Filled with Song like the Sea

Today is Shabbat Shirah—a Shabbat named after the way Jewish people sang as they crossed though the sea, from slavery, into freedom.

אָז יָשִׁיר  Then they sang. After so many years of slavery, the Jewish people escaped Egypt; they reach the sea, only for Pharaoh’s army to chase after them; a fire hovers between them and the angry enemy throughout the night; when it lifts, a miracle happens, and the sea water splits into a wall on each side; the people walk on dry land through the sea, and when they reach safety, the water closes back on the Egyptians; their enemy has vanished; they are free—from slavery and from danger. Out of sheer release of emotion, they spontaneously break into song:

… אָשִׁ֤ירָה לַֽיהוָה֙ כִּֽי־גָאֹ֣ה גָּאָ֔ה

I will sing to God…

The other night, as I was learning this with a 12 year old student of mine, who happens to be a gifted musician, I asked her “why do you think they sang at this moment?” I expected her to say that they were singing because they were happy—that they were so filled with feeling, the only way to express it was through song.

Instead, she said “because singing makes you happy.”  I realized she is right: there’s a way in which singing makes the feeling—they make your feelings fill you.

In our Shabbat morning Tefillah, after we sing Az Yashir, we build up to our own songs of thanks:

אִלּוּ פִינוּ
,מָלֵא שִׁירָה כַּיָּם
וּלְשׁוֹנֵנוּ רִנָּה
רִנָּה כֲּהַמוֹן גַּלָּיו

Even if our mouths were filled with song like the sea,

and our tongues with singing like it’s countless waves….

אֵין אֲנַחְנוּ מַסְפִּיקִים
…’לְהוֹדוֹתלְךָהַ

Even then, we could never sufficiently thank you God…

I have always loved this nature imagery—the expansiveness of the ocean as a metaphor for our limitless gratitude; the rhythm of the waves like music praising God… But I think we are also saying,  “Even if our mouths were so full of song as they were in the moment our people crossed the sea into freedom…”  Because singing, being “full of song,” allows our emotions of gratitude to fill and move us  in ways that are beyond cognitive or linguistic.

At the sea, Miriam leads the women in their own song:

וַתִּקַּח מִרְיָם הַנְּבִיאָה אֲחוֹת אַהֲרֹן, אֶת-הַתֹּף–בְּיָדָהּ; וַתֵּצֶאןָ כָל-הַנָּשִׁים אַחֲרֶיהָ, בְּתֻפִּים וּבִמְחֹלֹת  וַתַּעַן לָהֶם, מִרְיָם:  שִׁירוּ לַיהוָה כִּי-גָאֹה גָּאָה, סוּס וְרֹכְבוֹ רָמָה בַיָּם

And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances. And Miriam sang, sing to God…

We ask: and where did they get timbrels from! Hadn’t they just escaped Egypt into the wilderness? They didn’t even have time for their dough to rise, let alone pack up their instruments!

Rashi, quoting from the Midrash, says:

            בתפים ובמחלת. מֻבְטָחוֹת הָיוּ צַדְקָנִיּוֹת שֶׁבַּדּוֹר שֶׁהַקָּבָּ”העוֹשֶׂהלָהֶםנִסִּיםוְהוֹצִיאוּתֻפִּיםמִמִּצְרַיִם

The righteous women of that generation were so מֻבְטָחוֹת, so sure… so assured, so trusting in the future, so entrusted with the future… so sure that God would do miracles for them, they took their timbrels with them out from Egypt. Despite the years, the generations, of slavery, and despite the urgency in their escape, they made sure to take their musical instruments—because even in that moment of uncertainty and danger, they knew that in time there would be reasons to sing in gratitude.

This Midrash is one of several which give credit to the women, נָשִׁים צִדְקָנִיּוֹת for ensuring the survival of the Jewish people by never losing hope.  In this Midrash, music and singing –even just the act of bringing along your timbrels for the future—allow us to be filled with hope.

A song that embodies this relationship, between song and hope is הַתִּקְוָה, Hatikvah, The Hope. The lyrics were written in 1886 by Naphtali Herz Imber, a poet originally from Galicia Italy. The melody was written by Samuel Cohen, who based it on a musical theme from Bedrich Smetana’s “Moldau.”

כֹּל עוֹד בַּלֵּבָב פְּנִימָה נֶפֶשׁיְהוּדִיהוֹמִיָּה

As long as in the heart within,
The Jewish soul yearns…

The song named “hope,” begins not with hope, but with yearning or longing. We don’t yet have what we hope for; we long for it.  But by singing about our longing, we actually fill ourselves with hope.

When we sing, עוֹד לֹא אָבְדָה תִּקְוָתֵנו  Our hope is not lost, we are echoing words from the vision of Yechezkel: God shows him a vision of hopeless, dry bones, which symbolize the Jewish people; he tells him that though they’ve lost hope, they will come back to life:

בֶּן־אָדָ֕ם הָֽעֲצָמ֣וֹת הָאֵ֔לֶּה כָּל־בֵּ֥ית יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל הֵ֑מָּה הִנֵּ֣ה אֹֽמְרִ֗ים יָֽבְשׁ֧וּ עַצְמוֹתֵ֛ינוּ וְאָבְדָ֥ה תִקְוָתֵ֖נוּ נִגְזַ֥רְנוּ לָֽנוּ

“these bones are all the house of Israel. Behold they say, ‘Our bones have become dried up, our hope is lost…”

 When we sing Hatikvah, we transform those words into hope: לֹא אָבְדָה תִּקְוָתֵנו  “our hope is not lost.”

