In last month’s Kol Emunah I extolled the value of silence. This month, as I return to my running commentary on our prayers, I return, as well, to the power of speech and how to use it.
Our Kol Emunah siddur (prayer book) commentary has now reached a new section of our daily traditional prayers, “P’suqei d’zimra—Verses of Song.” This section is overwhelmingly comprised of verses drawn from the book of Psalms. The purpose of this section is to praise God through these verses. And, although traditional practice has created an unfortunate habit of speed mumbling through ever expanding amounts of such texts, the texts themselves constantly make explicit mention of singing. These praises are meant to be sung, not just spoken. Thankfully, at Shomrei we try to sing most of this portion of the prayers.
So, if all of prayer is meant to be an especially intense use of our faculty of speech, this section of our prayers calls on our channeling our speech faculty into the especially intense mode of speech that is song. When we undertake to sing our prayers we open up a slew of opportunities and challenges for ourselves. And this is as it should be in prayer.
The Jewish tradition has created a deep musical heritage of songs with and without words and of melodies with lyrics that incorporate wordless singing as well. There are melodies of great joy, of longing, of heartbreak and anger and defiance, of love and of ecstasy, of contemplation and of exhilaration. And these qualities are not to be confused, as they too often are, with whether the song is sung fast or slow. We are sorely mistaken when we identify fast singing with joy and slow singing with sorrow. Song is a vehicle for feeling, but it cannot guarantee feeling. Unfortunately, song, like every other human activity, can become an empty convention. The point is to sing with feeling.
To sing with feeling is to engage in an activity that carries a double—and somewhat contradictory—set of associations. One set of associations is connected to feelings of freedom and upraised spirits. Even if the song is a sad one, we feel that song can release pent-up emotions and free the heart to express itself.
But there is another set of associations tied to song. Song is also very demanding. It requires more energy than speaking. And it works within very specific parameters. It requires a sense of rhythm and a sense of pitch and the ability to meet those defining conditions of song.
It is instructive that, because of this demanding aspect of song, our mystical tradition, which tends to map the range of divine and human energies along a continuum that goes from one pole of loving generosity to the opposite pole of withholding and limiting judgment, locates music and song on the decidedly non-romantic side of strict judgment.
This is telling for how we sometimes experience the challenge of singing together with others. Some of us do not feel comfortable singing. Some of us do not feel that we “can sing.” Some of us are afraid of singing off-key or off-rhythm. And some of us do not want to exert ourselves in this kind of active role or fear that it can make us vulnerable because of our exposed feelings or because of the judgment of others.
Yet, I believe that most of us have had a sense of great pleasure or inspiration when we have had the experience of hearing a congregation singing together with feeling. This feeling does not happen on its own. It depends on the willingness of many people to take the leap into singing. And then singing can often take on a life of its own. Not only do we express feelings through song, song elicits emotion from us. In any given group that is willing to sing out there will be enough people who can pick up and carry a tune and who can sing with enough vitality so as to thereby create an ambience that can envelop anyone else who wishes to join in. Then the congregation can hope to express feeling and to engender dormant feeling. But if everyone waits for someone else to create that ambience, it will not happen.
So how do we create a culture of singing? One place we try to do this at Shomrei is at our Shabbat tables at Kiddush, after services. We enjoy the efforts of our kiddush volunteers, who invariably set before us a table of healthy, tasty food. And we enjoy each other’s company and conversation. The question is whether we also want to enrich that time by adding the soul-nourishing and community-nourishing element of song. For some of us the singing comes easily, while for others it is not as natural. Passing out the white books of songs and Grace After Meals becomes a moment of decision: To sing or not to sing? We have to decide whether we wish to seize the opportunity to loosen ourselves up for a few moments. If we can succeed in creating a more robust experience of singing at the Shabbat table, we will reap the benefits in our sanctuary prayers, as well.
The section of our prayers called P’suqei d’zimra is set up to be the preparation for a deeper prayer experience to follow. It is based on an understanding that prayer does not become a meaningful activity by simply turning on a switch. It calls for a process of cognitive, emotional and physical preparation. That preparation can happen in the sanctuary and it can happen in our social hall. It is up to us to embrace it.
By establishing this section of prayers that implores us to sing, the tradition expresses its faith in each one of us—that our hearts are deep wellsprings of feelings that deserve to be drawn forth—and that we can, if we decide to do so, really draw them forth, express them, discover them and shape them anew.
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