be evocative of crying.

The shevarim, a three-part note, suggests the sound of sighing or moaning.

The teru’ah, consisting of nine rapid-fire staccato sounds, dramatically echoes the sobbing of someone in despair.

One hundred notes, in various combinations, are sounded at intervals throughout the Rosh Hashana service, and each set is capped by a teki’ah gedolah, an extra-long note in which many also hear a sign of strength and hope.

Few people persevere enough to become really proficient at blowing the shofar. Many of those who do so learned the skill from their fathers at a very young age, as I did. But each year, it takes a month of practice to perfect the notes once again and to retool the muscles of the lips and the strength of the lungs.

Since there’s no real way of controlling the quality of the shofar’s sound, you can never be 100 percent confident that the right sound will emerge. So whatever spiritual thoughts I might have as I prepare myself to sound the shofar usually evaporate as I begin. I am left simply hoping that, despite my trepidation, the notes will come out as perfectly as they did when I was practicing.

Being in control of the shofar’s power is an extraordinary privilege and responsibility. Sometimes I like to think that the next note could be the one that carries the congregation’s prayers soaring to the heavens. Sometimes I pray that this wordless animal sound that I am producing will have the ability to take the place of the prayers that are unspoken, the ones that words are inadequate to express.

Sure, I enjoy the congratulations and the handshakes that are offered after I sound the last note. And what am I thinking at this point, when it’s all over? That in just one year, with God’s help, I will get to do it again.

(David Olivestone, national director of planning and communications at the Orthodox Union, has blown the shofar at Congregation Ohab Zedek in Manhattan for the past 20 years.)

KRE/JM END OLIVESTONE650 words

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