On Shabbat Shira, Recalling Cantor Benzion Miller

Earlier this week, the Jewish world learned of the passing of Cantor Benzion Miller, one of the greatest voices of his generation. This loss is felt even more deeply, perhaps, as it follows the passing of Cantor Naftali Hershtik this past September. Both born in Europe in the immediate aftermath of the Shoah, Cantors Miller and Hershtik stood as a living link to the Golden Age of Cantors and a musical style that once defined Jewish worship.

While traditional chazzanut may not hold the same central place in Jewish prayer that it once did, Cantors Hershtik and Miller modeled its enduring value. At its core, chazzanut is about more than vocal artistry; it is about giving vitality and meaning to the text of Jewish prayer. I was fortunate to sing with both as a member of the choir at Jerusalem’s Great Synagogue and learned so much from their approach to worship. I was struck by the ways in which these ba’alei tefilah, with rich, powerful voices were able to ascend to the bima with humility, always mindful that their task was not to perform, but to represent the community in prayer.

For me, Cantor Miller’s passing is also personal: our families’ histories crossed paths in pre-war Poland, and I always felt that his voice carried the special traditions of the towns around Krakow. His story, though, was so much more than that: his life, from his birth in the Föhrenwald Displaced Persons Camp to becoming a central figure in Jewish music, represents his particularly Jewish form of resilience and the power of song to elevate the spirit.

Miller was born into a family of renowned cantors in the Bobov Hassidic community. His father, Aaron Miller, formed a traveling choir in America, and trained the young Benzion in the tradition of the great European cantors. After serving pulpits in Canada, Miller succeeded Moshe Stern as the cantor of Young Israel-Beth El in Borough Park, Brooklyn. The post had previously been held by giants including Moshe Koussevitzky and Mordecai Hershman and is often called the Carnegie Hall of Cantors.

Despite his traditional appearance and demeanor, Miller—from his post in Brooklyn— became a global ambassador for chazzanut, building bridges in impactful and often unexpected ways. He collaborated with artists ranging from the Vienna Boys Choir to contemporary Klezmer artists like Frank London and Jeremiah Lockwood. And he was a near-permanent fixture at the Krakow Jewish Music Festival. Instead of harboring ill will against the Polish people, Miller treated enthusiastic audiences to meaningful performances of his family’s music in the very synagogues where they once sang.

I am perhaps most saddened, though, because—despite my best efforts—I will never be able to share with Cantor Miller a remarkable, recently discovered story about our shared ancestors. Like Cantor Miller, I descend from a family of cantors and shochets from the towns around Krakow, albeit a far less celebrated one. In fact, my family once had to turn to Cantor Miller’s family for help.

In his memoirs, my great-grandfather, Jacob Seifter, writes how his father, Chaim Aryeh, had to seek help from Benzion’s great-grandfather, Reb Avrohom Miller—a man, he writes, “with a marvelous tenor voice that was the envy of many chazzanim.” Seifter writes that, after failing in business, Chaim Aryeh apprenticed himself to Reb Avrohom as a shochet . Instead of the normal six-month period, Reb Avrohom kept my great great grandfather on for a year—he wouldn’t let Chaim Aryeh go until he knew he had a good job.

Those who knew Cantor Benzion Miller understood that he had not only inherited his family’s legacy, but had also carried it forward in a rapidly changing world. He dedicated his voice the Jewish community and the Hassidic world. His generosity of spirit, though, allowed him to shatter boundaries and to bring the heart of Jewish prayer to diverse audiences, showing through his own example that chazzanut is not just a relic of the past but a living, breathing art with the power to move and inspire.

This week, we read Shirat HaYam, the Song of the Sea, the Israelites’ response to redemption. Though the Torah tells us that the Israelites sang together, the song’s opening words are in the singular: Ashira L’Hashem—“I shall sing to the Sovereign, for God has triumphed gloriously.” The Alshich, a 16th-century rabbi of Tzfat, teaches that the song begins in the singular because, even though the Israelites experienced salvation as a nation, each person felt it in their own way.

This was also the case with Cantor Benzion Miller. While his voice reached great heights, his prayers were rooted in humility, carrying the weight of each individual in the community. He didn’t perform—he prayed. He didn’t just preserve tradition—he embodied it, ensuring that the music and soul of past generations would endure.