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How the Shofar Turned Judgment Into Mercy

The throne of justice rises on Rosh Hashanah. Then the shofar sounds, and the throne moves. The same seat becomes a seat of mercy.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Throne Was Not the End
  2. The Thanksgiving Offering That Nothing Could Replace
  3. What Mercy Answers When the Nations Mock
  4. Abraham's Faith Through Jeremiah's Tears

The Throne Was Not the End

Haggai speaks after the exile. He has walked back from Babylon and seen what remained of Jerusalem. He knows what thrones look like when they fall. When God promises through Haggai to overturn the throne of kingdoms, Haggai does not have to imagine the catastrophe: he has lived in the aftermath of one already.

Daniel sees thrones set in place. Ancient of Days takes His seat. The court sits in judgment and books are opened. Obadiah imagines saviors rising on Mount Zion to judge the mountain of Esau. These images could have hardened into pure severity. Thrones appear, kingdoms fall, judgment begins, and nothing softens the outcome.

But Rabbi Yehuda bar Nachman reads the progression differently. On Rosh Hashanah, he says, God rises to take the throne of judgment. Then Israel takes the ram's horn and blows it. And God, he says, rises from the seat of judgment and moves to the seat of mercy.

The shofar does not just announce the new year. It moves the throne.

The Thanksgiving Offering That Nothing Could Replace

Every sacrifice has a purpose. The sin offering addresses transgression. The guilt offering addresses specific wrongs. The burnt offering ascends completely. But the midrash singles out the thanksgiving offering as the one that will outlast them all.

In the World to Come, Rabbi Yochanan says, all sacrifices will cease. The sin offering will have no reason to exist because there will be no sin. The guilt offering will have nothing left to repair. But the thanksgiving offering will continue. The person who was sick and recovered still needs to say thank you. The person who crossed the sea, who was released from prison, who survived the desert still needs to name what happened.

The song of thanksgiving cannot be made obsolete by the disappearance of wrong. It is not a response to failure. It is a response to survival and rescue, and rescue does not stop being real when the danger is over. In the time when judgment has given way completely to mercy, there will still be people who need to say: I was in the hard place and I came through.

What Mercy Answers When the Nations Mock

Israel sat in exile and the nations laughed. Where is your God now? The mockery was not only cruel; it had a theological edge. If God had truly protected Israel, Israel would not be in captivity. The defeat seemed like evidence.

The midrash does not answer this by minimizing the exile. It answers by pointing to the patriarchs. Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob survived things that should have killed them, and the nations who watched them fail were sometimes the nations that later disappeared. Egypt enslaved Israel for four hundred years and then the sea swallowed Pharaoh's army. The laugh of the nations is always premature because it does not account for what has already been promised.

The covenant with Abraham did not end when the famine came. It did not end when Sarah was taken into Pharaoh's house. It did not end when Isaac lay on the altar. The nations watching any single moment see a fragment. The covenant is longer than any single moment.

Abraham's Faith Through Jeremiah's Tears

Jeremiah faces a people with faces harder than rock. He has delivered the warnings. He has watched them ignored. He has seen the judgment arrive. And yet the midrash sends him back to stand beside Abraham.

Abraham sat at the door of his tent in the heat of the day, recovering from his own circumcision, and received three strangers who turned out to be angels. He ran to meet them. He did not wait for rescue to come to him. He ran toward it, even in pain, even in heat, even without knowing what was coming.

Jeremiah is also running toward something: the possibility that this people, who are harder to move than stone, might still turn. He does not give up on the turning because Abraham did not give up on the stranger at the door. Hope in this tradition is not optimism. It is the specific practice of remaining open to what has not yet arrived, even when everything visible argues that it will not come.

The shofar that moves the throne from judgment to mercy is the same breath that Abraham took before he answered God at the binding of Isaac. The same breath Jeremiah took before he preached to a people who would not listen. Not a triumphant breath. A breath that continues anyway.

Midrash TehillimDavidMosesAbrahamJobMercyPrayer
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The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Midrash Tehillim 47:2Midrash Tehillim

The ancient sages felt that way too. And they looked to the future, to a time when things would be set right.

