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I have always loved the call of the shofar, which we blow throughout this current Hebrew month of Elul, before it is sounded at length on the Jewish New Year in two weeks’ time.

Made from a ram’s horn, carved hollow but unadorned, the shofar produces a raw animal cry more visceral than any human voice.

The shofar has three notes. The first is long and clear, simple and sustained. It carries my mind into the mountains, the landscape of stone, water, wind-blown trees and the glimpse of deer. It pierces me with awe, as if to say, ‘Be mindful, you mortal, as pass through this world.’ It brings me wonder, as if I could hear nature itself, life’s very soul, singing out.

The second note is called ‘fragments.’ It consists of three bursts, three gasps from a broken heart for the world smashed apart. They bring me the desperate voice of the mother in Jerusalem, whose heart aches because her son is still held hostage in the dark tunnels of Hamas. They carry me into ruined, hungry, devastated Gaza, where a mother is crying out, ‘In God’s name, let my child live.’ They take me into the desolation of landscapes destroyed.

The third note is nine stuttered sobs, nine tears. ‘Weep with me,’ the shofar cries. ‘Weep for the wounds we have inflicted on each other and on God’s earth.’ I see a man bent forward, his hands covering his eyes. Between his fingers, the tears trickle slowly down. What’s happened to him? What cruelties has he endured? From what country has he been exiled? Don’t yet ask him questions; overwhelming sorrow has silenced his words. But don’t walk away. Stay here, with his tears; maybe, weep too. If we weep in our heart too, maybe we will learn to bring comfort.

For, now, the shofar repeats its first long opening note. It’s not the same as it was before, because this time it carries within it all our wounds and weeping, as if to say: ‘If we’re honest about what’s broken, if we feel for each other’s pain, perhaps, in whatever small capacity, we can become healers and save what still can be cured and repaired.’ This last, prolonged shofar call is a summons to our humanity. It’s a demand to take responsibility. It’s an appeal to hope, a reminder that this fragile, injured world can still be beautiful, if we give it our urgent care.

The shofar’s cry must be answered with our deeds.

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