Music and Prayer in the Jewish Tradition: Where Are Our Songs?

“Art and Science are steadily progressing. To perfect ourselves we must resort to non-Jewish sources.”[1] “A collection of fine poems and melodies culled from the hymnals of the different Churches has no place in the Synagogue. Has the Jewish
genius produced nothing of value that we must needs go begging at the doors of every denomination?”[2] Imagine if you will a debate that transcends time and place, an argument that challenges not only thousands of years of tradition, but calls into question some of the very things that define you and your community: in short, imagine a tug-of-war over your identity. The two contrasting quotes that appear above demonstrate the controversy over musical borrowing that has followed the Jewish people throughout the ages. From Eastern Europe to to , there has never been agreement over where the tunes that Jews use to pray should come from.

It is impossible to look at this issue without deeply considering the concept of identity. In his book The Lord’s Song in a Strange Land, Rabbi Jeffrey Summit defines “identity” as the following: “âÂ?¦a sense of belonging, of membership, of place, and of connection to a particular community. One belongs to a community by participating in the social and religious activities of that group. Identity is functionally determined by a series of individual and collective choices, made by technical means-about how one dresses, eats, socializes, and sings.”[3] Later on the same page, he offers an additional definition: “the expression of a person’s core essence.” Using these definitions, it’s safe to assume that many people associate at least part of their respective identities with their religious experiences. If part of that experience is the way in which they sing their prayers, then it’s no wonder that so many are angered and threatened by non-Jewish melodies in the synagogue. For them, perhaps, some of the spirituality, the “Jewish-ness” they feel comes from a sense of connection to the past.

For others, however, a new tune may be no less religious than an old one. In escaping an old identity, such as many Jewish emigrants did by settling in , one may desire to find new songs to represent a new life. Or, like the Hasidim, one may seek to elevate a secular melody to the heights of piety by using it in a religious setting. This is not to suggest that the Hasidic community isn’t connected to the past; in fact, quite the contrary. It is merely to say that, unlike some other communities, they are comfortable with integrating contemporary tunes with traditional ones. Looking at these examples and considering the wide variety of social and cultural backgrounds that have always comprised the American Jewish heritage, is it any surprise that there has been such a large amount of music-related disagreement?

History

First, I would like to briefly examine some contrasting attitudes towards musical borrowing in Jewish history. Take, for example, in the fourteenth century. There was a renowned rabbi named Jacob Levi M�¶lin who was known as the Maharil, who traveled extensively through , and became such a popular figure that most of the German Jews accepted his teachings as law. One of his deep beliefs was that traditional melodies should be preserved no matter what. In fact, he believed this so strongly that he even attributed one of his own personal losses to a slip-up he made while davening:

While officiating once on the High Holidays in Regensburg, without being informed of the local customs, he changed a tune and used a hymn not used there. In the same year his daughter died; and he considered the blow a punishment for his violation of a local custom. [4]

However, despite the fact that many people (particularly those with higher education) clung to the Maharil’s teachings, things changed in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The German Jews were living in an environment of extreme persecution. Many worked with gentiles throughout the week, and when Shabbat came and they returned once more to the ghettoes, the last thing they wanted was to be reminded yet again of how different they were from the rest of the Germans. So, they would ask their chazzanim to put the sacred texts to tunes from the outside world, feeling that, at least for that brief period of time, they could bridge the gap a little. This, of course, was met with apprehension on the parts of the rabbis and other educated Jews, but was important to those who believed in it because it provided them with a sense of belonging that they were unable to find anywhere else.

The nineteenth century was a time of change for Jews in Europe. In response to calls for reform in all social and political arenas, particularly in the Catholic Church, some Jews began pressing for Synagogue reform as well. The first man to be successful at making any substantial changes was a rich merchant named Israel Jacobson. Among other changes, he set Hebrew texts to Protestant music and brought German hymns set to Christian chorales into the first Reform temple, which he erected in 1810.

