In fifth grade, we created what can best be described as a work of performance art. It was the ‘60s. We danced. The backdrop was made of angry newspaper headlines. The lighting was moody. And the soundtrack was this song: Hello darkness my old friend, I've come to talk to you again… and the vision that was planted in my brain, still remains, and echoes in [the sounds of silence].

How can the sound of the shofar on a Rosh Hashanah that falls on Shabbat be compared to the sound of silence?

We've had many conversations about this, my colleagues and I, over the past few years.

In the 5 years that we have celebrated Rosh Hashanah together since 1999, we have found ourselves with this confluence of special dates four times. And we can look forward to it yet again in 2006!

Here at Beit Tikvah, in addition to shifting our second day of Rosh Hashanah services to the Fellowship Hall, it means that we are confronted with the tradition of not blowing the shofar on a RH that falls on Shabbat.

Fortunately, as a Reconstructionist congregation, we follow the Israeli calendar for our holy day schedule. This means that most festivals are observed for only one day. However, even in Israel, RH is observed for 2 days; thus our minhag.

And yet, our communities, along with other congregations along the liberal spectrum, remain challenged by this stricture. Those that use instruments to accompany their singing, for example, might regard the banning of sounding of the shofar as hypocritical.

But on RH, is the shofar call an instrumental sound?

It's rather like the sound of an old friend's voice, one that resonates not just in our ears, but also in our memories, in our dreams, in our stories. And whether or not we are still next to, or even in touch with the friends of our youth, we all grew up, stretching into the shape we are now, at this point in our lives – allowing ourselves these moments of memory, reflection and prayer that constitute the Yamim Nora'im, the days of Awe.

We also re-member the sound from Sinai, from the trumpeted call of the shofar as the people gathered at the base of a mountain with Moses. The shofar is the reminder call of our peoplehood. When they heard the very loud blast of the shofar – kol shofar hazak me'od (Ex. 19:16), the people took their places at the foot of the mountain (Ex. 19:17).

In the Book of Kings, we find a parallel yet contrasting depiction of revelation through a prophet. The prophetic figure here is Elijah; he is in the desert, where he has traveled 40 days and 40 nights, until he reaches the base of the mountain of God (IK 19:8).

The passage continues: "A great and strong wind cracked the mountain and shattered boulders, but God was not in the wind. And after the wind there was an earthquake, but God was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire, but God was not in the fire. And after the fire, a still small voice" (IK 19:11-12).

My colleague Rabbi Jonathan Kligler teaches: "The Biblical author seems to be making a commentary on the original Mount Sinai episode: if you think the only way to hear God's voice is via a giant sound and light show, think again. You don't need great bass on your speakers to discern the sound of God's voice. Maybe God's voice can also be heard in the tiniest stillness. Maybe God's voice can also be discerned in the quiet yearning of your heart. Maybe you don't always need a blasting shofar to wake up to God's presence."

The phrase "a still small voice" from the Elijah passage contains some more hints about an alternative way to hear/not hear the shofar today. The Hebrew is kol demama daka, literally, voice silent soft. The softest vocal sound. The sound of silence. The first words of the verse immediately following the phrase kol demama daka are " When Elijah heard it" (IK 19:13).

Instead of shofar blasts, Elijah hears God's call in the sound of silence.

Rabbi Kligler also teachers that this is the essence of teshuvah, the challenge of this season, and the first of the three responses we are called to offer in the Unetaneh tokef prayer we heard so earlier in the service. In between the stirring opening and closing phrases, the text reads: u'vshofar gadol yitaka, v'kol dmama daka yishama - the great shofar is sounded, the still small voice is heard:

"The medieval writer of this passage took the two Sinai episodes and linked them together in the liturgy of these Days of Awe, saying, God, or Life, calls to us in many ways, sometimes with a loud blast, sometimes with a small voice. Are we paying attention? Are we able to respond? Are we response-able? Will we do teshuvah?

"How do we stay awake and respond wholeheartedly to life when there is no shofar blasting in our ears? How do we train ourselves to listen for God's voice within the sound of silence? Can I remember, in the middle of a busy day, to look at my loved ones in a moment of stillness, and see their complete beauty? Oh God, teach me how to listen to the still, small voice. May I do teshuvah, may I respond to life with the fullness of my life, moment by moment, even when the holy shofar isn't sounding in my ears."

