The cry. There's an old and totally apocryphal story about the 19th century French Jewish

aristocrat, the Baron de Rothschild, whose wife was in her bedroom with a nurse in the last stages of delivery,

while he was sitting downstairs playing a game of cards with his friends.

Suddenly, they heard her cry, my God, mon die.

Baron, said his friends, go up to your wife, she needs you.

Not yet, said the Baron, and continued playing cards.

Five minutes later, they heard a cry, my God, my God, go up, said the Baron's friends.

Not yet, said the Baron, and returned to his cars.

Finally, they heard his wife cry, Gavolt! The Baron immediately rose and ran upstairs, saying,

Now is the time. Well, the story is, of course, about how Jews in the 19th century had to hide their Jewishness and become more French than the French, more English than the English,

and yet they remain Jewish in their hearts. The Jewish mind spoke French, but the Jewish soul

still spoke Yiddish. There's another and simpler message, which is that when we cry from the

heart, someone listens. And that's the message of the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah.

We are a hyperverbal people. We talk, we argue, we pontificate, we deliver witty reparty and

clever put-downs. Jews may not always be great listeners, but we are among the world's great

talkers, accus us of anything,

and we'll come up with a dozen reasons why we're right and you're wrong.

But there comes a moment when we summon the courage to be honest with ourselves.

And if we're really honest with ourselves, then we know in our heart that we're not perfect,

that we don't always get it right,

not as individuals and they aren't even as a people.

And that's the moment when all we can say is gavalt.

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