Parshat Beshelach
January 23, 2016
Last July, I was leading a Tisha B’Av service at Beit Warszawa, the progressive synagogue in Warsaw, Poland where I have been working for the past 6 months. On this day we commemorate the destruction of the Temples, in addition to the expulsions and many other tragedies throughout Jewish history. We read from the book of Lamentations and recite special kinnot, liturgical readings commemorating these events. As I always did, I began the evening with the personal kavannah, the intention of remembering the call of the rabbis that this was a profoundly sad day, a day when “God established for us a reason to cry (Taanit 29a)”.
Yet, every year, I also was reminded that so many us, especially in North America, were so far removed from these tragedies, living in relative freedom, and with the existence of Israel that reaching this place of deep sadness itself was a challenge. It was a sad day, but for better or worse, we were always ready to move past it.
Here I was in Warsaw, Poland, mere minutes from the Warsaw ghetto and a short train ride from Auschwitz. Surrounding me were people who had a direct connection with one of the greatest tragedies of Jewish history–there were survivors, grandchildren who had learned of their identity only recently, and some non-Jews who were beginning their journey into Jewish life and traditions. I did not know how, but I assumed that this was a community that saw Tisha B’Av, this day of sadness and remembering in a very different light.
So we completed the service, and as the candles continued to flicker I led the community in one final niggun, one final song to guide them on their way. I got up from the floor, and was beginning to collect my papers when a small group of people walked up to me.
“Rabbi?” they asked.
“Thank you for leading the service.” Then one of the congregants, Ela, a young woman who also happened to be one of the lay services leaders spoke up and smiled.
“We were wondering if now that the service is over with, maybe we could sing some more songs, you know the usual ones…”
I smiled, and looked at Ela with a bit of hesitation. “Songs? We could…but the tradition on Tisha B’Av is to refrain from too much singing and dancing–it is a day of mourning.”
Ela looked at me as her smile turned serious. “Yes, yes, we know. But look at us. We are surrounded by memory, we are Polish–we see the memorials and we know the pain. We are here and singing is the best way to really reflect on how far we have come. We want to sing!”
I looked around at the group who had gathered, most of whom were now nodding their heads. “Well, if everyone agrees, then all right…”
We proceeded to sing and even dance for nearly another half hour until the people were tired out. I will admit that I couldn’t help but feel a little strange as a rabbi leading a song circle on Tisha B’Av, but in the end, it was an experience that taught me more about Jewish identity, about memory and song then I ever could have expected. That night, music brought us together as a community and reminded me of the transcendent power of song to overcome the complications of history and memory and of the ways that it can so easily fill a room with a joy. That night the words of the Psalms rang true: “You turned my grief into dance; you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy, that my heart may sing to You and not be silent.” (Psalm 30)
As Jews, we know deeply the connection between music and spirit, and the ways that music has held us together as a community throughout the generations to keep our identities strong. The Torah is filled with examples of the power of music: King David’s musical prayers to God, Hannah’s song of joy when she had a child, Deborah’s song when Israel was victorious over Siserah, the Levite’s songs in the Temple. When we tell these stories from the Torah scroll, we don’t read, we chant. And every prayer service and holiday has its own set of melodies and tropes, so that we can map each day and the calendar of the Jewish year by the songs we sing.
For generations, music and song have been a key part of our cultural identity, and have helped guide us through the rolling path of our history. From the Biblical songs, to medieval piyyut to the Ladino and Yiddish folksongs of the Middle East and Eastern Europe, these songs have followed us on our journey as Jews, and they have had a social and a psychological hold on us that is undeniable.
And our eternal relationship with song begins with this week’s Torah portion.
This Shabbat we celebrate Shabbat Shira, named after Shirat haYam, the Song of the Sea. After the Israelites experience the miracle of the splitting of the Sea of Reeds during their exodus from Egypt, they gather together to sing with joy, a flowing and profoundly beautiful song unlike anything else in the Torah. In fact, the song is so unique that it is laid out entirely differently in the Torah scroll: the lines of the song are arranged “brick on brick”, like a divided tower with the words stacked on top of each other, providing a perfect visual image of the split sea.
