Familiarity in a Foreign Place

By Rabbi Helene Kornsgold
KOACH Rabbinic Field Worker

A few years ago, a friend and I traveled to Italy on vacation. We spent a packed week roaming the country and accumulating a virtual suitcase of memories. However, one memory in particular will always stick out in my mind — the Shabbat we spent in Rome.

The experience of traveling abroad is certainly exciting, but can also be overwhelming as one adjusts to a different culture, cuisine and customs. In our case, language presented an additional problem. Neither of us knew Italian, and while we were able to get by with

English and the little bit of Spanish we knew, the week sometimes felt like a struggle.

Everything changed when we walked into services on Shabbat morning. From the moment we arrived, the melodies sung by the cantor and congregation both calmed and inspired us. It wasn't just that the sounds were inherently beautiful — though they were — but they reminded us of who we were. In a place where almost everything felt foreign, the music helped us connect with the familiar. We felt like ourselves again, but even more importantly, we felt like we once more belonged to a larger community.

My friend and I were hardly the first people to have this experience. Since Biblical times, music and dance have helped not only glorify God, but unify Jews with one another. After the triumphant crossing of the Red Sea, Miriam, the prophetess and sister of Moses and Aaron, led the women of Israel in a song and dance of celebration (Exodus 15:20-21).

It's telling that in describing how Miriam initiated this song of gratitude, the Torah doesn't say that she simply led them, but uses the words "Vata'an lahem," "And she answered them." Jewish music is not simply the experience of a group of people who happen to be singing the same melody. It is a call-and-response, a dynamic that binds Jews to each other in the way that a question and answer binds student to teacher and child to parent.

Nor does music need to be accompanied by words in order to afford meaning. In fact, words can sometimes serve as a hindrance. On our trip to Italy, my friend and I were struck, looking around the room, how many people who didn't speak Hebrew were nonetheless connected to the melody. Perhaps this is why the Hassidic practice of the niggun, a wordless piece of music, has gained so much currency. It's likely also why the Talmud teaches that "If one reads Torah without chant or studies Mishnah without melody, of him is it written, 'I gave them laws that were not good' (Ezekiel 20:25)." Words without music are cold, utilitarian things, devoid of their true beauty and meaning.

We are standing on the precipice of Nissan, a month when we celebrate our redemption from both the spiritual and physical bondage of Egypt. There is much for us to be grateful for in these times, as we will say in many prayers before and during Passover. But as we commemorate this happy time, let us remember that we cannot simply thank God, or grow closer to one another, with mere words. Like Miriam, let us remember that true freedom and unity can only come with song.

[Posted 3/15/10]