‘I sing the body electric,’ Walt Whitman wrote
The title of this week’s column are the opening words of Walt Whitman’s immortal poem from his “Leaves of Grass” collection published in 1855. It celebrates the human body as a sacred and essential part of the soul, acting as the vehicle for the soul’s expression. The title also recalls of a classic 1960s episode of Rod Serling’s “The Twilight Zone” in which a young widower and his children purchase a life-like robot who acts as companion and “grandmother” to this family, attempting to fill the void of the tragic loss of the children’s young mother. A thought provoking and emotional episode (based on Ray Bradbury’s brilliant short story), it was sci-fi TV at its best.
What prompted me to think about Whitman’s classic — and its impact for us as Jews, as Zionists and as human beings — was my attendance at a funeral last week for an acquaintance I met at morning minyan and only casually knew. He was a Holocaust survivor with a beautiful voice, fluent in multiple languages and quick with a corny Jewish joke.
In his eulogy, the rabbi said that “Abe made music part of his life. In prayer, in shiurim, even the middle of a conversation, he was always bursting into song. And song is the way our human souls communicate with one another in the halls of heaven.” This beautiful thought made me think of Whitman’s poem.
Then I started to think about the parshiyot Chayei Sarah and Toldot.
Understandably, Chayei Sarah because it is bookended with death and funerals and burials — although most of the parsha is celebratory, about finding a suitable wife for Yitzchak, the “miraculous” finding of Rivka and the subsequent meeting of Yitzchak and Rivka. (Not only that, but Avraham himself re-marries, Keturah [maybe Hagar] has more kids, and even Yitzchak and Yishmael). Rather than being a funereal tale of death, it is one of courtship, engagement, marriage and happy endings, worthy of a Hallmark Holiday Special!
The story then continues with Toldot, where Rivka has difficulty conceiving and Yitzchak prays to Hashem that she become pregnant, and she does. Then the story takes a darker turn, with the revelation that she is carrying twins who will be fierce enemies. Reading like a Dickensian novel, without the happy ending we’ve come to desire, we are left to contemplate the fate of our protagonists.
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What are we to make of all this? We know that all of Torah is true and is there to impart to us life lessons — these are not just “stories.” Every word, every letter, of what is said and not said is fraught with meaning and transcendent understanding, if we only take the time to discover it.
If we return to the concept of communication by music, we may have some of the answer.
A Jewish understanding of a soul is the spiritual essence that connects us to our Creator who created us as a synthesis of spiritual and physical, with the spiritual to be the master of the physical. Unfortunately, for many the reverse is true, because Hashem has given us freedom of choice.
These concepts are similar to what Whitman outlined poetically, since his Christianity received them from Judaism. But he, influenced by Greek culture and thought, glorified and celebrated the human body, its physical beauty and sensuality, while we as Jews celebrate and elevate our spiritual character, the supremacy of the soul as the guiding force in our lives and behavior.
If we look at Yitzchak, we see he was the most mysterious and spiritual of the Avot. He speaks very little — the only speech evidenced by him in the Torah prior to meeting and marrying Rivka, is when he asks his father at the akeida:“Hinei ha’aish v’haetzim, v’ayeh haseh l’ola (here are the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the offering)?”
The midrash expounds on the intensely spiritual nature of Yitzchak. When he was first seen by Rivka from a distance he was “conversing in the field.” Who was he talking to? Chazal in masechet Berachot 26b tell us he was praying to Hashem, and it was then that he established the Mincha prayer.
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The simple pshat of the verse is that he was meditating in the field. Ramban says that upon seeking Yitzchak, Rivka fell off (or quickly dismounted) her camel, so awed by him was she. And when they finally met, the Torah does not record a word exchanged, in contrast to the wordy conversation she had had with Avraham’s servant Eliezer earlier.
When she had trouble conceiving, she said nothing to Yitzchak, and he nothing to her. He just went and prayed, but we don’t know what he said because no words are provided by the Torah. We know he is capable of speaking when he must (such as when he challenges Avimelech about the stolen wells or speaking to Yaakov and Eisav about the blessings).
The only record of a conversation between Yitzchak and Rivka is when Rivka wanted to be certain that Yitzchak would send Yaakov away for his safety, so she complained about Yaakov getting ensnared by a Hittite woman, to use that as a pretext for his flight from Canaan. Some suggest that it was this lack of communication that led to much of the dysfunctionality and sibling rivalry in their home, but it is clear that at least in part, it was because Yitzchak was such a spiritual being and Rivka was in awe of him.
But perhaps as suggested above, their communication was not through speech but through some other form.
We being our daily prayers with pesukei d’zimra — we sing to Hashem when we pray! We daven with niggun and nusach, and our neshamot are elevated! We use words, but words of poetry found in Tehillim. Dovid Hamelech, brave warrior and brilliant musician, author of much of Tehillim used his kinor (his harp) to soothe himself and his enemies.
This is how humans who have departed communicate with one another and with G-d Himself.
Then why is it that when we are still living, in our corporeal forms, we do not communicate to one another and with Him in this way? After giving it some thought, perhaps we already do communicate with one another in non-verbal ways. Does not a smile or a frown communicate a particular message, one of happiness, joy and acceptance or alternatively one of sadness, anger or disapproval? The sing song of one’s voice, the tone, can often transmit messages more accurately than words.
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The point is that when we communicate with one another in this way, it is our souls that are interacting, rather than our intellects or physical selves. That is why when we pray, when we open our souls to Hashem above, whether to cry out in pain or anguish or exult in joyous appreciation and Thanksgiving, we sing with tunes appropriate to the situation.
Which leads to one final note. The week after the heinous attack on October 7, 2023, the esteemed rav of our shul in Jerusalem, Rav Shai Finkelstein, noted that Hamas are not animals but they are not human either. As noted above, Hashem created humanity b’tzelem Elokim. They, Hamas, with their barbarism, were mevatel who negated their tzelem Elokim.
It is interesting, as we read the parshiyot of Chayei Sarah and Toldot, to see that they both conclude with a mention of Yishmael and his descendants. Islam identifies itself with Yishmael, and, while according to our tradition he may have done teshuvah, their descendants certainly have not. That is something we must never forget.
Our texts from Tanach and our prayers inform us that we can use this special power of song to defeat our enemies just as we use it to comfort our family, friends and ourselves. Tehillim is replete with examples of such songs (for example, every La’Menatzeach, which literally means for the Conductor).
As we accept Shabbat on Friday evening, we sing the beautiful poetry of Rav Shlomo Halevi Alkabetz, the L’cha Dodi. One verse, “Uri, Uri shir daberi,” is especially poignant. It means “Awaken, Awaken, utter a song.” The poet derived this a verse in the Navi for sefer Shoftim, in the story of the prophetess and judge, Devorah, who along with Barak,defeated Sisera and the entire Canaanite army. The pasuk says, “Uri Uri Devorah, Uri Uri dabri shir (Awake, Awake O’ Devorah; Awake, Awake utter a song).”
It is a song of celebration and victory in battle.
Let us raise our voices in song to Hashem — in supplication, in tragedy and joy, in comfort but also in victory over our enemies.
Our language and nusach are Hebrew but the niggun is neshamadik!
Shabbat Shalom
Write: Columnist@TheJewishStar.com
