“Console, Console My People”
This week, the confluence of two things caused me to have a realization, although not a concrete one. This was not a moment that led to me having a big scientific discovery or a massive chiddush on some perek of Tanach, rather, it was a moment that led to me to understand a feeling. A sense that I think has always been present within me, and I believe is always resonating throughout the story of our people.
This past Shabbat was Shabbat Nachamu, with the famous haftorah for the week after Tisha B’Av from Isaiah 40. The haftorah begins with the words “נַֽחֲמ֥וּ נַֽחֲמ֖וּ עַמִּ֑י – Console, console my people.” It is a heavy burden to bear; we are not only being told to feel comforted and protected, but to also comfort and protect others. God, Isaiah, and the Jewish people are being asked to be a comforting presence after the terrible thing that they experienced, and that we are asked to remember. After commemorating our saddest day on the Jewish calendar, mourning the temple and the holiness that we lost, we are then instructed to not only console others, but to be consoled by others.
For me, Shabbat Nachamu is always connected to a song we sing at my summer camp every Friday. Within our pre-Shabbat ritual is the singing of the Safam tune of the first few pasukim of the haftorah, a lively and upbeat tune whose singing usually inspires energetic jumping and an air of pure joy. Through the tune that we sing every week, the words of the haftorah become imbued with a positivity that leads them to be genuinely comforting when Shabbat Nachamu comes around about halfway through camp.
Along with Shabbat Nachamu this week, the summer program that I am a counselor for did our October 7th commemoration day on Tuesday. We visited Sderot, the Nova Festival Site, and the Car Wall in Tkuma. At the Car Wall, an imposing art installation/memorial made of cars left on the road during October 7th, our tour guide shared a story about Israeli songwriter Roni Goldberg who composed a cover of Shlomo Carlebach’s “Yehi Shalom” in memory of Shani Louk, who was killed in the October 7th attacks at the Nova Festival. In her cover, she includes a sound bite from Shani’s father, who says he asked her why she goes to the festivals and parties, to which she responded that when she’s dancing, that is her tefilah. Shani used music to feel a connection with God, and Roni uses music to honor Shani’s memory and to help console herself and other Israelis devastated by October 7th with the simple words “יְהִי שָׁלוֹם – let there be peace”
Both of these incredibly difficult and painful moments, October 7th and Tisha B’av, are juxtaposed by attempts to console and be consoled. What I realized is that this is largely happening through music, through song. Our people have a relationship with song, as mourning, as praise, as comfort, as community building, and as prayer. Even the reading of our holiest book happens in tune, in a sort of song. It’s a gargantuan task to let yourself be consoled, and to figure out how to console others, especially in times of such communal sorrow and suffering – but I think it is through music that we can do that.
At the Nova Festival Site on Tuesday, it was swelteringly hot as we were listening to Shalev Britton share his story of surviving the October 7th attacks. I was trying to pay attention as best as possible, but the heat was getting to me, so I opened my water bottle to take a sip of water. At that very moment, a gust of wind swept through the site. Through the young memorial trees planted for those who perished, and the older, larger trees that had been there long before the bloodshed. The wind whipped past my water bottle, and as it did, it made a note. A strong, clear note emanated from my metal water bottle into the wind, like the beginning of a song, appearing for a short moment to console us. I struggle to believe in God, and I definitely don’t believe in ghosts, but when I heard that note echoing from my water bottle, I truly believed in the spiritual and emotional comforting power of music.
“Console, console my people,” commands God.
“How?” I ask
“Through music,” God responds, with a light gust of wind
