The
Power of Zemirot
Singing zemirot at the Shabbat
table has immense power. This power
stems not only from the fact that we sing Hashem’s praises in honor of Shabbat,
but also because of the greatness of the songs’ authors. Our zemirot were written by
outstanding tzaddikim who infused their works with their
holiness. Just as our Sages teach that
saying a deceased scholar’s words of Torah causes his lips to move in the upper
worlds, similarly, when we sing zemirot, we stir the authors’ souls and access
their spiritual power. This is why many
authors embedded their names in the text of their zemirot, such as in the
form of acrostics, symbolizing the fact that they invested part of their
essence into the words.
A
remarkable story about the power of zemirot has been documented in various different books, and even inspired a
popular song.
The
story is about a man named Dan who looked around the synagogue after the prayer
service on Friday night to see if there was anyone who needed hospitality. His eyes caught a young man in the back of
the synagogue who did not seem to have a place to go for dinner. He approached the young man, introduced himself,
and invited him into his home.
When
the family sang Shalom Alechem, the man noticed that his guest was not singing
along. Figuring the young man was shy,
he decided not to ask him personal questions, and he conducted the conversation
at the table accordingly, in an effort to ensure his guest would be
comfortable.
At
one point during the meal, the host noticed his guest turning pages in a zemirot book on the table, as though he
was searching for something.
“Is
there a song you would like to sing?” the host asked.
“There
was a song I heard in the synagogue tonight which I really liked,” the guest
said. “It was something ‘dodi’.”
The
host immediately understood that the boy was referring to Lecha Dodi. Although this song is not normally sung at
the Shabbat table, the man went over to the bookcase, took a siddur, and began singing Lecha Dodi. They sang the song, and the man noticed his
guest smiling wide. After the next
course, the boy asked if they could sing the song again, and so they did. He repeated his request several times, and
the family sang Lecha Dodi over and over again, to the guest’s absolute and very visible delight.
After
the meal, the host decided to inquire about the guest’s background.
“Where
are you from?” the man asked.
“Ramallah,”
the boy replied.
The
man assumed that he did not hear the response properly, and that he boy was
actually from Ramleh, a city in Israel, and not Ramallah, a Palestinian city in
the West Bank. He mentioned to the boy
that he has relatives there, in Ramleh.
“No
you don’t,” the guest said. “There are
no Jews in Ramallah.”
“I
am very confused,” the host said.
The
boy explained that his name was Machmud
Ibn-esh-Sharif, but he was Jewish.
He had grown up in a
Palestinian family in Ramallah, where he was taught to hate Jews and that
killing them is courageous. As he got
older, however, he started wondering why the Jews should be hated. Why did they, more than other people, deserve
to be despised? Didn’t Islam teach
treating people kindly?
After a while, Machmud’s
father threw him out of the house for asking these questions and casting doubts
about these basic tenets. He decided he
would run away and live among the Jews, to discover what they were really like.
That night, he snuck back
into his home to get some things and a knapsack, and his mother caught
him. She looked very upset, and they
started talking. Machmud explained to
her that he wanted to live with the Jews, and perhaps even convert.
“You don’t have to convert,”
she told him. “You’re already
Jewish.”
Machmud’s mother explained
that she was Jewish, and had married an Arab man and moved to Ramallah. According to the Jewish law, the child of a
Jewish woman is a Jew, and so Machmud was a Jew.
His mother then gave him
some documents – his birth certificate and her Israeli identification card – so
he could prove he was Jewish. She then
gave him something else – a photograph.
It was a picture of her grandparents by a grave in Northern Israel. When they arrived in Israel, they went
searching for a grave of one of their ancestors, and they found it in the
Northern Israeli city of Tzefat, and they took this photograph by the grave.
As it happened, Machmud had
the picture with him. He showed it to
Dan, his host. Dan looked carefully at
the picture, and could not believe his eyes.
The grave was that of Rav Shlomo Alkabetz, the famous Kabbalist who
lived in Tzefat at the same time of the Arizal.
He was this Arab’s boy’s ancestor – and he was the author of Lecha
Dodi.
When the boy heard the words
written by his holy ancestor sung in the synagogue, the song awakened his soul,
and he felt a special attachment to it.
This is the power of a niggun.
Machmud eventually changed
his name, enrolled in yeshiva, married a Jewish girl, and became a popular
lecturer.
Just as the Rabbis have
warned of the negative influences of “non-kosher” music, which is impacted by
the character and thoughts of the lyrics’ authors, conversely, our souls are
elevated and inspired when we sing the words composed by great tzadikim. Each and every one of us can
truly be touched by a niggun.
A
beautiful song was made about this remarkable story. The lyrics were composed by Rabbi Yechiel
Spero, and the song is sung by Boruch Levine.
It was recorded in the album entitled “Touched by a Niggun,” produced by Yochi Briskman,
who has graciously allowed us to attach the recording to this email. We hope and pray that we will all be inspired
by this song and this story, and recognize the unparalleled power of singing
the Shabbat zemirot, so that we, too, will be touched by their holy words and elevated by
the sanctity of their authors.