Seven years later, I.E. Kley used Jacobson’s ideas when founding the “Tempel Verein” in Hamburg. The Hamburg Temple instituted practices such as the use of the organ and singing in mixed choirs, as well as following Jacobson’s example in using Protestant and German music. These changes were strongly opposed by many rabbis of the time, especially because almost all of the composers who were hired by the Reformers were Christian. This was for two reasons:

�in the first place, the Jewish musicians had no modern musical training and did not know a thing about harmony; and in the second place, the aim was to replace the Jewish Asiatic tunes with German European melodies capable of arousing devotion. Matters went so far that Synagogue music was considered good music, if it had the approval of a gentile musician.[5]

Several renowned Jewish composers did come out of this environment, however; among them Salomon Sulzer and Louis Lewandowski.

Sulzer was hired as the chazzan for the Viennese synagogue around the beginning of the nineteenth century. His original intent was not to break entirely from tradition, but to unite aspects of the past and present in an effort to create a new tradition that would please everybody. While he gained world renown, many Jews found his music entirely un-Jewish, and thought it to be Church-style. And, in fact, all of the choral parts of his major work, Schir Zion, have their roots in Church music (particularly the classically Catholic choral call-and-response). As Idelsohn says, “He overemphasized the phase of exultation and holiness in the Synagogue song, neglecting the no less important emotional strain, the sentimental note in Jewish song, an important feature in Semitic-Oriental music.” (pg. 256).

Lewandowski started his life as a poor Polish villager and, through the patronage of a member of the Mendelssohn family (a cousin of Felix, the Mendelssohn with whom we are familiar today), received a musical education. He became the chazzan of the Berlin Community Synagogue’s assistant, eventually taking on the task of arranging songs for the newly established four-part choir. As he spent much of his life working with and interpreting Sulzer’s music, it is appropriate that he was the one who tried to solve problems that Sulzer’s compositions had created:

He was the first to recognize how the entirely foreign form of the Catholic Church song, introduced by Sulzer, froze the warmth of Jewish sentiment, and silenced the congregation, precluding its participation in the singing. But, although well-intentioned, he failed to solve this latter problem; for he introduced, instead, the German folk-song for congregational singing, which, while well received in Northern German communities, had a decidedly assimilative influence in that it Germanized the sentiments of the Jews.[6]

There is an important point to be seen here about how song can reflect a community’s identity. By using unfamiliar Church melodies, Sulzer took away the congregations’ ability to identify with what they were singing. Lewandowski, in trying to correct that, inadvertently forced the congregations to change themselves if they wanted to be able to have the music represent them.

Moving to a New World

The Jewish settlers who emigrated to towards the beginning of the nineteenth century were primarily from Central Europe, particularly the German countries. They left behind them not only hundreds of years of prejudice and oppression, but also hundreds of years of tradition. There were no properly trained rabbis or chazzanim in this country, and as a result, the first worship experiences that the pioneers created in the New World were crude imitations of the ones they had left behind.
Regardless of quality, it became apparent that the old tunes alone would no longer suffice. These were people who had set out to make new traditions in a new home, and they needed songs that would reflect their new collective identity as American Jews:

So too the Jewish congregations could no longer remain mere continuations of those in the Ghettos of the Old World, for the adjustment and acclimatization of the Jews to their new environment caused a change in their attitude toward life and in their sentiments. The long dark period of oppression was over. In this country of freedom and equality they no longer felt themselves inferior, outlawed strangers, a nation within a nation, in a condition of exile, but full citizens of the country which they began to consider their real home. In addition, they prospered economically, so that for the first time after a period of about two thousand years, the Jew began to regard himself a free man and a citizen, having a home. [7]

And, in fact, as time passed and new generations were born, the style of worship did change. There were those who fought the changes and those who embraced them, but like it or not, the younger generations were imbued with Anglo-Saxon and American culture from birth. The secular tunes they grew up listening to were vastly different than the German songs of their parents’ generations, and it seems only natural that these American-born Jews would seek melodies for their religious lives that echoed their own musical experiences.