Our tradition recognizes the inherent emotional power of this song, and it is easy to see how natural it was for the entire community to come together to sing in harmony with each other–celebrating God’s strength and the miracle of the sea. Yet interestingly, when the rabbis explored the details of this song, they were as fascinated by the orchestration of the music as by its theological significance. They wanted to not only know why they sang the song, but how the words began to flow.
“Az Yashir Moshe u’venei Yisrael et ha shira hazot ladonai”. Moses and the children of Israel sang this song to God.” The rabbis believed that the song was sung responsively–a tradition that we continue in many communities, when the song is chanted in the synagogue, the congregation sings a few of the lines before the Torah reader.
It was clear that Moses and the Israelites sang, but how did they sing? Did Moses lead the song, or was it a truly spontaneous “choral movement” inspired by the miracle of the splitting of the sea?
In the Talmudic tractate of Sotah, the rabbis discuss this problem, with the detailed eyes–and ears–of skilled choir directors. Rabbi Akiva begins by saying that Moses acted as the prayer leader of his “congregation” beginning with the words Ashira ladonai “I will sing to God…” and the people repeated after him and made this their refrain. “Moses said and God has triumphed” and the people answered “Ashira ladonai “I will sing to God”.
Yet, Rabbi Eliezer, possibly reflecting back on his days as a summer camp song leader, said that Moses–always the good teacher–would sing a line, and the people would repeat each line back throughout the song.
But Rabbi Nehemia went even further, and seemed to be the only one who grasped both the emotional power of the splitting of the red sea, and also the power of the song to bond the community together. For Rabbi Nehemia, the Israelites did not need anyone to teach them the song, they did not need anyone to guide them. In this beautiful scenario, Moses simply needed to look at his people, cast his hands up to the heavens and say “I will sing to God” and the people sang the entire song, every word and every note, together, and we might assume in perfect key. The experience was so strong that the song flowed straight from their hearts to the heavens. Shirat Ha Yam was not simply a collection of words, it was pure emotion and the smoothest of melody–something that had never been experienced before. Rabbi Meir, one of the rabbis of the Mishnah even said that the song was so powerful that even babies in their mother’s womb, joined in the singing.
For me music was my original entrance point into Jewish life, and has been at the core of how I lead and live in Jewish community. Early on, as an active member of Jewish youth groups, and as a camper and counselor at summer camps, I remember very clearly the incredible Shira gatherings, the song sessions which took place at least a few times a day. These experiences inspired me to first pick up a guitar, and eventually this experience of leading a community in song was one of the core reasons I became a rabbi. And it is in my rabbinic work that I have seen the power of music to help people connect to Jewish tradition, and the way even a simple melody can act as a calm and patient guide through the challenges of life. Teaching a simple niggun, a wordless melody, can break through initial hesitations often present when we pray, and can open our hearts to find a meaningful connection to the words of the siddur. A song can calm a roomful of children and prepare them for a story, or help even the quietest members of a class find their voice. A wordless chant can create the holy space that can guide a family who has just lost a loved one into a process of mourning and healing. Or when I hear Nehama, my two year old daughter, hum the blessing for the Shabbat candles for the first time, I know that she is echoing similar moments of generations past as she begins her own journey into Jewish life.
When words fail, song, and melody hold the key to the deepest kind of spiritual growth, and most profound kind of healing. The well known neurologist Oliver Sacks put it well: “Music, uniquely among the arts, is both completely abstract and profoundly emotional. It has no power to represent anything particular or external, but it has a unique power to express inner states or feelings. Music can pierce the heart directly; it needs no mediation.”
Rabbi Dov Ber, the second Chabad rabbi expands on Dr. Sacks’ explanation and says that song, “lies at the core of life; its source is in the most supernal ecstasy.” He explains further: “A river went out from Eden to water the garden . . .” (Genesis 2:10): from the source of all delight, the river of life flows downward, branching outward to each world and every created being. Each thing thirsts to rejoin with its source above, and from that yearning comes its song, and with that song it comes alive. The heavens sing, the sun, the planets and the moon; each animal, each plant, each rock has its particular song, according to how it receives life. Until the entire cosmos pulsates with a symphony of countless angels and souls and animals and plants, and even every drop of water and molecule of air, singing the song that gives it life.”
