You’ve heard the so-called curse: “May you live in interesting times.” Its origin story is a myth, and yet, here we are, drowning in them.

Rosh Hashanah approaches. I wish for a little…uninteresting.

A year without headlines that reflect the horrors of the moment: Gaza. Hostages. Iran. Houthi attacks. Doha. Political killings. Antisemitism. D.C. Colorado.

The world feels close. Proximal. Raw. Unavoidable. Moments of joy end up as whispers lost in a storm.

For my children, ages 11 to 22, the year ahead is blank, yet heavy with possibility. The oldest enters law school. The youngest, middle school. They all navigate life as Jews in a world where hatred is real, not theoretical.

My prayer is simple: safety, yes, but also pride. Courage. Fearless Jewish identity. Our children are the brave ones now.

The Torah says almost nothing about Rosh Hashanah:
“In the seventh month, on the first day, you shall observe a day of rest, a sacred occasion commemorated with shofar blasts.”

No story. No apples and honey. No Book of Life. No spectacle. A holiday, deconstructed. Just rest and shofar. Shockingly minimal.

And yet, that is exactly the point.

Rosh Hashanah does not compete with chaos. It does not scream.

It reduces.

Rest. Alarm.

The shofar is elemental. A raw blast of air. No words, no tune, no melody. Just a clarion call.

Where the world escalates, the shofar simplifies.
Where headlines roar, the shofar cries.

It has pierced the air at Sinai.
At Jericho.
At the founding of Israel.
At the Kotel in 1967.
And it pierces today. Across centuries.
Always a reminder: we are still here, unbroken and proud.

Soon, we will pray:

“Hayom harat olam; hayom ya’amid bamishpat kol yetzurei olamim.”
Today, the world is born. Today, creation stands in judgment.

Every year, we are reborn in the present tense.
No spectacle. Only presence.

Here is Rosh Hashanah’s hidden blessing:
In a world addicted to headlines, it dares to be uninteresting.
It asks us to pause.
To listen.
To feel one sound calling us back.

As we step into 5786, may the shofar awaken us not only to the urgency of this moment, but to the resilience of our story.

May our children, and we, inherit not just ordinary days, but better ones in the coming year.

Shanah tovah u’metukah.

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