The first Reformers in the were twelve dissenting members of the Sephardic temple Congregation Beth Elohim in Charleston, South Carolina. In 1824, they separated themselves from the rest of the congregation, taking the name “Society of Reformed Israelites” and using the service of the HamburgTemple as their model. However, the Reform movement did not become truly victorious in Charleston until 1843, when the rest of the congregation accepted changes such as the use of the organ in the service, the stress on choral and congregational singing instead of just the cantor, the translation of the prayers and hymns into English, and worship with uncovered heads. Many of the tunes and hymns were taken from the Christian Church, a fact which is openly acknowledged in the preface of the first prayer-book to be published in English (1830).

Over the next twenty years, the Reform movement began to spread, either through the founding of new synagogues, or through the conversion of pre-existing Orthodox congregations. Because, as mentioned above, the musical skills of the chazzanim were technically insufficient and unappealing to the Westernized Reform congregations, non-Jewish musicians had to be employed. Since there were no Jewish organists and few Jewish singers (especially females), they would use the Church organist and chorus-members. Again, music was borrowed from the Church or composed by Christian musicians, in styles such as the German-Protestant chorale or the American Protestant hymn.

In the period after the American Civil War, a number of Christian-composed Reform music collections were published, such as Reverend Simon Hecht’s Jewish Hymns for Sabbath Schools and Families. Another collection, Music to Hymns and Anthems for Jewish Worship by Dr. G. Gottheil and A.J. Davis, contains music from composers such as Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn. Some of the services even incorporated operatic arias, which, while greatly admired by some, was met with disdain by many of the more “traditional” congregants:

�It is sometimes absolutely grotesque to hear the tunes associated with amorous or dramatic passages in operas sung to words of religious import. The most ridiculous lack of aesthetic taste is displayed. Seldom is there any true solemnity or other natural emotional force expressed by the choirs. Nothing but declamatory phrasing and sensational yelling utterly at variance with the character of the service�[8]

Despite objections such as this one, adaptations of classical and operatic music did gain popularity during the second half of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth; for instance, the renowned Reform composer Sigmund Schlesinger called upon the eighteenth-century Italian opera in his synagogue compositions, and Weisser speaks of “adaptations by cantors in New York East Side synagogues of the Siciliana of Cavalleria Rusticana to Adon Olam and Liszt’s Second Hungarian Rhapsody to the Yom Kippur Yaaleh.” (pg. 143).

The Times They Are A-Changin’âÂ?¦.Or Are They?

In the quote above regarding the use of opera, the observer brings up an interesting issue: when does musical borrowing intrude upon the experience of prayer? Some melodies have such strong connotations attached to them that it becomes difficult for the listener to separate the melody itself from its associations, and that can be problematic if it prevents the congregant from being able to concentrate on the meaning of the text. Because of this, are there songs that just shouldn’t be used in a synagogue setting?

Some members of a Newton, Massachusetts minyan[9] would argue yes. On one Shabbat, the prayer leader chose to sing the Kedushah, which declares God’s holiness, to the tune of “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” The leader defended his right to use the song, saying that it was a great piece of music, but most of the responses were far from positive. Summit offers a possible explanation:

The melodic code of this Christmas carol was too loaded to be judged acceptable by this congregation. In this switch, which was intended to be playful, the leader pushed beyond the limits and challenged the community’s self-definition. The community took up the challenge and asserted its self-definition as a subculture opposed to assimilation and committed to separation from the Christian subculture. (pg. 143).

The congregation’s reaction is particularly interesting when compared with the previously mentioned Jewish emigrants’ embrace of Hebrew text set to Christian music. Summit goes on to give another example from the same congregation, the children’s use of the tune of “Rock Around the Clock” for Adon Olam. Most of the congregants don’t have a problem with it, as while it may be somewhat irreverent, it has no outside religious ties. In the case of Adeste Fidelis, however, the connection between the beautiful melody and the religious context into which it normally falls (the ending lyrics read: “O come let us adore him/Christ the Lord”) is just too strong.

