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The Shofar That Will Wake Abraham From His Sleep

Three shofar blasts will shatter and remake the earth at the end of days. The broken teruah blast is aimed at Abraham, asleep in the world to come, waiting.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Abraham Lies Waiting in the World to Come
  2. What Three Shofar Blasts Do to the World
  3. The Blast Aimed at Abraham
  4. The Desert Between Exile and Redemption

Abraham Lies Waiting in the World to Come

Somewhere in the world to come, Abraham is asleep. Not dead in the ordinary sense, because the patriarchs do not simply end, but resting, held in a state between the present age and the age that has not come yet. He has been there since he died in Canaan at the age of one hundred and seventy-five, full of years. He has been there through the slavery in Egypt and the exodus and the conquest and the kingdoms and the destructions of the Temple and the long exile. He is waiting, the way a man waits when he knows exactly what he is waiting for and has no way to hurry it.

What will wake him is a ram's horn. Not the horn from the thicket at Moriah, the one that took the place of his son Isaac on the altar. A different horn, one that will be sounded at a volume the world has never heard, will reach wherever he rests and will pull him into the messianic era. The Tikkunei Zohar, the great mystical compilation of thirteenth-century Castile, identifies the exact blast: it is the teruah, the broken, staccato sound, the one that falls apart in the air, nine short cries in rapid sequence instead of one held note.

What Three Shofar Blasts Do to the World

The Tikkunei Zohar reads the three sounds of the shofar, tekiah, shevarim, and teruah, as three distinct operations performed on the structure of reality at the end of days, each one associated with a patriarch, each one accomplishing a task that the others cannot.

The tekiah is the long, unbroken blast, a single sustained note that holds without wavering. This belongs to Isaac. Isaac is the patriarch of Gevurah, divine judgment and strict order, the sefirah whose quality is holding a line without flinching. The tekiah's long, unyielding note matches his nature: it is the sound of structure that does not bend. At the end of days, this blast will do something to the existing order that only the force of unbending judgment can do.

The shevarim is three medium blasts, the sound of something breaking in an orderly way. This belongs to Jacob, whose life was a sequence of structured breakings, the ladder, the wrestling, the blessing stolen and then earned, the sons who tore him apart and reunited him. Jacob's sound is not the clean hold of the tekiah or the chaos of the teruah. It is three deliberate breaks, the sound of transformation that knows what shape it is moving toward.

The Blast Aimed at Abraham

The teruah is Abraham's. Nine short, fractured cries, the sound that Isaiah heard when he described the earth utterly broken, utterly shattered, utterly split. The Tikkunei Zohar takes these three intensifications from Isaiah 24:19 and maps them onto the three sounds of the shofar, but the teruah and Abraham belong together for reasons that go deeper than the parallel. Abraham is the patriarch of Chesed, divine lovingkindness, the force that pours without limit. He is also the man who was broken on Moriah, who raised the knife over his son and had everything he had staked his life on held in suspension between the knife and the angel's call.

The teruah's brokenness is his brokenness. The nine short cries are the sound of a man whose certainty shattered and reformed and shattered again, who built his faith not on smoothness but on fracture. When this blast sounds at the end of days, Abraham will recognize it. It is the sound that belongs to him. It will reach wherever he is resting and wake him, and when he wakes, the age he has been waiting for will have arrived.

The Desert Between Exile and Redemption

The tradition also preserved a reading of the shofar as a navigational instrument, a sound that guides through the spiritual desert between exile and redemption the way the pillar of cloud guided through the physical desert between Egypt and Canaan. The shofar blasts at Sinai, the tradition notes, grew louder as the revelation continued, not softer. The proximity of the divine increases the sound rather than reducing it to silence. At the end of days, when the great shofar sounds, it will do to the present age what the shofar at Sinai did to the wilderness: orient it, direct it, make a path where there was no path.

The ram's horn that sounds at Rosh Hashanah every year is the rehearsal for this. The congregation stands and hears the three sounds in their prescribed order and their prescribed numbers, and somewhere below the level of ordinary hearing, what is being rehearsed is the waking of the patriarchs, the shattering of the present structure, the arrival of what Abraham has been waiting for across all the centuries of his rest.

AbrahamMessiahShofarRedemptionKabbalah
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From the tradition

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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.

Tikkunei Zohar 97:1Tikkunei Zohar

The Tikkunei (spiritual repair) Zohar, a central text of Kabbalah, dives deep into the symbolism of the shofar. And in the 97th Tikkun, we find a particularly intriguing interpretation. It speaks of the shofar’s sound ascending in te-ru’ah, a specific type of broken, warbling blast.

What does that mean?

This teaching uses some unusual Hebrew markings: shophar holekh, paseq maqaph. These aren't just random scribbles. They're like secret codes, hinting at the deeper meaning of the shofar’s call. Shophar holekh translates to "the shofar goes" or "proceeds." And paseq maqaph are grammatical markings, connecting words and creating a flow. The Tikkunei Zohar sees these markings as integral to the shofar’s power.