 How many of us, in the past year and a half, have felt a weakening of hope… but then sung Hatikvah together with others, and felt hope fill us?

After the destruction of the Temple, the Rabbi’s didn’t know whether they should continue to have music. Some said that without the Temple there could be no more music: they had lost their joy; they were exiled; how could they continue singing and playing music? Others disagreed. Ultimately, we did have music; we did sing. Like Miriam and the righteous women leaving Egypt, we knew that there would again be a reason to sing.

There are times it feels impossible to sing: Al Naharot Bavel, Tehillim 137, expresses the sadness of the Jewish people when they were exiled:

עַל נַהֲרוֹת בָּבֶל שָׁם יָשַׁבְנוּ גַּם בָּכִינוּ בְּזָכְרֵנוּ אֶת צִיּוֹן

 עַל עֲרָבִים בְּתוֹכָהּ תָּלִינוּ כִּנֹּרוֹתֵינוּ

By the waters of Babylon, there we sat, there we cried; as we remembered Zion; on the willows we hung up our harps; we laid down our musical instruments….

Putting aside their music was a sign of sadness; of losing hope.  The captors tease them and say, “sing us one of your songs!” The people say, “How can we sing in a strange land?”  But then they do sing. They sing אִֽם־אֶשְׁכָּחֵ֥ךְ׃—about how they will always remember Jerusalem. They are still sad, but they sing about how it’s hard to sing, and their emotion, their love and longing for Zion, fills them.

While we sing עַל נַהֲרוֹת בָּבֶל  on days of mourning, we sing שִׁ֗יר הַֽמַּ֫עֲל֥וֹת , Tehillim 126, on days of celebration. It is a song of hope, almost a reassuring response to עַל נַהֲרוֹת בָּבֶל :

שִׁ֗יר הַֽמַּ֫עֲל֥וֹת בְּשׁ֣וּב יְ֭הֹוָה אֶת־שִׁיבַ֣ת צִיּ֑וֹן הָ֝יִ֗ינוּ כְּחֹלְמִֽים

When God brings back those who return to Zion, we will be like dreamers.

אָז יִמָלֵא שחוק פִּינוּ
וּלְשׁונֵנוּ רִנָּה

Then our mouths will be filled with laughter and our tongues, with songs of joy.

The response to ּ תָּלִינוּ כִּנֹּרוֹתֵינו, hanging up our harps, is הַזֹּרְ֒עִים בְּדִמְעָה, בְּרִנָּה יִקְצֹֽרוּ: Those who planted in tears, will harvest in song.

The songs we sing not only fill us with our feelings—whether hope, longing or gratitude—they can fill the next generation with feelings.  Here is a song I love about the way parents “plant” songs in their children.  I learned it as a teen but it means more to me with every year. With Tu B’Shvat coming soon, it seems especially fitting:

שְׁתַלְתֶּם נִגּוּנִים בִּי אִמִּי וְאָבִי
נִגּוּנִים מִזְמוֹרִים שְׁכוּחִים
גַּרְעִינִים גַּרְעִינִים נְשָׂאָם לְבָבִי
עַתָּה הֵם עוֹלִים וְצוֹמְחִים
עַתָּה הֵם שׁוֹלְחִים פֹּארוֹת בְּדָמִי
שָׁרְשֵׁיהֶם בְּעוֹרְקָי שְׁלוּבִים
נִגּוּנֶיךָ אָבִי וְשִׁירַיִךְ אִמִּי
בְּדָפְקִי נֵעוֹרִים וְשָׁבִים

הִנֵּה אַאֲזִין שִׁיר עַרְשִׂי הָרָחוֹק
הִבִּיעַ פִּי אֵם אֱלֵי בַּת
הִנֵּה לִי תַזְהֵרְנָה בְּדֶמַע וּצְחוֹק
אֵיכָה וּזְמִירוֹת שֶׁל שַׁבָּת

You planted melodies within me,
My mother and my father,
Melodies and forgotten psalms.
Seeds, seeds that my heart has carried
Are shooting up and growing again.
Their branches are sprouting through my blood,
Their roots are entwined in my veins,
My father’s melodies and my mother’s songs
Are awakening and returning in my heartbeats.
I can hear the old faraway lullaby
That a mother sang to her daughter.
“Eicha” and Shabbat zemirot

Like seeds that awaken and grow, the songs we sing to children can fill them with beautiful emotions not only in that moment, but many many years later.

And when we sing songs from our past—Az Yashir, Ilu Phinu, HaTikvah—songs sung by people long before us—they help our own emotions fill us in ways only singing can.

—

This piece is dedicated to my parents, who have instilled in me and my two brothers, and all of our children, a love of singing and music, especially the Jewish music that is part of our precious heritage; to my children who each sing so beautifully, and to my husband Josh who sings my name every day when he comes home, and sings my praises way more than I deserve.