In contrast, Boston’s B’nai Or[10] seems to be a congregation seeking links to other forms of spirituality, bringing them in and adapting them to their worship needs. As many of the members have explored other religious traditions in addition to Judaism, they appreciate melodies that encompass that part of their lives as well:

âÂ?¦I was surprised to hear the congregation sing what appeared to be a kirtan, westernized Hindu chant, as a meditation before lighting the Shabbat candles. The text of the chant was a mixture of Hebrew and English: “Barekhu, Dear One, Shekhinah, Holy Name; When I call on the light of my soul, I come home.” The community sang the same chant over and over, for more than twelve minutes. While chanting, certain members closed their eyes and sat in the lotus position, touching thumb and forefinger, resting their hands palms up on their knees. Lev, the leader, accompanied the chant on guitar. When I later asked him about the origins of this melody, he said that indeed he had borrowed it from Eastern tradition and substituted Hebrew and English for the original Hindi words. He continued, “I learned it as ‘Hari Om’ and ‘Krishna,’âÂ?¦and I thought this was a nice melody. The ‘Hari Om’ and ‘Krishna’ don’t work for me but ‘Barekhu’ and ‘Shekhinah’ wouldâÂ?¦so I just put those two together (pg. 141).

Like the Newton minyan, the leader openly borrowed a tune from another religion. Unlike the minyan, however, the congregation was willing to accept the new melody into the tradition they were creating. This could be explained by the differences in the two communities’ identities, in this case using the previous definition “the expression of a person’s core essence.” The members of the B’nai Or community may count aspects of many religions as part of what shaped them as individuals, but all of them have returned to Judaism at this point in their lives. So, for them, a combination of more than one tradition is able to represent the roads that many of them took to get to where they are today. Conversely, the more conservative Newton minyan may seek a more openly “Jewish” melody because they feel better represented by songs that sound like, or are at least related to, the traditional songs they grew up with and have continued to use throughout their adult lives.

Bringing the Past to the Present and the Present to the Past

B’nai Or’s approach to musical borrowing in some way mimics the attitude taken by the Hasidic community; in this case, the Lubavitcher Hasidim.

The founder of modern Hasidism was the eighteenth-century mystic ben Eliezer, the Ba’al Shem Tov. After his death in 1760, his followers continued his work, and as the eighteenth century came to a close, there were several prominent leaders (called tzadikim, or “righteous ones”) who brought the movement fame. Some of the tzadikim considered it their duty to modify secular tunes for religious use. Idelsohn relates a brief story:

It is related of “Leib Sarah’s” (1730-1791) and of his disciple the tzadik of Kalif, , that they used to stroll through woods and meadows to listen to the songs of the shepherds and to rework these songs into religious meditations. Once, upon listening to the love-song of a shepherd, the tzadik of Kalif immediately copied the ditty and paraphrased it in Yiddish. (pg. 417)

The lyrics are simple, and only two words are substituted, but see what a difference it makes to the meaning of the song:

ORIGINAL LYRICS: Rose, rose, how far you are! Woods, woods, how large you are! The rose would not have been so far, Were the woods not so large. (pg. 418).

Now, substitute Shekhinah (Divine Presence) for “rose”, and Golus (exile) for “woods”. The song now reads:
Divine Presence, Divine Presence, how far you are! Exile, exile, how large you are! The Divine Presence would not have been so far, Were the exile not so large.

It’s amazing how easily the simple shepherd’s tune becomes a prayer, pointing out to God the Hasidim’s daily struggle to be redeemed from exile and achieve devekuth, or oneness with God. It is also interesting to observe the similarity between the switching of words in this example, and at B’nai Or: in both, just a small change is able to move the tune from the secular world to the sacred.

There are about a quarter million Hasidim in North America today, the most well-known contemporary Hasidic leader being Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who died in the summer of 1994 at the age of ninety-two. He chose to build his community in the CrownHeights district of Brooklyn, and because of this, the New York community (which is the largest in ) became the center of Lubavitcher Hasidim the world over.

