In discussing the theme of this sermon, “what makes a Jewish song Jewish,” I speak as a Rabbi, not as a musician or connoisseur of the arts. I believe that in addition to the artistic qualities of a song, or any work of art, there are also certain ethical or moral or religious matters which contribute to its greatness and Jewishness. This week, as Shabbos Shirah – the Sabbath on which the Song of Moses is read – and the beginning of Jewish Music Month, is an opportune time to delve into those other-than-technical matters which make songs like Az Yashir great and Jewish. There are three prerequisites for, or, pragmatic tests of, a great Jewish song. The first two of these are universal; that is, they are the marks of greatness which distinguish any truly superior song or chant. The third is the particularly Jewish aspect. And it is the three of these, taken together, which make for a song such as Az Yashir, which is both great from a universal point of view, and invaluably holy from a Jewish point of view. The first requirement is – that it have meaning for all times. It must be as appropriate for any future generation as it is for the one in which it is written. It must outgrow local character and provincial significance, and overflow into the stream of time, the stream of Eternity. For a truly great song to be immortal, it must be eternal. ויאמרו לאמר, “and the Israelites said saying” is interpreted by the Jerusalem Talmud as meaning that they said for future generations to say, לעתיד, ‘tis a song for all time to come. It is a song which will be as valid for the 20th century as for 4,000 years before the 20th century. Do we not repeat the Az Yashir daily? Do we not read it from the Torah twice every year? You see, this song was not restricted to particular events and was not circumscribed by definite personalities – in essence it transcends all these. For, as the song of liberation, sung after the exodus from Egypt, it is the hymn of freedom for all time, the eter…

“Faith” as a subject for a sermon by a Rabbi seems so appropriate and so to-be-expected, that it is almost an invitation to the congregation to doze off into a gentle Sabbath nap. And yet it is a topic which is rarely discussed from a traditional Jewish pulpit. It is rarely mentioned because it is taken for granted that those who do come to synagogue already have faith. It is an assumption which is, I believe, most correct. But the fact remains that Faith is a very hazy concept, and that its causes and effects are not always understood. I believe this sufficient reason, therefore, to invite you with me in an exploration of the Jewish meaning of Faith. The first thing to be said about Faith is that it makes life liveable. Without Faith in G-d, life is neither intelligible nor worth enduring. Even the world’s greatest skeptics maintain that you have got to believe in something. Bertrand Russell that famous philosopher and brilliant mathematician whom we might well dub the high-priest of all atheists, writes, “To live a human life, man must have grounding in something, in some sense outside of human life… in some end which is impersonal and above mankind such as G-d or Truth or Beauty.” Life without Faith is a dull, mechanical, meaningless routine. With it, life begins to take on meaning.Our Rabbis seem to make this point in their comments on this week’s Bible portion. The children of Israel began their long trek out of Egypt and Pharaoh’s legions began to give chase. They arrived at the banks of the Red Sea which G-d, in a miraculous act of deliverance, split in two allowing the Jews to walk across its dry banks. When they finished crossing the Red Sea, the sea rushed back, drowning the Egyptians, who were pursuing them through the divided waters, and the Jews realized that they had been helped on the first leg of their journey to freedom. At that moment, the Bible relates, vayiru ha’am es HaShem va’yaaminu ba’Shem uve’Moshe avdo, “they feared the Lord and they belie…

This Shabbos is especially called Shabbos Shirah on account of the scriptural reading, this morning, of the Az Yashir, the song of Moses and Israel which they sang on the shores of the Red Sea which they had just crossed miraculously. This Shirah, or song, was the deep expression of joy by the People of Israel, their heart-felt happiness at their exodus from the slavery of Egypt, and their deep thankfulness to G-d that He had so favored them.But Az Yashir was more than a victory song, or song of jubilation, by a subjugated people who had just won a war. Many nations have sung victory songs composed in honor of martial victories, but they have faded from the world of music even as the wars and nations they commemorated dwindled in significance in the history books. If Az Yashir were only a primitive war song, we Jews would not recite it every day of the year, as part of our morning service. No, it is not only an ancient song of Israel. It is something infinitely more than that.It is, for one thing, a song for all times. Today, 4,000 years after the great event, we still sing it. Our children and children’s children will sing it long after what is now Egypt will have been submerged under new seas, and long after the pyramids will have been crumbled by the sheer weight of years. It is an eternal song.And even more than that, Az Yashir is not only a national song but a personal hymn. Our mystics speak of individuals experiencing Yetzias Mitzrayim, the exodus from a personal Egypt. There comes a time in man’s life when he leaves his foolish ways and his base interests, when he takes stock of himself and becomes aware of the G-dliness all about him. He changes his mind, his outlook and his whole way of life. When that happens, such a man sings his own personal Az Yashir in honor of his own Yetzias Mitzrayim. Every person, at some time or other, reaches that degree of happiness and thankfulness that he cries out: Mi chamocha ba’eilim Ha’shem, “O G-d, thank you.” And in ev…

