Power of Music
It was the summer before my last year of university. I left my home and traveled cross-country to take part in a month long program for college-age Jewish students called Brandeis Collegiate Institute. BCI combined the arts, Jewish learning and avodah or service, all in the beautiful kibbutz-like setting of the picturesque Simi Valley in southern California. It was right up my alley, joining music, dance, prayer and study in a Jewish framework. I didn’t know a soul when I arrived, but that was surprisingly easy to overcome as this unique program brought us all together in profound ways, fostering deep and lasting connections.
One day, the program director approached me amidst the noise of the dining hall at lunch, and said that he had received a phone call. My childhood rabbi, who was also the step-father of my best friend, had died suddenly and without warning. One minute he was there, and in an instant he was gone. I remember the moment clearly, standing there stunned, amid the cacophony of lunchtime conversations. I fled the hall, not knowing where to go or what to do, perhaps subconsciously wanting to outrun the truth of this devastating news.
My best friend Rachel’s mother and step-father were like second parents to me. In high school, I spent as many afternoons as possible at Rachel’s house. She and I were then college roommates and are still good friends to this day. Our parents watched us grow up together. Our families were close, sharing pride in our accomplishments over the years.
I found myself thinking about my college recital, just six months before that fateful day at BCI. For the recital program, I was required to sing opera and art song, but I had managed to convince my voice teacher to let me sing one Hebrew selection as well. I had just begun to consider the cantorate as a potential life’s path. After the recital, as audience members began to approach and greet me, I remember my rabbi coming up on stage, pointing his finger at me, smiling sweetly and saying, “you will be a cantor.” He was really the first person to believe in me. And now, my dear rabbi and mentor was gone.
After I received the news, I couldn’t really speak to anyone at BCI, but everyone knew what happened. That night, we gathered in the beautiful rotunda to light Shabbat candles as we did each week. The space was filled with the soft glow of candle light and echoed with our voices rising in song. In memory of my dear rabbi, I hoped to sing a beautiful prayer that he had once asked me to lead at services many years before. I began to sing, but I could not complete the prayer. I stood in tears, unable to go on, surrounded by my new friends dressed in their Shabbat whites. Then suddenly, I heard the song continuing, but it wasn’t in my voice. It was in theirs. Standing there, it was through the power of music that I was able to express my grief when words failed me. And it was through music that my community encircled me and stood with me in a moment of profound sadness. As Aldous Huxley said, “After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music. Music is what feelings sound like.”
Somehow I understood that night that music is a language all its own. It communicates more strongly than any verbal expression, beyond the contents of the words, beyond the literal meaning of the Hebrew. This concept is so powerful and universal that we find voices across the generations speaking to it. The psalmist ecstatically proclaims “Hall’lu b’teka shofar – praise G-d with blasts of the horn…with harp and lute, with strings and pipe, with clashing cymbals!” (Ps. 150) Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (b. 1807) wrote “Music is the universal language of mankind.” Leo Tolstoy (b. 1828) said, “Music is the shorthand of emotion.” And Peter Paul and Mary sang, “Music speaks louder than words.”
Tonight, I want to explore with you how music illuminates the text and conveys the emotional message of one of our most beloved prayers – our night time prayer, Hashkiveinu. Whenever I study a prayer, I ask myself: What is the emotion behind this prayer? What human need or yearning does it express?
In Hashkiveinu, we ask for G-d to spread over us a shelter of peace. It speaks to our need for protection and comfort. I like to imagine that Hashkiveinu is a warm, cozy, security blanket, in prayer form, that we pull snugly around our shoulders. Rabbi Marder sometimes reminds us that we are meant to be the hands of G-d, and can offer others a shelter of peace. It is especially appropriate to speak about the Hashkiveinu prayer this week, when we are a host congregation of Home and Hope - a program that allows us to extend our shelter of safety and peace to those in need, providing housing and meals to our guests, who are homeless and working hard to get back on their feet. This week of hospitality and sharing would not be possible without the myriad volunteers who have stepped up, offering time and resources to make this worthy mission a reality. Together we create a sukkat shalom – a canopy of peace.
As we keep in mind these concepts of security, safety and comfort present in our Hashkiveinu prayer, it is not surprising that composers have set the text to soothing melodies such as the gentle and calming setting we sang earlier this evening by Danny Maseng. Or, as in another setting that is near and dear to our community (sing Mah Tovu setting through l’chayim).
This setting hums like a lullaby. In fact, I know many families sing this melody with their children as a part of a bed-time Sh’ma ritual. Another melody we share together is Craig Taubman’s setting which also begins like a lullaby, but you will notice an intensification of the rhythm and tessitura or range when we sing the B section, the part in which we intensify our plea (sing Taubman’s Hashkiveinu). I suspect we could agree that these compositions accurately express the general sentiment of the prayer, as well as the parts of the text that the composer chooses to set to music. Even if one did not understand the Hebrew words, the feeling the music conveys is one of calm and tranquility as expressed in the text of our prayer.
