Celebrating amidst pain? Look back 2 700 years

Rosh Hashanah is a day of profound duality, where emotions blend between awe and solemnity, pride and joy. We stand before G-d in judgement, fully aware of our inadequacies and helplessness, yet we also reflect on the loyalty and love that have marked Jewish history, while urging G-d to remember our devotion. For one day, we glimpse the world we hope to create, a world imbued with heightened spiritual awareness, where G-d’s presence fills every corner.

This day of awe magnifies the frailty of human life, while simultaneously elevating the nobility of a life lived in G-d’s presence. It’s both a day of the book of Kohelet, in which we confront the mortality and limitations of man, and a day of the book of Shir Hashirim, where the destiny of the Jewish people shines brightly. The power of Rosh Hashanah flows from this tension, the paradox between humility and strength, fear and pride. The day is intense precisely because of this internal paradox.

The shofar, the central symbol of the day, captures this dichotomy. Its sound, primal and raw, echoes a cry beyond words, stripping away the artifice of human language to reveal the purest prayer, a primordial scream to G-d. Yet, at the same time, the shofar also brings harmony to our prayers, adding melody to our words. In the Temple, it was part of a grand orchestration, blending with other instruments to amplify the moment of standing before G-d. The shofar embodies simplicity and grandeur, humility and celebration.

Historically, some would fast on Rosh Hashanah, intensifying the solemnity of standing in judgement before the divine. Though this custom has largely faded, the day remains one of muted joy, filled with reverence and gravity. We celebrate, but our joy is tempered, framed by the seriousness of the moment. Rosh Hashanah is a day of proud reverence, tinged with solemnity, its symbols and customs perfectly balancing these dual emotions.

Though each Rosh Hashanah calls us to navigate a spectrum of emotions, this moment in history feels particularly challenging. We are surrounded by dark clouds. Our people continue to suffer on so many levels. Recently, I was asked to reflect on the “post-traumatic truth” and what our people have learned from 7 October. I politely reminded the questioner that we haven’t even reached the post-trauma stage. Each day brings fresh pain, and the wounds of this past year haven’t even begun to heal.

In such bleak times, it feels almost impossible to summon the joy, pride, or power traditionally associated with Rosh Hashanah. How can we celebrate a day of glory when so much of our world is cloaked in tragedy and darkness, and so many of G-d’s people remain mired in misery and agonising pain?

In the midst of a disheartened Rosh Hashanah in our past, we received a blueprint for navigating such bleak occasions. During the late 6th century BCE, we gradually returned to Israel from a Babylonian exile. Despite our efforts to rebuild the Temple and erect an altar, local opposition swiftly rose against us, accusing us of sedition and betrayal. Our efforts were halted for years, and the hope of national restoration seemed distant.

Two decades later, we resumed this project. Led by Ezra, a modest and vulnerable group of just more than 42 000 made their way back to Israel. Poor and barely defended, they set to work rebuilding Jerusalem. But progress was slow.

Fifteen years after this second stage, the situation had hardly improved. The walls of Jerusalem were in such ruin, it was impossible to walk around them. Our enemies mocked us, predicting our inevitable failure. Internally, the community was fractured as the aristocracy largely remained in Persia, leaving the returnees struggling without leadership or resources. Rosh Hashanah arrived under a veil of bleakness and uncertainty.

Ezra and Nehemiah gathered the small, weary group of returnees in the city square of Jerusalem for a public reading of the Torah. A special platform was erected for this occasion, and as the words of the Torah filled the air, an outpouring of tears erupted from the crowd. The people wept as they recalled lost glories that seemed so distant and so impossible to reclaim.

Jewish destiny seemed to hang in the balance, and their hope for renewal felt futile. How could they possibly feel joy this Rosh Hashanah? So much suffering, so many struggles. With trauma weighing so heavily upon them, how could they even think of celebrating?

Nehemiah responded with a powerful announcement: “Go, eat rich food, drink sweet beverages, and send food to those who have nothing prepared, for today is holy to G-d. Do not be sad, for the joy of G-d is your strength.” Amid the helplessness, Nehemiah urged them to tap into a greater truth and a more profound force. No matter how bleak conditions seemed, they were still part of a larger divine narrative. The joy of G-d would be their strength. Pondering the eternal purpose and significance of a life before G-d could momentarily lift them above their sorrow and futility.

First, because despite the darkness, G-d has larger plans and can swiftly reshape even the most dire reality. Second, because faith in G-d and a relationship with Him surpasses any fate we endure. And third, because faith itself provides courage, strength, and resilience. Faith would be their strength, not merely weapons, strategies, or armies. No bullet can destroy faith, and it will always endure.

They didn’t ignore the calamity or the difficult conditions they faced, they simply took a pause to replenish their faith. Immediately after the festival season concluded, on the day following what we now call Simchat Torah – though it hadn’t yet been designated as such – they returned to mourning and fasting. They tearfully uttered one of the most heartfelt and remorseful confessions in all of Tanach.

Yet, Rosh Hashanah itself called for emotional transcendence without succumbing to indifference toward the sadness, a moment to reach for the heavens and return to earth with renewed courage and vigour.

Jewish history often repeats itself. Here we stand, 2 700 years later, facing a similar Rosh Hashanah. Ignoring the sadness and suffering is unimaginable. We are surrounded by it. Yet, for these two days, we must rise above it without forgetting. We must find a way to merge our struggle and trauma with the glory of standing before G-d. We must tap into the larger historical mission we are part of – bringing G-d’s presence into a g-dless world.

Rosh Hashanah must remind us why this battle is so crucial. It’s not just a conflict over land or boundaries. This isn’t about occupation or apartheid, it’s about G-d’s presence in our world. We are battling against those who falsely speak in the name of an angry and vengeful g-d who does not exist. We fight against those who desecrate the divine dignity endowed to every human being, violating their bodies and spirits. This is a battle against a culture that glorifies death instead of celebrating life, against a world that has lost its capacity to discern truth and uphold objective moral standards.

Rosh Hashanah is the day of divine authority, and we are locked in a struggle to preserve His presence. One day, His presence will be palpable and undeniable. Until that day, we have faith.

• Rabbi Moshe Taragin is a rabbi at Yeshivat Har Etzion/Gush, a hesder yeshiva. He has smicha and a Bachelor of Arts in computer science from Yeshiva University as well as a Master’s degree in English literature from the City University of New York.