Midrash Tehillim, a collection of interpretations on the Book of Psalms, grapples with this very longing in its discussion of Psalm 47. It asks, "When will He choose for us our inheritance, the inheritance of the pride of Jacob?" In other words, when will God finally make things right for us?

The Midrash offers another, equally powerful interpretation: "When will He be chosen and give us our inheritance, when He sits on His holy throne?" When will God be chosen? When will we, as a people, actively choose to embrace His ways, allowing Him to truly reign in our lives and in the world?

To answer this, the text turns to the prophets. "And I will overturn the throne of kingdoms," says Haggai (2:22). Daniel echoes this vision, saying, "I saw until thrones were placed, and one who was ancient of days sat" (Daniel 7:9). There's a sense of upheaval, of old power structures being dismantled to make way for something new, something divine.

So, when does this happen? The answer, according to the prophet Obadiah (1:21), is "And saviors shall come up on Mount Zion to judge the Mount of Esau." A time of judgment is coming.

But what kind of judgment will it be? This is where it gets really interesting. Rabbi Yehuda bar Nachman, quoting Resh Lakish, offers a profound insight: "As soon as the Holy One, blessed be He, ascends to judgment and sits on the throne to judge, when they blow the shofar, He rises and transforms the attribute of justice into the attribute of mercy." The shofar, the ram's horn, a call to attention, a blast from the depths of the soul. As soon as it sounds, God Himself transforms justice into mercy. It's not about harsh punishment, but about compassion and redemption.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) connects this to Moses' ascent of Mount Sinai. "And Moses ascended with the shofar sounding a blast, as it says, 'And God in the sound of the shofar' (Psalms 47:6), with mercy, as it says, 'The Lord, the Lord, God merciful and gracious, long-suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth' (Exodus 34:6)." It is this moment of revelation that transforms history.

Even in the midst of judgment, there's always the potential for mercy. The sound of the shofar acts as a catalyst, a reminder that even when things seem darkest, compassion can prevail. It is not just a call to judgment, but a call to repentance and change.

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Midrash Tehillim 117:1Midrash Tehillim

The Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic commentaries on the Book of Psalms, explores this very idea. It begins with the verse, "I will offer You a sacrifice of thanksgiving." (Psalm 116:17). The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) points out something profound: Usually, when we offer sacrifices, it's because we've messed up. We bring a chatat, a sin offering, or an asham, a guilt offering, to atone for our wrongdoings. But this verse speaks of something different. This is a sacrifice born solely of gratitude. “Here, we do not say sin offering or guilt offering, but rather a sacrifice of thanksgiving. I must give You thanks." Pure, unadulterated thankfulness.

What prompts such universal gratitude?

The Midrash then pivots to Psalm 117, a short but powerful call to praise: "Praise the Lord, all nations!" (Psalm 117:1). But why should all nations praise God? What does God do that warrants such widespread acclaim?

The text turns to another verse, "There is none like You among the gods, O Lord, nor are there any works like Yours." (Psalm 86:8). What makes God's creations so unique? The Midrash explains with a compelling analogy: "How can flesh and blood create form without being in that form? But the Holy One, blessed be He, created man in His form, as it says, 'And God created man in His own image.'" (Genesis 1:27). God created humanity in God's image.

And it doesn't stop there. "And He also begets like His form, as it says, 'And he begot a son in his own likeness, after his image.'" (Genesis 5:3). We, in turn, create in our own image. So, God's creation resonates through all of us. When a human king is criticized, his enemies criticize him. But when God is "criticized," the Midrash says, all praise God! "All nations whom You have made shall come and praise You, O Lord." (Psalm 86:9). Even perceived flaws ultimately point to the divine.

Rabbi Pinchas tells a story about a philosopher who asked Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananiah a fascinating question: "On what day is the whole world equal, and the nations bow to the Holy One, blessed be He?" Rabbi Yehoshua's answer? "One day when all are happy, namely, when the rains come." When the rains are withheld, everyone suffers. But when the rains finally arrive, joy is universal. Everyone, regardless of nationality or belief, rejoices and praises God. "All nations whom You have made shall come and praise You, O Lord. For You are great and do wondrous things, and there are none like You." (Psalm 86:9-10).

