The shofar of Jiminy Cricket

Each weekday morning for the past month, Shacharit has been punctuated by the blasts of the shofar. Tekia: “Heads up!” Shevarim: “Get Ready!” Teruah: “It’s coming!”

“Look inward,” the calls implored, inching us toward this week and the start of the High Holy Days.

We have arrived at Rosh Hashanah and Aseret Y’mei Teshuvah — the 10 days of teshuva — searching even further inside our souls, taking account, making amends, returning to who we really are deep inside, and getting back on the path to our best selves. We begin the process to make a pact within our hearts, with each other, and with G-d, to be our better selves this year.

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The blast of the shofar is one of the most identifiable sounds of the High Holidays. This hollowed-out ram’s horn makes a sound that can be carried far and wide. In biblical times — and in many ancient cultures — it was used to muster the troops and signal important announcements, the emergency broadcast system of its day. So what is its relevance now, here in the 21st century, when we have alarm clocks, widely broadcast signals, tweets and pings?

“Wake up!” “Listen!” “Hear me!” it shouts. It is not reminding us to buy the brisket or send the New Year’s cards. It is meant to remind us that this is the time for introspection, for self-assessment. From the first day of Rosh Hashanah — also called Yom Teruah, the Day of the Sounding — when we hear 100 blasts of the shofar, through the 10 Days of Repentance until Yom Kippur, the crescendo of the season, we heed the shout, the wail, the call to look inward.

We take account of where we’ve been and where we’re going. We return from wrong turns and unintended diversions and rejoin the path we’ve always meant to follow. We apologize — to parents, to children, to friends and associates — try to make amends, right those wrongs we never intended in the first place, and try to wipe the slate, if not completely clean, as fresh as it can be. We do teshuva — often translated as “repentance,” but which actually means “return” — a turning back to the way we’re meant to be.

One of the key liturgical pieces of the High Holy Days captures this beautifully in a single sentence. “U’va shofar gadol yitakah; v’kol d’mama’dakah yishama” — The great shofar sounds, and a still, small voice is heard. Whenever I chant these words, I almost always flash on an image of Jiminy Cricket sitting on Pinocchio’s shoulder, whispering into the puppet-boy’s ear. Pinocchio didn’t always want to hear what Jiminy had to say — but when he listened, he tended to do the right thing. I’m also reminded of Simba in “The Lion King” at a pivotal moment of choice between doing good and not-so-good. Simba’s father, Mufasa, implores his son to remember who he is. “Remember! Remember!”

But the shofar’s origin story is found in the Torah portion we chant on Rosh Hashanah — the Akeda. The binding of Isaac. The ram caught in the thicket by his horns. The ram Abraham offered in his son’s place. Every blast we hear carries within it that ancient moment of test and mercy, of the commanding voice of G-d’s demand of Abraham, and the saving one delivered by an angel, quietly staying Abraham’s hand. The great shofar sounds — and the still, small voice answers.

We are all Pinocchio. We are all Simba. We each have our own whispering voice called “conscience.” And like a computer needing an occasional reboot, our own still, small voices need to be refreshed for another year.

The sound of the shofar’s cry is meant to echo on through the year — through that kol d’mama’dakah, that still small voice always whispering in our ears, giving us counsel even — or especially — when we’re not especially inclined to listen.

Each year, like a computer needing a reboot, our personal Jiminy Cricket is reawakened by the unrelenting cry of the shofar, his still small voice renewed to sit on our shoulder, sometimes annoyingly, for another year.

May your 5787 be sweet, your slate as fresh as it can be — and may your own still, small voice carry you through whatever lies ahead.

L’shanah tovah u’me’tukah! (A good and sweet year!) PJC

Hazzan Barbara Barnett is an independent cantor-educator, author and speaker. She teaches children and adults formally through classes and informally through individual tutoring. She is a board member of the Jewish Educators Assembly and a member of the Cantors Assembly. This column is a service of the Greater Pittsburgh Jewish Clergy Association.