האזינו השמים ואדברה
Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak (32:1)
So begins Shiras Haazinu, the Song of Haazinu, which Moshe Rabbeinu spoke as he took leave of his precious nation. A shirah is a song. Why would Moshe’s final address be a song? Furthermore, in the Torah’s terminology, a song is associated with grateful praise over redemption from difficult adversity. While Shiras Haazinu does mention our liberation from Egypt, it is replete with foreboding concerning frightening and disturbing events in our collective future. In Pri Tzadik (Haazinu 8), HoRav Tzadok z”l. M’lublin explains that, as history evolves, we falter in our observance, which catalyzes painful consequences. This was not bad news — but reality. The rest of the story includes the Torah’s predictions that, ultimately, we will repent and rise up to our mandate as a Torah nation. Moshe reveals the dreadful prophesies and the wondrous rewards which we will recive when we return to our Heavenly mission. Just as the predictions of spiritual decline, followed by grace consequences, were realized, so will the promise of a future redemption become reality. All the ups and downs, the peaks and valleys, weave together to create the magnificent shirah.
Why a song? Why did Moshe not explain to them the story of life: how people fall prey to their yetzer hara, turn away from Hashem, but eventually respond to a spiritual awakening and repent? Why was it critical that Moshe express all this in a song?
A song leaves an everlasting impression, since it speaks to the heart-unlike a lecture/shmues which speaks to the mind, the intellect- whose message fades with time. Intellectual lessons endure only once one has incorporated them into his heart. We feel the messages of songs, while we understand meanings of lectures. Singing is a critical component of prayer, as we daven with specific nigganim, melodies transmitted through the generations. We sing when we learn Torah, the melody infusing the studies with life.
Reb Yisrael Dov Ber was a chasid of the Maharash (Lubavitch). He was a man of warmth who had an inner fire that was evident in his avodas ha’kodesh, every aspect of his holy service to the Almighty. Even the brightest flame can flicker, however, and Reb Yisroel Dov Ber could not determine why his tefillos lacked their usual passion. Davening was the benchmark of his day, and, if he did not daven well, his day (in his opinion) lacked meaning. When a good chasid has a problem he turns to his Rebbe-which he did.
“Rebbe!” he cried, “Ich bin gefallen.” (I have fallen [had a spiritual decline].) The Rebbe looked at him with the gentle eyes of a father looking at his child, and he said “Sing!” “Rebbe, what song can I sing? I am lost. I have lost my bren, fire.” The Rebbe repeated himself, “Sing a niggun, song.” Reb Yisrael Dov Ber began to sing — not only from his lips, but also from the inner recesses of his heart and soul. As he sang, tears flowed from his eyes. These were not tears of despair, but tears heralding his “return.” He had not fallen; he had forgotten where he belonged. We all go through such moments in life when we forget where we belong. A sort of spiritual slump overtakes us. Our neshamah never forgets. Its directional signal is always focused. All it needs is the song from the heart to engage it and put us back on track.