As I was thinking about this prayer, I realized that many of our most popular melodies set only the more soothing parts of the text to music. So, let’s take a moment to explore the full text of Hashkiveinu. It begins with a plea to G-d that we may lie down to sleep in peace and rise up again to life renewed. This harkens back to a time when people believed that sleep was a little death, and that we were brought back to life as we awoke again. Even though we know more about the mysteries of sleep these days, the image still rings true as we tuck ourselves into bed, hoping for a peaceful night and a gentle awakening in the morning. After this request, you’ll notice the text takes a turn in a different direction.
“Grant, O G-d, that we lie down in peace, and raise us up, our Guardian, to life renewed. Spread over us the shelter of Your peace. Guide us with Your good counsel; for Your name’s sake, be our help. Defend us against enemies, illness, war, famine and sorrow; and distance us from wrongdoing, remove it from in front of us and from behind us. In the shadow of Your wings shelter us – for You, G-d, watch over us and deliver us. For You G-d, are gracious and compassionate. Guard our going and coming, to life and to peace, for ever more.”
As I studied this prayer as it appears in various prayerbooks, I noticed that the Orthodox siddur also makes some adjustments, translating the Hebrew word, Satan, as “spiritual impediment.” While it is a bit of a creative rendering, this translation does makes sense, especially in the vision of a little devil that may sit on our shoulder and pull us down the wrong path if we let it.
I want to share with you a setting of Hashkiveinu by one of my colleagues, Cantor Robbie Solomon. As you listen to this setting, notice that the composer brings us in with a lullaby-like melody as other arrangements do, but then the mood of the music changes as the text speaks about the dark and frightening things from which we seek divine protection - enemies, illness, war, famine and sorrow. This text and musical setting acknowledge that these difficult aspects do exist in life, and we seek G-d’s help in surviving them. When the text returns to descriptions of a compassionate and merciful G-d who watches over us, the music responds in kind. Even if we do not understand the Hebrew word for word, the music leads us through the emotions of the text.
This is Robbie Solomon’s setting of Hashkiveinu.
I’ll never forget the way I felt standing in that circle at BCI, all those years ago. Whenever I hear the prayer we sang that night, I think of my rabbi, whom I miss to this day. I think of the love and support that encircled me as I struggled to cope with his loss. Each time we pray, we have an opportunity to let the music of our liturgy carry us away when we listen and when we raise our voices together. That is a gift that comes from our sacred community. That is a manifestation of the Divine Presence in our midst. When we sing together, the possibilities are infinite. If we open ourselves to the music, if we allow ourselves to be transformed, our sacred texts joined with hallowed melodies have the power to speak to us in profound ways. Music has been for me my strength and salvation in both sorrow and happiness. May it be so for you, as well.
Shabbat Shalom.
One day, the program director approached me amidst the noise of the dining hall at lunch, and said that he had received a phone call. My childhood rabbi, who was also the step-father of my best friend, had died suddenly and without warning. One minute he was there, and in an instant he was gone. I remember the moment clearly, standing there stunned, amid the cacophony of lunchtime conversations. I fled the hall, not knowing where to go or what to do, perhaps subconsciously wanting to outrun the truth of this devastating news.
My best friend Rachel’s mother and step-father were like second parents to me. In high school, I spent as many afternoons as possible at Rachel’s house. She and I were then college roommates and are still good friends to this day. Our parents watched us grow up together. Our families were close, sharing pride in our accomplishments over the years.
I found myself thinking about my college recital, just six months before that fateful day at BCI. For the recital program, I was required to sing opera and art song, but I had managed to convince my voice teacher to let me sing one Hebrew selection as well. I had just begun to consider the cantorate as a potential life’s path. After the recital, as audience members began to approach and greet me, I remember my rabbi coming up on stage, pointing his finger at me, smiling sweetly and saying, “you will be a cantor.” He was really the first person to believe in me. And now, my dear rabbi and mentor was gone.
After I received the news, I couldn’t really speak to anyone at BCI, but everyone knew what happened. That night, we gathered in the beautiful rotunda to light Shabbat candles as we did each week. The space was filled with the soft glow of candle light and echoed with our voices rising in song. In memory of my dear rabbi, I hoped to sing a beautiful prayer that he had once asked me to lead at services many years before. I began to sing, but I could not complete the prayer. I stood in tears, unable to go on, surrounded by my new friends dressed in their Shabbat whites. Then suddenly, I heard the song continuing, but it wasn’t in my voice. It was in theirs. Standing there, it was through the power of music that I was able to express my grief when words failed me. And it was through music that my community encircled me and stood with me in a moment of profound sadness. As Aldous Huxley said, “After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music. Music is what feelings sound like.”