If one person, one voice can be affected and affect others by song, then we can only imagine the how the cosmos is activated by the voices of many. There are so many ways that we can use our communal voice to inspire others, and through song we can also bring the deepest of healing to what is broken in our world.
On this Shabbat Shira, a day when we recall the ultimate moment of communal pride, and of communal harmony, we also can use this story and this song to remind us of why we are Jewish, and how we can relate to others in our world. The Israelites sang together because they as a people had been redeemed and saved by the miracle at the sea. They stood on the shore, looked at each other and into the heavens and gave thanks for the miracle and for their existence as a people. They were not sure of how they made it to the other shore, or how the miracle occurred, but they gathered together and sang with pride and with joy that their lives, their community and their identity as a people had been saved.
Maybe is this is what we are moving towards today–maybe like a song, we can see as we reflect on the meaning of Shirat ha y\Yam and the power of music on this Shabbat Shira that a way of being Jewish that is beyond identity, beyond history, faith and beyond politics. It reminds us of who we are as a people, and gives us the strength to step out of the depths of the sea and into a hopeful future. It is returning to a Jewish self that fills us with pride and with a knowledge that Judaism, Jewish people, each and every one of us are worth the march across the sea and the thousands of years of history that came before today.
Theodore Bikel z.l., the folksinger and actor, who died last July was once asked why he was Jewish. He answered the question with a poem by Yosef Papiernikov:
Zol zayn az ikh boy in der luft mayne shleser
Zol zayn az mayn Got iz ingantsn nito
In troym iz mir heler, in troym iz mir beser
In troym iz der himl gor bloyer vi blo.
Could be that my whole world is only confusion
Could be what I thought was God’s word isn’t true
Yet my dream is as bright as the brightest illusion
And the sky in my dream is much bluer than blue.
Could be that I’ll not see the fruit of my yearning
Could be that I’ll never be rid of my load.
What matters is not the end of the journey
It’s the journey itself on a bright sunlit road.
Bikel concludes his essay by saying: I make no claim that Jewish culture is superior to other cultures or that the Jewish song is better than the song of my neighbor. But it is mine. And since it is the song of my people, it is up to me to cultivate it, lest it become desolate and the blooms wither and die”(189).
We have a proud history, and of course we also have a history of pain and sadness. We have overcome tragedy, and also celebrated with joy the accomplishments of our people and our community. As Jews we might finally feel at home in the places where where live, and we are no longer wandering. Yet, now when being Jewish is a choice, the future of Jewish culture and faith is no longer certain.
Song and music have held us together for thousands of years, and has kept the story of our people alive. Even the words of the story itself, the words of the Torah, are illuminated by melody. Now it is time to take these songs, and the community which has written them, and use them to guide us into a very complicated future. We can sing together as Jews, but now our song needs to be a song that also invites others in. The choir of our people is one where every voice is needed and every story adds to the melody which we sing.
On that Tisha B Av in Warsaw back in July, I began to understand in a very different way what it means to sing. We ended that unique song circle with what I now know has become the unofficial anthem of Polish Jews, Hava Nagila, a song that some might say is a bit over used in our North American communities, but for Poles, the words ring true. Hava Nagila–Let’s rejoice and be happy, let’s sing and be happy, awake with a happy heart. As I looked around at the smiling faces, elders, children, Jews and non-Jews singing and dancing on this day of mourning, I knew that maybe we were nearing a time when the words of Zechariah would be clear-that Israel’s fast days “will be for the house of Judah joy and gladness.”
We are commanded to always be learning, to live a life of meaning and do what we can to fix what is broken in the world. But we can’t forget that throughout all that we have experienced, we also have always been singing. And whether these songs are the deepest of prayers or the most joyous of dances, they should inspire us to look at our past with pride, and look forward to our personal and communal journeys with hope. When we sing together, the world cannot help but listen.