Dear Friends,
Every year around this time, someone inevitably asks me a great question: If the Torah refers to the month of Nisan—the spring month when our ancestors left Egypt—as the first month of the year, why do we celebrate Rosh Hashanah now, in Tishrei, which is the seventh month?
It’s a fair question. (And one that reminds us that we Jews never do things the easy way. There is ALWAYS something to discuss and debate.)
The rabbis of old explained that Nisan is the month when we first became an Am—a people. It was then that we were freed from Egypt, stood at Sinai, and entered into covenant with God and with one another. That is why Nisan became the first month, our “national birthday,” if you will.
Those same rabbis taught that humanity’s birthday is marked in the month of Tishrei, since, according to tradition, Adam and Eve were created on the first day of the upcoming month.
So, while the month of Nisan celebrates our uniquely Jewish story, the month of Tishrei celebrates the universal human story. This means, according to the rabbis, that Rosh Hashanah—the beginning of the holiest period in the Jewish calendar—isn’t just about us as Jews. It’s about all of us. It is a reminder that all people share one Creator, and ultimately, one destiny.
And what do we do each year when this universal birthday arrives? We hit the pause button on life. We step back. We look inward. We do cheshbon hanefesh—a soul review akin to an annual performance check-in. We ask ourselves:
• What went well this year?
• Where did I miss the mark?
• What do I need to do differently moving forward?
And the sound of the shofar is there to guide us. Each blast offers a different message.
Tekiah—one short blast—is a call to remember that there’s something bigger than ourselves.
Shevarim—three short blasts in rapid succession—is a reminder of our brokenness and our need and longing to return.
Teruah—three groups of three short blasts—is like a spiritual alarm clock. It shakes us, jolts us awake, so we don’t sleepwalk into the next year continuing the patterns and behaviors that separate us from God, one another, and ourselves.
It is a far cry from the effusiveness and unbounded revelry of the secular New Year. But then again, our tradition doesn’t refer to Rosh Hashanah as the New Year. Instead, it is called Yom HaDin—the Day of Judgment. It is the day God looks at each of us and says: Your life matters, what you do matters, and you can do better.
And we mark the upcoming day not with hats, streamers, music, and drink, but with teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah—with turning, prayer, and the obligation to help others. Rather than looking outward as we do on December 31st, we look inward. We take the time to recognize where we misstepped. We strive to make amends to those we hurt. And we commit ourselves to setting up guardrails, so that we don’t make the same mistakes again.
It’s tough. It’s humbling. And, far less fun than New Year’s Eve. But it’s also the path to emotional and spiritual growth.
As Rachel Goldberg-Polin, mother of Hersh Goldberg-Polin (who was kidnapped on October 7, 2023 and later murdered by Hamas), observed on a recent episode of the podcast, Call Me Back, perhaps that is why we call it Rosh Hashanah—the head of the year—rather than the new year. The head, she notes, sets the course for the rest of the body. It makes the choices for the lives we will live in the coming year.
So while Rosh Hashanah is the New Year, it is not the new year of the Jewish calendar. It’s the new year of the heart. It’s the time for us to stop, put down the phones and the tablets, and take a serious look at ourselves. It’s a time to ask questions that may be easier to articulate but whose answers are often painful to hear.
• Am I living the way I want to live?
• Am I becoming the person I was meant to be?
• And if not, why not?
As I approach my final holiday season with all of you, I want to take a moment to wish each and every one of you a Shanah Tovah u’Metukah. May the new year be filled with meaning and a sense of purpose.
Shabbat Shalom and Shanah Tova,
Rabbi Daniel Cohen