The Sound of the Shofar, the Voice of the Volcano

Rabbi Wein ztz'l wrote this piece back in 2012.

The sound of the shofar reverberated in our synagogue this week as the month of Elul began. It signaled the approach of the Days of Awe and its attendant holidays only a few short weeks from now.  In previous generations, devoid of today’s omnipresent technological wonders and the obsessive need for instant communication, Elul took on a somber, serious note. It was an opportunity for introspection and deep reflection  about life, mortality, mission and purpose. 

Part of our problem with modernity and technology is that we have become desensitized and even disconnected from our own inner selves. We are so busily occupied in messaging and speaking to others that we have no time, desire or perhaps even ability to hear our own souls speaking to us and clamoring for meaningful attention. The sound of the shofar may reverberate in our ears but the still small voice of our inner being is drowned out by the cacophony of the frenetic activity that has become our daily fare. Prisoners of our own progress, we are increasingly isolated and lonely. Elul does not register with us—it’s just another month of the calendar year. 

On my recent trip to Italy and Sicily, for a whole week I had no access to my email or the internet generally. I usually receive about twenty emails a day, some of which I do deem to be important so,, as you can imagine, I underwent a painful withdrawal syndrome for the first two days of my technological isolation. But as the days passed I found myself more relaxed, more in touch with my inner self. One of the highlights of our summer tour was a visit to Sicily’s Mount Aetna. As the hardier members of my family and the rest of the group began their ascent of the cratered top of the mountain, I sat on a bench part way up Mount Aetna and contemplated the boiling steam eruptions emanating from the crater of this still active volcano. All around me, people were prattling away on their cell phones. I asked myself if it is even possible to appreciate Mount Aetna under such conditions. The two are not only incongruous: they are antithetical.

Sitting on that bench, watching the steam belch forth from the mountain, I quietly began to review my personal year that was coming to an end, its accomplishments and disappointments.  After a while I began to hear myself and I truly contemplated the arrival of Elul—and of the approaching new year.  I thought that it was no wonder that many of the great men of Israel returned to the original places of Torah study of their youth to spend the month of Elul there in preparation for the approaching time of judgment and compassion. They did so in order to regain their inner voice. 

I realize that it is quite impossible to bring Mount Aetna to my study in my apartment. But, nevertheless, I am striving to regain that moment of introspection that I experienced sitting on that bench in Sicily. When I am deluged with telephone calls, emails to respond to, articles to write, lectures to prepare, haircuts, chores and all the trivia that fill my life, the atmosphere of that reverie on the bench at Mount Aetna is almost impossible to replicate. Even so, now it is Elul and the sound of the shofar stirs emotions and contemplation within all of us. 

Somehow, Elul does feel differently than any of the other months of the year. It is as though our inner self waits the entire year for Elul to arrive and, when it finally does, our souls demand our attention and concern. This is, in fact, the challenge of the month of Elul today and in our world—to experience an Elul that allows us to speak to ourselves and to hear our inner beings. There can be no better preparation for the Days of Awe than creating such an Elul for ourselves.