The sound of the shofar as a spear – a romḥa in Aramaic. A spear meant to awaken something, to stir up the energy of battle. But not a physical battle. This is a spiritual war, a struggle against the forces of negativity and chaos. The sound of the te-ru’ah is the battle cry, the charge that rouses us to action. the shofar isn't a smooth, melodic instrument. It’s raw, primal, almost unsettling. It shakes you out of your complacency. And maybe, just maybe, that's the point. It's not meant to soothe, but to galvanize.

The Tikkunei Zohar teaches us that everything in the universe – even the seemingly simple sound of a ram's horn – is layered with meaning, waiting to be deciphered. It's an invitation to listen more deeply, to look beyond the surface, and to recognize the hidden power that resides within us all. So, the next time you hear the shofar blast, remember that it's not just a sound. It's a call to arms, a spiritual awakening, a spear aimed at the heart of darkness. Are you ready to answer?

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Tikkunei Zohar 56:5Tikkunei Zohar

The Tikkunei (spiritual repair) Zohar, a central text of Kabbalah (Jewish mysticism), speaks of just such a time. It paints a vivid picture, filled with shattering and trembling, all tied to the ancient sounds of the shofar, the ram's horn.

Specifically, Tikkunei Zohar 56 focuses on the verse from (Isaiah 24:19): "Utterly broken will be the land.." But it doesn't just read the verse literally. It dives deep, connecting it to the blasts of the shofar that we hear on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. It says, "Utterly broken – with the ram’s horn sound te-ru’ah.."

These aren't just any shofar blasts. The text breaks down the verse in Isaiah linking three specific sounds to the earth's breaking: te-ru’ah (a trembling, staccato sound), te-qi’ah (a long, piercing blast), and she-varim (a broken, fragmented sound). Each sound, in this mystical interpretation, reflects a different aspect of this cosmic upheaval.

Where do these sounds originate? According to the Tikkunei Zohar, they're tied to the very foundations of our spiritual heritage: the three Patriarchs – Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

That, at this critical time, the three Patriarchs will become bound to Gevurah, a concept in Kabbalah that represents strength, judgment, and divine power. Through this connection, they become the very embodiment of these ram’s horn sounds: te-ru’ah, she-varim, and te-qi’ah. They are the conduits through which this cosmic energy flows.

So, what does it all mean? The Tikkunei Zohar connects these events to the "end of days." It's a time of profound transformation. And significantly, it states that "all these signs, in the Land of Israel they shall be, because Hebron is there, where the Patriarchs are buried." Hebron, the ancient city where tradition says the Patriarchs are buried, becomes a focal point, a ground zero for this spiritual earthquake. The very ground where our ancestors rest becomes the epicenter of a world-altering event. It’s a powerful image, linking the past, present, and future in a dramatic crescendo.

What are we to make of this vision? It's easy to get caught up in the apocalyptic imagery, the breaking and trembling. But perhaps the real message is one of hope and renewal. After all, even after something is utterly broken, it can be rebuilt. Perhaps this shattering is necessary to clear the way for a new beginning, a new era. Just as the shofar calls us to reflection and repentance on Rosh Hashanah, maybe this cosmic shofar blast is a call to humanity to wake up, to change, and to build a better world. And perhaps, just perhaps, that work begins in the very place where our story began, in the land where our ancestors lie.

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Sefer HaKanah 45:8Sefer HaKanah

In ancient text, Sefer HaKanah, these sounds are a complex language, a mystical dialogue between us, the divine, and the very forces that shape our reality.

Yourself in the wilderness, a place of emptiness, as Sefer HaKanah describes it. A place teeming with dangers – snakes, scorpions, the gnawing thirst. To navigate this spiritual desert, we need protection. That’s where the shofar comes in. We are told to sound two tekiyah blasts (long, sustained notes), interspersed with the harsher, broken sounds of the teruah and shevarim (shorter, wailing blasts). Why? To ward off the “heat wave” or “sun,” perhaps metaphorical representations of harsh judgment. Sefer HaKanah even suggests the shofar itself should be made of silver, hinting at the attribute of mercy associated with that metal. But the relationship between silver and mercy isn't clearly defined.

Rosh Hashanah, ah, that’s when things get really interesting. Sefer HaKanah states that on Rosh Hashanah, we stand in Din – in judgment. We recall our sins. And if we don't actively sound three teruah blasts, including them in mercy, it’s as if the energies of Pachad (fear), Hod (splendor), and Atarah (crown) are blocked, preventing our prayers from ascending. Atarah, here, is described as the lower half of Yesod (foundation), a Sephirot (divine attribute) that governs the world in the Messianic era before Olam Ha-Ba (the World to Come). It is a complex kabbalistic idea!

