By Ed Harris, Jewish Sound Columnist
You can recognize the approach of the High Holidays at the Harris household by the sight of my family members forcing their hands over their ears and fleeing the premises as if their very lives were at stake. The panic is set off rather improbably by the tiniest shofar you’ve ever seen. How could something so small generate so much hysteria? One reason: In my hands, a shofar is transformed from a musical instrument to a deafening assault weapon.
Our home is filled with an abundance of traditional Jewish objects. Many of these ritual items are gifts we received over the years from my generous parents: Shabbat candlesticks, a beautiful Tzedakah box, a multi-colored plate for dipping apples into honey to celebrate the sweetness of the New Year. Then there is the well-intentioned, but slightly unusual gift: The short shofar. This particular ram’s horn is a mere six inches in length, as opposed to a more typical three-footer, in quadruped terms like a miniature pony vs. a thoroughbred race horse.
I didn’t know they made rams this small.
At the Jewish Day School, when our youngest, Izzy, was in 3rd grade, the teacher encouraged all the children who had shofars at home to bring theirs in for a special show-and-tell. Izzy was reluctant, fearful the other kids would tease him once they saw they our diminutive family shofar on display. It’s that small.
A dream of mine is to someday be honored with the aliyah of blowing the shofar at High Holiday services. Becoming proficient, however, is not easy. Once we received the shofar from my parents, I attempted to learn on my own. With no one to instruct me, I assumed, incorrectly as it turns out, it was a wind instrument, like a flute, and the noise would be produced by the movement of air. Despite repeated attempts, the only sound I could generate was a thin squeak, plus the sensation that my liver was about to come flying out from the strain.
One year at junior congregation services at Herzl-Ner Tamid, the assistant rabbi provided a shofar demonstration for the kinderlach. I asked for some pointers, and learned to my surprise that the music is produced by vibrating the lips.
Armed with this knowledge, I returned home, determined to conquer this ancient primitive apparatus. But now I had the exact opposite problem: My family members begged me to stop the thunderous racket. When I play the shofar, it is not a garden variety horn, but a foghorn. I took my kids to the Macklemore concert this year: He needed stacks of speakers 20 feet high to produce a volume of sound comparable to what I can create with my little shofar at home.
It’s said the only way to get to Carnegie Hall is practice, practice, practice. Presumably, any hope of standing at the bimah in front of the entire congregation, raised shofar pressed against my lips, would require many hours of dedicated effort. I am up to the task, but my loved ones? Not so much.
I recalled my Bar Mitzvah class, in suburban New Jersey, when the rabbi said one day as we were learning a new prayer: “Harris, don’t join in. I want the other children to hear the way it’s supposed to sound.” I know our ancient heritage requires sacrifice, but must it also include blows to the ego?
Jews believe the sound of the celestial shofar accompanied the receiving of the Torah at Mt. Sinai, and will be heard again with the coming of the Messiah. My practice may hasten this long-awaited day, as I let loose with ear-splitting blasts capable of triggering avalanches, gathering Jews from the four corners of the world and perhaps carrying all the way up to heaven. Ask my family, once they’re done vibrating as well.
Ed Harris, the author of “Fifty Shades of Schwarz” and several other books, was born in the Bronx and lives in Bellevue with his family. His blog, Fizz-Ed, and additional information about his books are available at www.edharrisauthor.com.