This week, something unusual happens: the weekly Torah cycle pauses.

Those of you who faithfully open these commentaries expecting a particular parsha may understand how I feel when my carefully prepared schedule encounters reality. The Jewish calendar, like life itself, occasionally reminds us that we are not entirely in charge.

This commentary is also shorter than usual. Between our New Year messages, congregational announcements, program updates, reminders, and other communications, I suspect many of you have heard from us more frequently than from some members of your own families. Even the most devoted reader should not require a second cup of coffee every time an email from Congregation Ocean Reef appears in the inbox.

Because Rosh Hashanah begins at sundown on Friday, September 11, and its first day falls on Shabbat, we do not read the regular weekly portion. Instead, the Torah directs us to special readings selected for the Jewish New Year.

This interruption is not an inconvenience. It is the message.

The weekly cycle pauses because Rosh Hashanah asks us to pause. Before beginning another year of speaking, striving, arguing, building, repairing, worrying, and—if we are honest—occasionally pretending that we know more than we do, we are asked to stop and listen.

The shofar does not deliver a speech. It offers no footnotes, no polling data, and thankfully no fundraising appeal. It simply cries out. Its voice is ancient and unmistakable:

Wake up. Remember who you are. Consider who you have become. Decide who you might still be.

The Special Readings of Rosh Hashanah

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On the first day of Rosh Hashanah, we read Genesis 21, which recounts the birth of Isaac and the story of Hagar and Ishmael. The Haftarah, from First Samuel, tells of Hannah’s heartfelt prayer and the birth of Samuel.

The second day brings us Genesis 22, the Akedah, or Binding of Isaac. On both days, the maftir comes from Numbers 29 and describes the sacred observance of the holiday. After the festival, we return to our regular weekly Torah cycle.

The first day’s reading begins with the fulfillment of a promise that had seemed impossible. Sarah gives birth to Isaac in her old age. Her laughter, once born of disbelief, becomes the laughter of joy. G-d remembers Sarah, just as G-d had promised.

Yet the reading does not remain comfortably within the happiness of Isaac’s birth. We are also brought into the anguish of Hagar and Ishmael, sent into the wilderness with dwindling water and an uncertain future. When the water is gone, Hagar places her son beneath a bush and moves away because she cannot bear to watch him die.

Then comes one of the Torah’s most compassionate moments: G-d hears the cry of the child.

An angel calls to Hagar and tells her not to fear. Her eyes are opened, and she sees a well of water that had been there all along.

The Haftarah gives us another woman in anguish. Hannah longs for a child and pours out her soul before G-d so quietly that Eli the priest initially mistakes her grief for drunkenness—proof that even religious leaders can misunderstand a situation before breakfast. Hannah is eventually blessed with Samuel, who will become one of Israel’s great prophets.

On the second day, we confront the more difficult story of Abraham and Isaac at Mount Moriah. Abraham is tested, Isaac is bound, and at the decisive moment a heavenly voice commands Abraham to stop. A ram is offered in Isaac’s place, and its horn becomes forever linked to the shofar sounded on Rosh Hashanah.

Together, these readings speak of birth and danger, promises and tests, tears and deliverance. They remind us that faith does not spare us from uncertainty. Faith gives us the courage to walk through uncertainty without surrendering our humanity.

TThe G-d Who Hears

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Rosh Hashanah is often described as the Day of Judgment, and rightly so. We stand before G-d and examine the moral record of our lives. Yet the readings chosen for this sacred day do not introduce us to a distant judge removed from human suffering. They reveal the G-d who remembers Sarah, hears Ishmael, receives Hannah’s prayer, and stops Abraham’s hand.

Before G-d judges, G-d listens.

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That should humble us, because human beings often reverse the order. We judge quickly and listen eventually—if time permits.

We live in an age that rewards instant conclusions. We sort people into categories, assign motives, choose sides, and distribute blame with remarkable efficiency. Social media has made each of us the presiding judge of a very busy court in which evidence is optional and appeals are rarely granted.

Rosh Hashanah asks something more difficult: Can we hear the cry beneath the argument? Can we recognize the fear beneath the anger? Can we see the well that despair has hidden from another person—and perhaps from ourselves?

Hagar’s well may have been present all along, but grief prevented her from seeing it. Sometimes salvation does not begin when G-d creates an entirely new path. Sometimes it begins when our eyes are opened to the path already before us.

A Final Reflection

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Rosh Hashanah does not ask us to pretend that the past year was easy. It asks us to believe that the coming year need not be a repetition of it.

Sarah teaches us that hope may arrive after we have nearly stopped expecting it. Hagar teaches us that G-d hears cries others may overlook. Hannah teaches us that a whispered prayer can alter the course of history. Abraham and Isaac teach us that faith must ultimately preserve life, not destroy it.

The shofar teaches us that renewal begins with awakening.

None of us enters 5787 without regrets. We have spoken words we wish we could retrieve, neglected people who needed us, carried grudges long past their expiration dates, and occasionally confused being certain with being right.

Fortunately, Judaism does not demand perfection before allowing us to begin again. If it did, attendance during the High Holy Days would be considerably lower.

It asks only that we begin honestly.

May this be the year in which we listen before judging, repair before discarding, and remember that every person carries fears we cannot see and hopes they may struggle to express.

May we acknowledge our failures without being imprisoned by them. May we forgive where we can, seek forgiveness where we must, and enter this New Year determined to repair what lies within our reach.

And may G-d open our eyes to the wells of hope that have been beside us all along.

A Prayer for the New Year

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Avinu Malkeinu, our Father, our King, hear our voices as You heard Ishmael in the wilderness and Hannah in the sanctuary.

Remember us for life, compassion, and peace.

Grant wisdom to our leaders, protection to those who defend the innocent, comfort to those who mourn, healing to those who suffer, and courage to all who stand against hatred.

Help us enter this New Year with greater humility, renewed faith, deeper friendship, and enduring hope. Guide us as we carry holiness beyond the walls of the sanctuary and into our homes, our community, and the ordinary moments of our lives.

May 5787 be a year in which we become more patient with one another, more generous in spirit, and more mindful of the blessings already before us.

לְשָׁנָה טוֹבָה תִּכָּתֵבוּ וְתֵחָתֵמוּ

L’shanah tovah tikateivu v’teichateimu.

May you be inscribed and sealed for a good year.

To each of you and to those you love, I wish a very happy, healthy, peaceful, and sweet New Year.

שָׁנָה טוֹבָה וּמְתוּקָה

Shanah tovah u’metukah.

May you have a good and sweet New Year.

Amen.

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Dr. Michael L. Weiss Ph.D., HCCP

President, Congregation Ocean Reef