Then Sang Moses
Remarks for Shabbat Shira 2020
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
Shabbat Shira, The Sabbath of Song, is the name we give to the Sabbath on which we read Miriam’s Song, also known as The Song of the Sea, from the book of Exodus in the Torah. Miriam’s Song is the song of liberation, commemorating the end of one of the earliest and darkest chapters of Jewish history: the years of slavery in Egypt, along with the genocide of male infants, the attempted suppression and murder of an entire people.
That this evil intention did not come to final fruition does not mask the fact that it did, in fact, happen; that male infants were thrown into the Nile River, to be drowned or devoured by beasts; that a brilliant culture was beaten into the dust. It did happen, and we are commanded to remember that, not only as an historical fact, but also as a warning for all time: That we human beings are capable of the worst horrors, of committing the most unspeakable atrocities against one another.
When the Israelites, led by Moses, Aaron and Miriam, went through the parted Red Sea and emerged into liberty and world history as a new-born nation, they burst into song. Mi chamocha a’elim Adonai, they sang: Who is like You, Adonai, among all the gods worshipped on this earth.
It is a song we still sing, repeating it daily during our prayer service, as part of the Sh’ma and its blessings, as well as once a year, when we read it in context of the weekly Torah portion in which it appears
In the Torah, the Song Of The Sea stands unique, immediately recognizable by its formatting on the scroll. Unlike most other passages, it forms a visual representation of the path our people took between the two walls of sea water standing upright to either side of us, held back by a power no one can comprehend, a power beyond the wildest imaginings of minds restrained by logic, reasoning and rationality.
It is impossible to understand this miracle, futile to explain it as some seismic or other natural phenomenon, just as it is impossible to understand how the Jewish People have survived for more than 3000 years since then. The Jews account for less than one percent of the world’s population, and yet in the entire world we are the third longest-surviving, still extant, civilization. Despite oppression, persecution and dispersal, despite ghettoes, pogroms and the Holocaust of our own time, we are still here, still present to sing our song of exultation and survival.
How is that possible?
The actual date of Shabbat Shira this year is not for a couple of weeks yet: February 8th in the world calendar. And yet, how appropriate that we celebrate this powerful song tonight, even if it is a couple of weeks early by our calendar. For this week we have been commemorating yet another miracle, a more recent one—the liberation of Auschwitz, 75 years ago this week.
Out of the more than 1.3 million people sent to Auschwitz, 1.1 million were murdered there, all but perhaps 100,000 of them Jewish men, women, children. Tragically, many died after being liberated, victims of disease, deprivation, and loss of faith and hope. Yet the majority of those who did survive went on, somehow, to begin new lives, new families, and, miraculously, a new state of their own in our ancient homeland—the Land of Israel.
This week we saw a gathering of 47 world leaders at Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Remembrance Center in Jerusalem, to observe and commemorate the liberation of Auschwitz 75 years ago. Many spoke of the accomplishments of their own people in saving Jews, in liberating the camps, in freeing Europe from the tyranny of the Nazis. Yet one of the most moving speeches of all came from the President of Germany, Frank-Walter Steinmeier. Of all the speeches that were delivered, each in the language of the nation its leader represented, Mr. Steinmeier alone did not speak in his own native tongue, as though he somehow understood that German words would resound very weirdly in this hall of memory. But for two words, the entire speech was delivered in English and in Hebrew. The two German words were “Nie wieder,” Never Again.
However, for all their awesome power and meaning, these words are not yet established fact. They are only a pledge, a promise. They are only as meaningful as the people who attempt to fulfill them, each in their own capacity, each to his and her own ability.
For we still see unspeakable horrors in the world today. Prejudice, human trafficking, and even genocide are still here. As is anti-Semitism, a disease that still rages unabated, transmitted through misinformation and outright lies, through stories, folk tales, and even jokes. In the most recent past we have seen anti-Semitism turn to violence; desecration of synagogues and cemeteries; mass shootings and seemingly random beatings of Jews on streets and private homes, in the most civilized cities and cultured towns, in the most progressive of countries. It is naïve not to see the calls for annihilation made against Jews, against the State of Israel and its supporters, as anything other than anti-Semitism.
And yet we, the Jewish People, still sing our song.
‘Az yashir Moshe, “Then Moses sang.” Even at the end of his life, Moshe Rabbeinu, Moses, our greatest rabbi and teacher, despite what he had seen—the strife, the tragedies, the horrors, the meandering in the wilderness for forty years—still found strength in his body and soul to sing. This phrase, ‘Az yashir Moshe, found at the conclusion of the Torah, can be understood as the one supreme metaphor for all Jewish existence. The common saying is: they tried to kill us, they failed, let’s eat. But that’s not accurate. What we should say is, they tried to kill us, they failed, let’s sing.
In 1965, the Israeli newspaper Ha-aretz sent a young reporter named Elie Wiesel to Russia, to investigate and report on the state of the Jews in the then-Soviet Union. In the seminal book that emerged from this visit, The Jews of Silence, Wiesel relates his impressions and experiences. One of these took place while visiting a Hassidic community in Leningrad. It was during the holiday of Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles, and the rabbi of the community commanded—not asked, commanded—a man named Moshe to sing. “I want our guest to tell the Jews of the world that in Leningrad we know how to sing!... Let him go home and report that the Jews of Russia live under such and such conditions, but they still know how to sing.” As commanded, Moshe sang. And then he sang again. He repeated his song nearly a dozen times, until his voice gave, proving to all that the Jews of Silence were not silent after all, that their voice carried forth loud and clear, that they still sang the song of Jewish existence.
‘Az yashir Moshe. Then sang Moses.
‘Az yashir Yisrael. Then sang Israel.
It is a song of sadness, loss and tragedy, yet also a song of faith, hope and redemption. It is a song of power and majesty, a song of endurance and survival despite all odds. A song that describes the improbable and seemingly impossible miracle of our ongoing life and existence.
Shabbat Shira, the Sabbath of Song, may refer to one specific day in the year. Yet the shira, the song, is eternal. We have been singing it for 3,600 years now, and we still sing it today.
Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha’olam, shehecheyanu v’key’manu v’higi’anu lazman hazeh. Blessed art Thou, Adonai our God, Eternal Sovereign of the universe, who has given us life, sustained it within us, and enabled us to reach this season and time. Amen.
Now let us sing.
© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman
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