Our Sages relate a most interesting incident concerning Rabbi Judah the Prince, the redactor of the Mishnah, affectionately known as Rebbe. One day, we are told, Rebbe hayah yoshev ve’doresh – Rabbi Judah was preaching to his congregation. Suddenly he was faced by a distressing problem, one that has challenged generations of public speakers. Nitnamnem ha-tzibbur, his audience began to fall asleep. This was a bad situation; and so, moved by a speaker’s instinct, bikesh Rebbe l’oreran, Rabbi Judah attempted to wake them up. But how is that done? Some speakers turn on the volume higher, relying more upon decibels than upon content in order to stimulate interest. Others use a variety of techniques. But not so Rebbe; instead, he aroused his listeners by making the following alarming statement: yaldah ishah be’Mitzrayim shishim ribbo be’keres achat. “There was a woman in Egypt who gave birth to 600,000 children all at once.” It is meticulously recorded by the Rabbis that at least one of his listeners, Ishmael the son of Rabbi Yose by name, was jolted out of his slumber by this piece of intelligence. What, he inquired, can you possibly mean? And Rabbi answered: zu Yocheved she’yaldah at Mosheh she’shakul ke’negged shishim ribbo shel Yisrael – I refer to Yocheved who gave birth to Moses, a man who was equated in value to the 600,000 children of Israel who lived at that time.This is indeed sensational news. It is quite unusual for mother to be blessed with a son who can lead, inspire, and teach a whole people. It is startling news that parents are privileged to have, as a child, a Moses. Not everyone has such good fortune. Nevertheless, every parent dreams of deriving some form of nachas from children. Every father and every mother wants to have at least an inkling of the kind of happiness, satisfaction, pleasure, pride, and fulfillment of dreams, that Amram and Yocheved derived from there Moses. Often we ask: how does one do it? What must we do to deserve such nachas? How …

Judaism places great importance on the idea of shirah, song, the theme of this special Sabbath which is suggested in our Torah reading of the shirat ha-yam, the song of triumph sung by Moses and the Children of Israel at the shores of the Red Sea. One of the indications of the significance the Jewish Tradition attaches to shirah is the statement by the Rabbis deriving the doctrine of resurrection and eternal life from an analysis of the second word of the song. Az yashir Mosheh u-vnei Yisrael, “then Moses and the Children of Israel sang”- the Hebrew, however, uses the future: yashir, will sing, not shar, sang. Mi-kan li-tehiat ha-metim min ha-torah, thus we learn from the Bible, say the Rabbis, the principle of the resurrection of the dead – for it means that in the days of resurrection Moses and the Children of Israel will again sing this song. But the Sages meant more than to prove a religious doctrine by taking a poetic form literally. They meant, in a large sense, that shirah contains in it the seeds of tehiat ha-metim. They meant that you can find something of eternity in this song. If you know the secret, the inner meaning of shirah, then you can get eternity for a song.And what is that secret? Why, indeed, is shirah accorded such a place of honor in the Jewish Tradition? How can you win eternity for a song?The answer cannot be merely the esthetic quality of shirah, for other peoples speaking in other tongues produced poetry and music equal to and perhaps superior to that of Israel. The significance of shirah lies not in the senses but in the spirit, not in the art but in the heart, not in the sound but in the vision. Shirah is the expression of insight. It reveals an added dimension of personality: an awareness of hidden truths, a sensitivity to mysteries usually veiled and obscure in the normal course of mundane, prosaic life. It is the ability to perceive what is beyond the apparent, the capacity to see the world right-side-up even if it is, as it usually …