To the casual modern observer, the Hasidim appear to be as direct a link to the past as is humanly possible. Seeing them dressed in the clothing styles of eighteenth-century (wigs and long skirts for women, fur hats and long black overcoats for men), one might automatically assume that these Jews would accept nothing but that which is traditional. And, in fact, there is a strong sense of spirituality associated with the past. It is thought in their community that the past was a more pious time, and because of this, one might think that only old tunes would be deemed acceptable. But “one” would be wrong.

Unlike other communities we have discussed thus far, there is a universal acceptance of musical borrowing amongst the Hasidim. In the past, Lubavitchers borrowed tunes from the peasant communities in Eastern Europe and , incorporating them into the tunes they already used. This tradition has not changed in their move to . They see the borrowing as a true form of musical composition:

�in their view, the new nigun which results from their transformation bears no spiritual resemblance to the original melody which was its source. They regard these tunes as being trapped in a mundane (non-Lubavitcher) setting, seeing it as their responsibility to free the captive traces of simhah and hitlahavut perceived in the tune. By borrowing and transforming the tune, Lubavitchers feel they have elevated it to the purer spiritual level associated with Habad philosophy and may now use it in an appropriate way to help them achieve devekuth. Contemporary Lubavitchers, as well as their ancestors, regard the borrowing of melodies as a spiritual act, one which not only elevates a tune, but also its original (usually unknown) composer.[11]

This attitude towards musical borrowing goes above and beyond any we have discussed thus far. Not merely tolerant, or intrigued, by the adaptation of new tunes for purposes of worship, the Hasidim revel in the incorporation of formerly non-religious melodies. This is not to say that just any song can be used for prayer; first, they must lose their association with the present and move into the more elevated spirituality of the past.

In Conclusion�

The question is, which of these widely varied communities has the right idea? The answer: none of them. Worship is such a highly individualized experience that it’s impossible to say who is right and who is wrong when it comes to what tunes should be used. To shut out the possibility of using pre-existing tunes is to cut oneself off from many beautiful compositions that, despite (or perhaps even because of) their secular connections, may be the spiritual elevators that some pray-ers are seeking. On the other hand, to use nothing but borrowed melodies is to deny the rich Jewish musical heritage that predates us by centuries and centuries. The controversy may never be settledâÂ?¦and, perhaps, that is best. Perhaps it is a reminder to the Jewish people of the twenty-first century that we are never isolated in the world, but a part of a constantly shifting cultural, social, and religious atmosphere. And at the end of it all, it’s not where the tune came from; it’s what the tune means to you. To quote the scholar Heyman Steinthal, “Let our descendants, the future generation, know that all our ancestors sang, be it even of foreign origin. Let the future generations know the participation of our ancestors in general culture and its influence upon them.”[12]

Bibliography

Eisenberg, Robert, Boychiks in the Hood: Travels in the Hasidic Underground, San Francisco, 1995

Idelsohn, A.Z., Jewish Music In Its Historical Development, New York, 1967

Kligman, Mark, Music in Judaism, publisher unknown, 2000

Koskoff, Ellen, “Contemporary Nigun Composition in an American Hasidic Community,” (from reading packet; publisher/date unknown)

Rabinovitch, (transl. by A.M. Klein), Of Jewish Music, Montreal, 1952

Summit, Jeffrey A., The Lord’s Song in a Strange Land, New York, 2000

Weisser, Albert, The Modern Renaissance of Jewish Music, New York, 1954

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[1] Levinsohn, pg. 29

[2] Idelsohn, pg. 330 (quoting the editor of the sixth edition of Rabbi Isaac S. Moses’ hymnal, originally published in 1894)

[3]Summit, Lord’s Song, pg. 16-17

[4] Idelsohn, pg. 178

[5] Idelsohn, pg. 261

[6] Idelsohn, pg. 281

[7] Idelsohn, pg. 318

[8] Weisser, pg. 138

[9] all information from Summit, Lord’s Song

[10] all information from Summit, Lord’s Song

[11] Koskoff, pg. 157

[12] Idelsohn, pg. 266