This is another teaching hidden in the intersection of these two days. On Shabbat we are inveighed not to do, not to create, not to work, but to just be. Rosh Hashanah stands in for the birthday of the world, the day of ultimate creation, day one of MAJOR doing. By saying that SHABBAT takes precedence, we are invited to really settle in to the fullness of our just being, knowing that

Every day of the week, every week of the year, we are called to be God's partner in creation, doing our part to till and tend the earth; as God's partner, we mimic the rest of the seventh day, nourishing our souls, and imbuing ourselves with a weekly reminder that although we did not, and could not, create the universe, sustaining and maintaining it is partially in our hands. What an awesome task. Surely we cannot engage in it 24/7!

Surely our bodies, and our souls, need a routine source of reinvigoration, re-connection, revitalization, and reminder of the core purpose and meaning to our lives, lest we confuse our doing with our being.

This is how we live in holiness, in connection, day to day, and through the cycles of the year, and our lives. This is how we learn to pray, not just with the words of the mahzor, or the siddur, but with our experiences, our language, the language of our hearts and our lives.

The sound of the shofar on RH can be profoundly stirring. Yet it is the ability we nurture to hear that sound every day of the year that is the meaning of silencing the shofar's calls.

The great medieval poet Solomon ibn Gabirol taught: "In seeking wisdom, there are 5 steps: the first is silence, the second is listening, the third, remembering, the fourth is practicing and the fifth is teaching others."

Hence to take the teachings of this day with us beyond this moment, in this room, let us first create the silence. Silence in community can be fuller, deeper and richer than silence we create alone.

Then, listen to the still small voice, and in the moments, days and weeks to follow, remember it, practice it and integrate what you learned from it. Take it out in to the world, so that others may benefit from your gifts, and the power of your having paid attention to that still small voice.

By invoking the revelatory potential in the shofar call, whether sounded or silent, I do not seek to erase its others uses or associations. It is taught that the blast of a shofar will signal the coming of the Messiah. The shofar was sounded in Biblical times as a call to assembly, and also as a call to arms. And it will be sounded again at the end of our fast day, following Nei'lah on Yom Kippur, when we are perhaps at our weakest, most contrite, and most keenly aware of our failings and of having missed the mark.

In a Talmudic discussion about the group of nine sharp shofar blasts, the teru'ah, the rabbis contend that we are to hear in this sound the cries of Sisera's mother. (BT Rosh Hashanah 33b). Sisera was a Canaanite general, opposed by the leader and prophet Deborah, who gathered a resistance army to defeat him. After escaping from the battle in which all of his foot soldiers were defeated, Sisera is killed by Yael, from whom he has sought refuge. The famous song of Deborah concludes with a vision of Sisera's mother, waiting for him to return from battle, watching through the lattice gate, and wailing as she comes to realize he will never return.

That the rabbis contend that we should hear the sobs of the enemy's mother in the shofar's call is an extraordinary piece of midrash. Even on Rosh Hashaanah, our day of celebration and pride in our identity, we are called to compassion for the pain of others. While the song may justly celebrate the defeat of our enemy, it also glorifies the rather gory act of killing, so perhaps we can extend the midrash with the suggestion that the shevarim, the broken calls, might call us to awareness of our own destructive impulses.

WE can be our own enemy. Or the enemy can be that which assails, harms or angers us in our closest realms – home, family, neighborhood, or the widest - state, country, globe.

And lest these associations feel too heavy, too challenging in their portent, I add one more possibility, invoke the refrain of a liturgical poem, a High Holiday piyyut: lishmo'ah el ha rinah, v'el hatefila, listen to the joy, listen to the prayer.

The prophet Moshe led the people to the base of the mountain, and the great shofar sounded. Elijah was led to the base of the mountain, and heard the still small voice. Tomorrow, we will bless the hearing of the shofar. Today, we will bless the hearing of the still small voice. We will call ourselves to attention, and invite the messages of the sound of silence.

You will find the Hebrew blessing for hearing the shofar on page 592 of your mahzor. What we will say is the first part of the blessing, up to the words lishmo'a kol. Instead of the last word, shofar, we will say kol demama daka, a still small voice.

After we recite the blessing, we will spend some moments in silence.