The Midrash emphasizes that these "wondrous things" specifically refer to rain, citing (Job 9:10): "Who does great things, unfathomable wonders." It is God "Who gives rain to the earth."

Rabbi Tanchum bar Chiya takes it a step further, declaring that "The descent of rain is as great as the giving of the Torah." The giving of the Torah brought joy to Israel, while the rain brings joy to all nations, to the entire world – "to beasts, to birds, and to wild animals." It sustains all of creation. As (Psalm 65:10) says, "You visit the earth and water it; You greatly enrich it." Rabbi adds, "You satisfy its desire," connecting it to (Genesis 3:16), "And to your husband will be your desire." The earth desires the rain, and God fulfills that desire.

So, what's the takeaway? Perhaps it's this: Gratitude isn't just a feeling; it's a recognition of the divine hand in all things, especially in the blessings we often take for granted, like the life-giving rain. And that recognition, that shared joy, can unite all of humanity in praise.

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Midrash Tehillim 119:16Midrash Tehillim

The sages of the Midrash Tehillim, a collection of interpretations on the Book of Psalms, knew that feeling well. In their exploration of Psalm 119, they confront this very human experience.

They begin with a heartfelt plea: "And bring me your mercy, Lord, your salvation, as you have promised." It's a cry echoing through generations, a request for the same Divine compassion shown to our ancestors. As it says in (Micah 7:20), "You will give truth to Jacob and mercy to Abraham." This idea of inherited mercy, a covenantal promise, is central. And Moses, upon witnessing the Exodus, proclaimed in (Exodus 15:13), "You have led with your mercy this people, whom you have redeemed." The psalmists, like David in (Psalm 40:12), tap into this wellspring of hope, pleading, "Bring me your mercy, Lord."

What kind of mercy are we even talking about? The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) asks a pointed question: "What is the mercy that you show us that you save us?" It's not just about rescue, it's about vindication. It’s about having an answer for those who mock. The text acknowledges the crushing weight of silence, quoting (Psalm 39:10): "I am silent; I will not open my mouth, for you are the one who has done it." There's a recognition that sometimes, suffering is a divine decree, a test.

Yet, even in silence, there's a yearning for justice, a desire to speak out. The Midrash continues, referencing (Psalm 39:11): "Remove your affliction from me; by the force of your hand I am perishing." This leads to a powerful declaration from (Psalm 69:10): "I will answer those who insult me." But what are these insults? What accusations are hurled?

The answer lies in the pain of bearing the burden of faith. (Psalm 69:8) laments, "Because for your sake I have borne reproach; shame has covered my face." It's the feeling of being an outcast, of suffering ridicule for one's devotion. This resonates with the despair of (Psalm 102:10-11), "For I have eaten ashes like bread, and mingled my drink with tears, because of your indignation and wrath; for you have lifted me up and cast me down."

And then comes the ultimate taunt, the question that cuts to the core: "Where is your God?" (Psalm 42:4). It's the skeptic's challenge, the doubter's sneer. When you’re down, when you’re suffering, when the world is against you, where is this God you believe in?

But the Midrash doesn't leave us in despair. It offers a powerful message of hope and vindication. The Lord, according to (Isaiah 25:8), says, "For my sake you are insulted, and I will remove your disgrace." This is a pivotal moment. It’s a promise that suffering for the sake of God is not in vain.

The Midrash Tehillim culminates in a vision of ultimate redemption, a future where the scoffers are silenced. (Isaiah 25:9) proclaims, "In that day they will say, 'Surely this is our God; we have waited for him, and he has saved us.'" And the wicked, those who once sneered, "Where is your God?" will finally acknowledge the truth: "This is the Lord we have waited for; let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation."

What a powerful image! It’s a reminder that faith, even in the face of adversity, will ultimately be rewarded. The Midrash Tehillim teaches us that even when we are bearing the weight of the world's scorn, we are not alone. Our ancestors felt this pain, and the Divine promise of mercy and vindication remains. And perhaps, just perhaps, the greatest vindication is not silencing our critics, but seeing them ultimately recognize the truth in what we've always believed.

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Midrash Tehillim 119:17Midrash Tehillim

That feeling of hope against the odds… it’s a deeply human experience, one that echoes through the ages, and it’s at the heart of this passage from Midrash Tehillim 119.

Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic commentaries on the Book of Psalms, often takes a single verse and unpacks its meaning, drawing connections to other parts of the Hebrew Bible. It's like a conversation across generations, a way of finding new relevance in ancient words.

In this particular passage, the verse "Remember the word that you spoke to your servant, for it has given me hope," is the starting point. The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) then pulls in a rather harsh quote from Jeremiah (5:3): "O Lord, do not your eyes look for truth? You have struck them down, but they felt no anguish; you have consumed them, but they refused to take correction. They have made their faces harder than rock; they have refused to repent." It's a bleak picture of a people seemingly incapable of learning from their mistakes.

Here's where it gets interesting. God, in response to Jeremiah's lament, asks, "Where is that truth that Abraham believed in?" This is a pivotal question. Where is that unwavering faith that Abraham, the patriarch, demonstrated when he "believed in the Lord," as (Genesis 15:6) tells us?

The connection is then made: David, the speaker in Psalms, is echoing that same faith. He's asking God to remember the promise, the same promise made to Abraham. What was that promise? "I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky" (Genesis 22:17). It’s a promise of posterity, of a future, of hope. That’s why David says, “For you have given me hope.”

This promise isn't just some abstract idea; it's a source of consolation in suffering. It’s also connected to Moses' words in (Exodus 32:13), "I will give you all the land I promised to Abraham and his descendants forever." The promise of the land, the promise of a future – all intertwined and reinforcing each other.

But there’s a challenge, isn’t there? "The arrogant mock me excessively," the passage continues. It speaks to the experience of being ridiculed, of being told that the promises of God are empty, that the exile is permanent. "The one who exiled you has not yet brought you back," the mockers sneer. They even quote (Lamentations 3:46), gloating, "Aha! Aha! Look at us!" They proclaim among the nations that the Jewish people will never live in peace.

And yet, despite this mocking, despite this apparent hopelessness, the speaker declares, "Nevertheless, I have not turned away from your law." There's a steadfastness here, a refusal to abandon faith even in the face of overwhelming adversity. The mockers try to erode tradition, urging, "Don't be like yesterday and don't keep the Sabbath, and don't read." But the speaker refuses, saying, "But I am afraid of you, and I do not listen to them, for their words are like dry grass."

This is a powerful image: dry grass. It’s ephemeral, fleeting, without substance. In contrast, the passage quotes (Isaiah 40:8): "The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever." Just as you endure forever, so do your words.

What does this all mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that promises, especially those rooted in faith, can be a source of strength even when circumstances seem bleak. The Midrash shows us how to draw on the stories of our ancestors, like Abraham and Moses, to find hope and resilience in the face of adversity. It's a call to hold fast to our traditions, even when the world around us tries to pull us away. Because, like the enduring word of God, those traditions can offer a grounding, a stability, that the fleeting trends of the world simply cannot provide.

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Pesikta DeRav Kahana 23:3Pesikta de-Rav Kahana

[3] Judah bar Nahman in the name of Resh Lakish opened: "God has gone up amid the blast, [the LORD amid the sound of the trumpet]" (Psalms 47:6). In the hour when the Holy One, blessed be He, goes up and sits upon the throne of judgment, He goes up in judgment, as it is written, "God has gone up amid the blast" (ibid.). And in the hour when Israel take up their shofars and sound them, the Holy One, blessed be He, rises from the throne of judgment and sits upon the throne of mercy, as it is written, "the LORD amid the sound of the shofar" (ibid.), and He is filled with mercy toward them and has compassion upon them, and turns for them the attribute of judgment into the attribute of mercy. When? "In the seventh month" (Leviticus 23:24).

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Pesikta DeRav Kahana 23:11Pesikta de-Rav Kahana

Rabbi Abba the son of Rabbi Pappi and Rabbi Yehoshua of Sikhnin said in the name of Rabbi Levi: All the days of the year Israel are busy with their work, but on Rosh Hashanah they take up shofars and sound them, and the Holy One, blessed be He, rises from the throne of judgment and sits upon the throne of mercy, and is filled with compassion for them, and turns toward them the attribute of judgment into the attribute of mercy. When? "In the seventh month, on the first of the month" (Leviticus 23:24).

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