Permit me to share with you a psychological reaction that is fairly prevalent. Recall the last time you were engaged in a conversation with a strong-minded person. The firmer he is in his ideas, the more brash in expressing them, the more opinionated and self-assured – the weaker you become in articulating your own, opposing ideas, and the more equivocal in maintaining your own position. It happens to the best of us: when our own delicate and refined feelings are confronted with a person possessed of infallible certainty, our lesser confidence is overwhelmed and almost crushed by the greater confidence of the other. And if your conversationalist is exceptionally aggressive, if he sneers at any opinions other than his own and considers them unthinkable, if he stamps his foot and raises his voice, you become even more disconcerted, more apprehensive and intimidated, more hesitant and doubtful about your own feelings. It is something probably all of us have experienced: when you meet someone who thinks he has all the answers, you begin to question yourself. This is not an unusual reaction, but it is an unfortunate one, because you permit brashness to take advantage of good manners and courtesy. It is a phenomenon that might not be worthy of extensive comment were it not for the fact that it can have important consequences in a person’s whole life. For, in facing an adversary on questions of principle, on matters of emunah and religion, on issues of the spirit – the reaction to the self-confidence and smug certainty of the cynic is of crucial significance.These thoughts come to mind because this kind of situation is prefigured in the story of Amalek which we read this morning – Amalek, that ancient wild tribe that attacked Israel and remained forever after the symbol of anti-Semitism, of cruelty, of blind and baseless hatred. In the collective character of Amalek, as it reaches us through the pages of the Bible, there is no sign of hesitancy or self-doubt. Amalek is su…

The battle of Israel against Amalek, described at the very end of today’s Sidra, is of more than local significance as a minor detail in the ancient history of our people. The Torah itself refers to this engagement as a “war by the Lord against Amalek from generation to generation.” Amalek throughout history has come to represent to us the very symbol of evil, of heartlessness and cruelty, of Godlessness and anti-Semitism. It is therefore of interest to note that in entering upon this crucial episode in the life of Israel, with so much meaning for future generations, Moses departed from his usual procedure. He, the great military chieftain and warrior of Israel who had led the campaign against Egypt and just now completed the exodus from that house of slavery, did not personally lead his troops in battle against Amalek. He did not give the task over to any accomplished general. Instead, he turned to his disciple, Joshua, and asked him to undertake the leadership in this historic battle. Why did not Moses himself lead his troops? Why Joshua? Our rabbis too were troubled by that question, and the answer they gave is of paramount significance for our lives and the lives of Jews of all generations. This is what they say: Lamah li li’Yehoshua? – Amar leih: zekenekha amar “et ha-elokim ani yarei,” u-va’zeh ketiv “ve’lo yarei elokim”; yavo ben beno she-amar “et ha-elokim ani yarei” ve-yipara mi’mi she’ne’emar alav “ve’lo yarei elokim” (Shem. Rab. 26). Joshua, unlike Moses, was descended from Joseph of whom the Bible says that before he revealed himself to his brothers, he declared to them: Et ha’elokim ani yarei – I fear God. Joshua, like his grandfather Joseph, was a deeply religious individual who openly proclaimed his religiousness: Et ha’elokim ani yarei. He was therefore particularly appropriate as the leader of Israel in its encounter with Amalek, for of Amalek it was said ve’lo yarei elokim – that this nation did not fear God. Precisely because the major strength f…