So, why the shofar specifically? Because, Sefer HaKanah explains, the sound signals to Binah (understanding), who designated the subdivisions of Din (judgment) and Rachamim (mercy). Binah, literally "understanding," is the Supernal Mother in the Kabbalistic Tree of Life, the source of discernment and compassion. The sound emanating from the shofar mirrors this duality: Din and Rachamim, represented by the tekiyah and the teruah. Though, the ordering here is somewhat unclear, as elsewhere it suggests the teruah corresponds with Din.

And what about the women? The text says they are obligated to hear the sounds of the shofar, but not necessarily to blow it. This, the text suggests, is because the teruah is emphasized and women are naturally more compassionate, so they are not obligated in the sound of judgement.

Sefer HaKanah then throws another curveball, stating that Binah considers the nation of Israel “the seventh” – a term whose origin is unclear. Because of this, the mitzvah (commandment) of the shofar falls in the seventh month, Tishrei. The first day of the month hints at renewing our intentions, though the text doesn’t clarify who "they" are in "their company." This is why the seventh month is called "The day of shofar."

Now, don't get the wrong idea. We shouldn't assume that the period leading up to Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement) follows the same pattern as the creation of the world with its seven days and seven nights. if you were to blow a tekiyah blast at night, followed only by the teruah, without the shevarim, the text suggests it would lead to the sealing of Din. Therefore, the teruah must be placed between two tekiyah blasts, and this should be done at night. The meaning of this is unclear, especially since we don't blow the shofar at night on Rosh Hashanah, implying that it's a matter of Din with Rachamim, judgement tempered with mercy.

Even on Yom Kippur, we can't make a direct comparison with Rosh Hashanah. On Shabbat, there are two sheep offerings, and one shouldn’t light a fire as one would on Shabbat. The first day is holy, and the seventh day is also holy. On Yom Kippur, judgment occurs by day, but not by night because Din exists every day and night for Binah.

The text seems to suggest that Binah descends from its higher state into its lower form of Din during the day, only to reascend at night, allowing for Rachamim in the middle triad of Sephirot. But the actions of judgment still happen by night. You can't ever completely lock away Din, it seems.

So, what do we take away from all this? The shofar blasts aren't just sounds. They are a call to awaken, a plea for mercy, a reminder of the delicate balance between judgment and compassion that shapes our world. It's a complex and layered tradition, and perhaps that's the point: to engage us in a deeper exploration of ourselves and our relationship with the divine. And isn't that a journey worth embarking on, one blast at a time?

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Legends of the Jews 5:257Legends of the Jews

The story goes that after Abraham proved his unwavering faith by being willing to sacrifice his son, Isaac, God intervened. A ram, caught in a thicket, was offered instead. But what happened after that? Did you ever wonder if there were more to the conversation between God and Abraham?

Well, according to Legends of the Jews, God told Abraham something profound. He acknowledged Abraham's faithfulness, but also foretold a future where Abraham's descendants would falter. "Thy children will sin before me in time to come," God said, "and I will sit in judgment upon them on the New Year's Day."

Heavy stuff. But there's hope woven in. God continued, revealing a path to redemption. "If they desire that I should grant them pardon," He said, "they shall blow the ram's horn on that day, and I, mindful of the ram that was substituted for Isaac as a sacrifice, will forgive them for their sins." The sound of the shofar, a primal, ancient sound, is a direct appeal to God's mercy, a reminder of Abraham's devotion and the ram that stood in place of his son.

The story doesn't end there. The Lord then revealed even more about the future. Abraham learned that the Temple, which would one day stand on the very spot where he nearly sacrificed Isaac, would be destroyed. And just as the ram struggled from one tree only to be caught in another, Abraham's children would be scattered, moving from kingdom to kingdom.

As Ginzberg retells it in Legends of the Jews, they would be delivered from Babylonia only to be subjugated by Media. Rescued from Media, they would be enslaved by Greece. Escaping from Greece, they would serve Rome. A cycle of liberation and oppression, a pattern of hope and hardship.

Yet, even within this prophecy of exile and suffering, there’s an unwavering promise: "yet in the end they would be redeemed in a final redemption, at the sound of the ram's horn." This final redemption, echoing the words of Isaiah (27:13) that on that day "the Lord God shall blow the trumpet," signifies a complete and ultimate deliverance. As the prophet Zechariah envisions (9:14) "the Lord shall be seen over them, and his arrow shall go forth as the lightning: and the Lord God shall blow the trumpet, and shall go with whirlwinds of the south."

So, when we hear the shofar blast on Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year), we're not just observing a tradition. We’re participating in a cosmic drama that began with Abraham, a drama of sin, forgiveness, exile, and, ultimately, redemption. We are, in that moment, both remembering the past and calling out for a better future. A future where the echoes of the shofar herald not just another year, but the final, complete, and resounding redemption we’ve been waiting for.

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