Somehow I understood that night that music is a language all its own. It communicates more strongly than any verbal expression, beyond the contents of the words, beyond the literal meaning of the Hebrew. This concept is so powerful and universal that we find voices across the generations speaking to it. The psalmist ecstatically proclaims “Hall’lu b’teka shofar – praise G-d with blasts of the horn…with harp and lute, with strings and pipe, with clashing cymbals!” (Ps. 150) Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (b. 1807) wrote “Music is the universal language of mankind.” Leo Tolstoy (b. 1828) said, “Music is the shorthand of emotion.” And Peter Paul and Mary sang, “Music speaks louder than words.”
Tonight, I want to explore with you how music illuminates the text and conveys the emotional message of one of our most beloved prayers – our night time prayer, Hashkiveinu. Whenever I study a prayer, I ask myself: What is the emotion behind this prayer? What human need or yearning does it express?
In Hashkiveinu, we ask for G-d to spread over us a shelter of peace. It speaks to our need for protection and comfort. I like to imagine that Hashkiveinu is a warm, cozy, security blanket, in prayer form, that we pull snugly around our shoulders. Rabbi Marder sometimes reminds us that we are meant to be the hands of G-d, and can offer others a shelter of peace. It is especially appropriate to speak about the Hashkiveinu prayer this week, when we are a host congregation of Home and Hope - a program that allows us to extend our shelter of safety and peace to those in need, providing housing and meals to our guests, who are homeless and working hard to get back on their feet. This week of hospitality and sharing would not be possible without the myriad volunteers who have stepped up, offering time and resources to make this worthy mission a reality. Together we create a sukkat shalom – a canopy of peace.
As we keep in mind these concepts of security, safety and comfort present in our Hashkiveinu prayer, it is not surprising that composers have set the text to soothing melodies such as the gentle and calming setting we sang earlier this evening by Danny Maseng. Or, as in another setting that is near and dear to our community (sing Mah Tovu setting through l’chayim).
This setting hums like a lullaby. In fact, I know many families sing this melody with their children as a part of a bed-time Sh’ma ritual. Another melody we share together is Craig Taubman’s setting which also begins like a lullaby, but you will notice an intensification of the rhythm and tessitura or range when we sing the B section, the part in which we intensify our plea (sing Taubman’s Hashkiveinu). I suspect we could agree that these compositions accurately express the general sentiment of the prayer, as well as the parts of the text that the composer chooses to set to music. Even if one did not understand the Hebrew words, the feeling the music conveys is one of calm and tranquility as expressed in the text of our prayer.
As I was thinking about this prayer, I realized that many of our most popular melodies set only the more soothing parts of the text to music. So, let’s take a moment to explore the full text of Hashkiveinu. It begins with a plea to G-d that we may lie down to sleep in peace and rise up again to life renewed. This harkens back to a time when people believed that sleep was a little death, and that we were brought back to life as we awoke again. Even though we know more about the mysteries of sleep these days, the image still rings true as we tuck ourselves into bed, hoping for a peaceful night and a gentle awakening in the morning. After this request, you’ll notice the text takes a turn in a different direction.
“Grant, O G-d, that we lie down in peace, and raise us up, our Guardian, to life renewed. Spread over us the shelter of Your peace. Guide us with Your good counsel; for Your name’s sake, be our help. Defend us against enemies, illness, war, famine and sorrow; and distance us from wrongdoing, remove it from in front of us and from behind us. In the shadow of Your wings shelter us – for You, G-d, watch over us and deliver us. For You G-d, are gracious and compassionate. Guard our going and coming, to life and to peace, for ever more.”
As I studied this prayer as it appears in various prayerbooks, I noticed that the Orthodox siddur also makes some adjustments, translating the Hebrew word, Satan, as “spiritual impediment.” While it is a bit of a creative rendering, this translation does makes sense, especially in the vision of a little devil that may sit on our shoulder and pull us down the wrong path if we let it.
I want to share with you a setting of Hashkiveinu by one of my colleagues, Cantor Robbie Solomon. As you listen to this setting, notice that the composer brings us in with a lullaby-like melody as other arrangements do, but then the mood of the music changes as the text speaks about the dark and frightening things from which we seek divine protection - enemies, illness, war, famine and sorrow. This text and musical setting acknowledge that these difficult aspects do exist in life, and we seek G-d’s help in surviving them. When the text returns to descriptions of a compassionate and merciful G-d who watches over us, the music responds in kind. Even if we do not understand the Hebrew word for word, the music leads us through the emotions of the text.
This is Robbie Solomon’s setting of Hashkiveinu.
I’ll never forget the way I felt standing in that circle at BCI, all those years ago. Whenever I hear the prayer we sang that night, I think of my rabbi, whom I miss to this day. I think of the love and support that encircled me as I struggled to cope with his loss. Each time we pray, we have an opportunity to let the music of our liturgy carry us away when we listen and when we raise our voices together. That is a gift that comes from our sacred community. That is a manifestation of the Divine Presence in our midst. When we sing together, the possibilities are infinite. If we open ourselves to the music, if we allow ourselves to be transformed, our sacred texts joined with hallowed melodies have the power to speak to us in profound ways. Music has been for me my strength and salvation in both sorrow and happiness. May it be so for you, as well.
Shabbat Shalom.
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