There is a wonderful story in a collection of teachings by Rabbi Moshe Hayyim Efrayim (1748-1800). In this story, the rabbi describes a village musician of such prodigious talent that whenever he enters into the town square, picks up his instrument and begins to play, anyone within earshot is immediately inspired to dance with joy, jumping into the air and spinning exuberantly in the Hasidic tradition of simcha dancing.
One day, a deaf man wanders into the midst of one such impromptu celebration. He is unable to hear the music, but he can’t help but witness the joy filling the air. According to the story, the man’s first thought is that he must have stumbled into a hamlet of madmen. But then he looks again and he realizes that he has a choice; he can either dismiss the revelers around him as irrational, or he can join them in their celebration, trusting that they are being moved by something beyond his perception and welcoming the opportunity to experience this joy for himself.
There are as many ways to describe religious experience as there are varieties of religious endeavor, but so often in this hyper rational world, we start with what we can control and understand. Every year there are more and more books written arguing for and against all of the world’s major religious traditions and other books seeking to characterize each spiritual path in ways that they have not been portrayed before. And each such work seems to be based on the premise that before we can explore our spirituality, we must first understand it.
And sometimes, that’s the way that spirituality works.
But not always. Sometimes we start with music, with the experience of feeling a part of something that is bigger than we are and which we can sense around us even if it’s not something that we can understand. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel writes: “The only language that seems to be compatible with the wonder and mystery of being is the language of music. Music is more than just expressiveness. It is rather a reaching out toward a realm that lies beyond the reach of verbal propositions. . . . music is a refutation of human finality.”
Prayer is difficult. Fixed prayer as it is preserved in the prayer books of our tradition is crafted in language that expresses ancient ideas, first articulated thousands of years ago. How can we not get tripped up in the challenge of delivering these ancient lines as our own in our aspirations to enter into communication with God? How can we not pause when the words on the page imply a world view that is more alienating than inviting?
For many of us, the answer is to start with music. I find that the wonderful paradox of communal prayer is the way that losing myself in a chorus of others enables me to offer my deepest and most personal supplications into that rich and many faceted spiritual cry. In my most inspiring prayer experiences, it feels to me as if I am able to open my own mouth and to sing with the voices of everyone assembled.
And what’s more, the experiential and irrational experience of sacred music is not confined to any one faith or tradition. Acknowledging the potent spiritual power of music prepares us to be moved not only by the melodies and modalities with which we have been raised, but also to reach an understanding and respect for other traditions as well.
But, like the man who wanders into the revelry in Rav Moshe’s story, the first step is to allow ourselves to be opened and moved by that which we cannot understand.
About Rabbi Eric M. Rosin
Rabbi Eric Rosin began his professional career as an attorney in Los Angeles serving the entertainment industry, but discovered he needed to be doing something he was passionate about. He left the practice of law and began studying for ordination at the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies in Los Angeles. After ordination, Rabbi Rosin served for two years as the assistant rabbi of Temple Beth-El in Richmond, Va., then assumed the pulpit at Kesher Israel Congregation in West Chester, Pa. in 2004.
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