In recent months, the exploits of the Jewish Defense League have filled our front pages and have insinuated themselves into the forefront of Jewish concern. With the passage of time, the official denunciations have become sharper and shriller, but popular support seems to have grown greater for the J.D.L. It is easy to see why many Jews identify with them – their reactions are instinctively Jewish and they respond to Jewish needs, even though their use of reason and reasonableness is quite another question. Whatever Judgment we may have of this organization's overall value – whether plus or minus, good or bad – it has performed a service in dramatizing certain fundamental issues in Jewish life.Permit me to illustrate this by way of a remarkable commentary of the Mechilta on a verse in the Song recorded in today's Sidra. On the words זה א-לי "This is my God," the Mechilta says:ראתה שפחה על הים מה שלא ראה יחזקאל ושאר הנביאים, "A mere maid-servant on the shores of the Red Sea was able to see more than Ezekiel and the other prophets. The lowliest of the Israelites who experienced the Exodus had, as it were, a direct vision of God – "this is my God" – whereas the Prophets perceived Him in symbols and "riddles."Why is this so? And what do the Rabbis mean to say by this?I suggest that they offered a commentary on human nature in general, and also a subtle, implied criticism of the Prophets.During the normal course of humdrum life, only the highly perceptive and intelligent exercise foresight and vision and can see the truly great issues, those that are real but not yet apparent. However, the hoi polloi, the ordinary masses, go on unaware of that which is happening quietly and imperceptibly. The people sleep while the Prophet dreams. The people yawn, while the Prophet cries out and demands and protests. But in the extreme moments of history – whether moments of miraculous redemption or moments of critical danger – the prophet, so accustomed to visions and the extraordinary…

Last year, when I last spoke of the religious situation in Israel, I expressed the hope that Israel would not be afflicted with a Kulturkampf. Today, after my most recent visit to the State of Israel, I must express the hope that we can emerge from it intact. Because we are well into it. The term “Kulturkampf” is about a hundred years old. It goes back to Bismarck’s Germany, when a split occurred between the “Old Catholics” and the Church concerning the new doctrine of Papal infallibility. The battle, which raged mostly about education, posed a threat to the integrity of the civic and social fabric of Germany. And the Kulturkampf, or cultural collision, between religious Jews and secularist Jews in Israel today, this clash of commitments especially about education, is a fact of Israeli life with world-wide repercussions and dangers.To hear the story from the combatants, one would have to believe that all religious Jews are Neanderthal bigots arrayed against the enlightened and open-minded secularists; or, alternatively, that the religious community is the army of the Lord, the only remaining loyalists to the Jewish tradition, who confront self-hating, anti-Semitic Israelis.I wish I could tell you that either interpretation, in all its simplicity, is credible. I wish I could tell you that our side is always right, and the other always wrong. I wish I could tell you that we American Orthodox Jews can keep out of the battle or above the fray.But none of these is true. And we shall have to enter the battle, like it or not, and we shall have to take each issue as it comes, examining it with discernment and discrimination, weighing and measuring, and not allowing our critical functions to be suspended because of the directives of any group of people. We shall have to participate in this cultural confrontation, and yet try to calm passions wherever possible. But, above all, we must try to be honest. Because honesty, truth, and clarity are the chief casualties in the Kultu…

A name, in our Western civilization, is simply a tag, a mere label and means of identification. Hence, it is understandable though regrettable that names are gradually yielding to numbers, which are more rational and more easily classifiable. We are beginning to lose our individual names to Social Security numbers, credit card numbers, and other computerizable figures. Street names, which are often of historic value, are more and more becoming merely numbered streets, like “West 86th Street”; towns and cities, whose names are frequently picturesque, characteristic, and sometimes unique, have all but faded from our envelopes as postal authorities record merely the ZIP code numbers. However, in the Bible – as in all Semitic culture – a name is more than a means of identification. It is somehow related to essence, it is mystically identified with the substance, with the individual. Therefore the Torah usually explains why a specific name is given to a certain individual.It is for this reason that I have often wondered about those occasions in Jewish life, and general life, when the reverse occurs, when a name is covered up, deliberately omitted.It may be instructive, therefore, to analyze the varieties of anonymity, and perhaps emerge with the beginnings of an ethic of anonymity.For our first instance of anonymity, let us look to today’s Sidra. In response to the complaints of the Israelites, the Lord sent them the manna, and Moses instructed them to take only a certain amount and eat all of it, without letting any remain to the next day. Most Israelites obeyed Moses, but not all: ולא שומעו אל משה ויותירו אנשים ממנו עד בקר... ויקצוף עליהם משה, “They did not listen to Moses, but some people from amongst them left the manna over till the morn... and Moses was angry with them.” Who are these people? Tradition identifies them as the two infamous malcontents, Datan and Aviram. But why does the Torah not say so explicitly?I suggest that the anonymity the Torah employs here …