Ruminations on Rosh Hashanah

by Sarra Lev

The holiday Rosh Hashanah has many themes – the themes of the holiday Torah portions, renewal, judgment, memory, God’s sovereignty, the cry of the shofar, and of course, sweetness. I haven’t hit them all, but this is a rumination on what these themes mean to one person who lives with a hidden disability, in no specific order.

Seeing and not seeing (The First Torah Portion)

In the Torah portion for the first day of Rosh Hashanah, we read that Hagar, exiled to the desert with her son Yishmael and having run out of water, sits in despair thinking her son will surely die. Not so, though, because God sends a messenger to tell her everything will be okay and then:

God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water and she went and filled the skin with water and fed it to the boy.

This short piece has always felt powerful to me. First, it affirms the limits of a single sense. When Hagar, an ostensibly sighted person, loses hope, she does not recognize the well that has been there all along. Her eyes are not sufficient. God must endow them with superpowers for her to perceive what is before her.

The word פקח, (used to say that God opens Hagar’s eyes) is not the word that is used to open a window, or a bag (פתח); it is unique to the senses. It is a way of saying, “to remove a barrier from a sense,” usually eyes, but also ears (Isaiah 42:20). But how? How do I remove the barrier to recognize the hidden disabilities of others? And how will I be known? What there is to be known of me is not accessible to the eyes. How do we recognize the well? How do we avoid mistaking that well for barren ground?

Renewal

I am not generally out about my disability. If I am, it will sometimes raise awkwardness. People find it very personal. I find it very personal. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to be seen in my wholeness. Mat invited me to contribute a piece on Rosh Hashannah through the lens of my disability, and I am. Rosh Hashannah is the holiday of renewal.

Judgment

Rosh Hashanah is the day of judgment — yom hadin. I don’t need God’s judgment. I have enough from elsewhere to last a lifetime.

On the faces of people on a bus when I don’t offer up my seat to someone older. At the front desk of a museum, when I ask for a wheelchair, on the faces of people parking at the supermarket, when I use a disability parking spot even though it is clear I can walk just fine.

Or reviewing in my mind conversations with what I think others are thinking: “Well, just take a cart.” “Yes, but sometimes I can’t, because the supermarket puts up dividers to prevent patrons from removing the carts.” “So ask someone to help you!” “I have a hard time asking for help.”

Or, my very own judgement, quite aside from what I imagine others are thinking. Why can’t I do this faster, better, at all? Why is this so hard for me? Why can’t I teach three classes a day?

God’s judgment doesn’t hold a candle to any of this.  

Memory & God’s Sovereignty

A whole section of the Rosh Hashanah service is dedicated to the celebration of memory. In it, we recite 10 verses about memory:

And God remembered Noah, and every wild animal, and every domesticated beast who was in God’s arc…

And God heard their moaning, and remembered their covenant…

God established a memory of God’s wonders, God is gracious and compassionate.

Often, I can’t remember—can’t remember the events of a story that someone is recalling with me about something that we did together; can’t remember the right word for this sentence; can’t remember the name of a friend; can’t remember the right pronouns. The doctors have said that problems with memory are all a part of my condition. So what does it mean to celebrate something I don’t have?

Is there a sovereign God who hears moaning and remembers a covenant? Is there a God who is gracious and compassionate? That is not the God I have ever believed in—the God who sits on high and looks down at us. But sometimes, I want that God. I want there to be a compassionate God who remembers every wild animal, and every domesticated beast, and me.

Sometimes, Rosh Hashannah is my day to imagine. Sometimes, that is too difficult.

The Cry of the Shofar & Renewal

There are three calls of the shofar, T’kiah (a single blast), Sh’varim (three shorter blasts), and T’ruah (9 quick blasts, one after another), and all must be present in their specific place and order in the service.

T’kiah, Sh’varim, T’kiah, the same sequence, three times

T’kiah, T’ruah, T’kiah, the same sequence, three times

T’kiah, Sh’varim T’ruah, T’kiah, the same sequence, three times

When I used to lead services in Toronto, I would tell folks to listen carefully to the different calls. First, the T’kiah – a single whole blast, which represents those times that we feel whole with ourselves. But sometimes we feel a bit more broken, and this is the call of sh'varim (sh’varim means fragments, or fractures) – three blasts that have breaks between them. And then there are the times that we feel utterly shattered. Splintered. That is the last call - 9 rapid blasts in succession - t'ruah. “But you will notice,” I would continue, “that in each case, the Sh’varim and the T’ruah are surrounded by the wholeness of the T’kiah. This comes to remind us that when we feel broken, or even shattered in pieces, we are surrounded by wholeness.” I try to believe that, but sometimes, the renewal that Rosh Hashannah brings is just “more of the same”; more of the same struggles to feel whole, to look whole, to function as whole in a world that expects wholeness. “How ya doin’?” “Fine, thanks! How are you?”

No matter my state of mind, the shofar breaks my heart. I think of the animal whose horn we have hollowed out. I think of the breaks and the shattering.

It champions my brokenness.

It declares my wholeness.

Sweetness

I love the symbols of sweetness that we celebrate with each year. I love the promise, and I love the fact that it is sweetness that we bless each other with. Not a healthy new year, not a year of wholeness, or success. A year of sweetness. That is something that I can get behind. It doesn’t require me to feel ok. It doesn’t require me to be ok. It just requires me to recognize the sweet moments in a day. My partner bringing me a cup of tea in the morning. The voice, through my window, of my four year old next door neighbour talking to the person delivering the post. A hug. A visit with a friend on my porch. It’s a blessing I can get behind.

Shannah Tovah U’metukah!

Sarra Lev spends their time teaching talmud and trying to learn to play the banjo.