Cantor Kessler wrote:
And I’m certainly not Christian when I privately tear my way through a Mozart oratorio or weep through a performance of the Faure or Brahms “Requiem.” I ignore the texts and focus on the music.

This statement got me thinking: Never mind dealing with a Christian liturgical text as a Jew. How many times have Jews had to ignore our own texts while declaring them in prayer?

Several years ago I was on sabbatical in Israel and chose to daven on Friday evenings in a small Sephardic shul in a very lovely Jerusalem neighborhood. There was a sense of community in this place, and although I was only a temporary visitor and not warmly embraced, I felt good attending. Even sitting in the women’s section was a comfortable and familiar experience for me, since my own childhood was spent at an Orthodox cheder and synagogue in Queens, New York. Suddenly I was confronted with a text from Mishnah called Bameh Madlikin that is left out of our Reform siddur, and which I had never paid much attention to. A section of Bameh Madlikin, publicly read during the service, states, “For three transgressions do women die in childbirth: for being careless in the observance of the laws of menstruation, for not separating challah and for not lighting the Sabbath lamp.”

I don’t mind telling you that I had a very visceral reaction to this, sought out rabbinic guidance about it (Orthodox, I might add), and was met with a shrug as I wept over the insensitivity of such a text. And this is not the only example. How many Jews know the meaning or origin of “Kol Nidre,” yet swoon over the melody as if it came directly from the hand of God? (Kol Nidre, meaning “all vows,” probably originated during the time of the Crusades, when Jews were forced to convert to Christianity or die. Thus these Jews were pleading with God to absolve them of “all vows” made under such dire conditions.)  These are issues that we cantors deal with throughout the year, and we know that our educated congregations may face challenges as they try to pray these words or sing them to a variety of tunes, ranging from the simplest melodies to the more complex choral creations.

What is the solution? Can we transcend the texts and sing the music for its sake only, ignoring the liturgies that offend us, or can we recognize the drama of the moment and appreciate the musical setting for its suitability to the words? Or should we just change them all to fit our needs?  These are tough questions for which there may be no answers; however, the truth is that when beautiful music is created for a higher purpose, to serve God, inspire others to love God and create a feeling of sacred community, our hearts are moved and we are lifted to a better place in which the words may no longer matter.

Any discussion of challenging texts must include Jewish texts that are theologically problematic. Additionally, there is a great deal of prayer music that seems to conflict directly with what I understand to be the intention and meaning of a prayer. Since one of my primary cantorial roles is to lead worshippers in prayerful dialogue with God through the mechanism of Jewish prayer, I grapple with both these issues—difficult prayer texts and music that is at odds with the texts—on a regular basis.

Unlike many of my Reform colleagues, I daven the Musaf service, which contains the additional Shabbat and Festival Amidah prayer and corresponds to the additional sacrifice brought to the ancient Temple in Jerusalem. One of the more problematic prayers for me is found in the Festival Musaf liturgy: u-mip'nei chata'einu, "because of our sins we were exiled from our Land and upon ourselves because of collective guilty acts.” I was equally upset that so many contemporary theologians said something quite similar after 9/11 and the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami. Clearly, this mentality spans the ages. Obviously my reaction is not unique; my congregation's siddur includes u-mip'nei chata'einu in smaller print with the directions: "Some congregations recite: How our ancestors explained their exile."

Yet even as I struggle with the text, I do appreciate the powerful value that teaches when bad things happen, we must also look inward for the causes. The Talmud says that the Second Temple was destroyed because of sinat chinam, senseless hatred. The Jews so hated each other without cause that it became easy for an occupying force to divide and conquer them, a serious warning about the dangerous consequences of gossip and unchecked ambition.  

When I choose to include u-mip'nei chata'einu in the public recitation of Musaf, I focus on the brilliance of our ancient Sages. Rather than blaming God, they looked to our peoples' behavior and attitudes and recognized that perhaps we had set ourselves up for failure and calamity. They understood the modern pop-psychology saying, "When I point a finger at someone else, three fingers are pointing back at me." When I teach the text, I explain that just as we in the United States struggled to understand a greater meaning of 9/11, so too did our ancestors, when the Temple, the only place to express themselves to God, was destroyed.

For me, it is vital that the music complements and engages the text. I have heard the Amidah and other prayers davened quickly, as though they were distasteful chores or some routine formula to be expedited without public fanfare. There are musical settings whose inappropriately upbeat or soothing melodies completely ignore the painful realities that this and other prayers express. The former focuses too much on keva, a ritual of reciting fixed words, while the latter focuses too much on kavanah, an inward reflection of the text. Jewish prayer demands a balance of the two with a special emphasis on kavanah that is supported by knowing what the prayers really mean. 

I try to choose haunting and dramatic melodies for these words, hoping to convey the despair of a community for whom the world truly had come to an end. The music must express the bewilderment of men and women who tried to make new lives for themselves in a new country not of their own choosing. The music must reflect heartbreak and pain. To sing it any other way seems a desecration of the purpose of the prayer. When we try to push texts into diametrically opposing music, we lose the opportunity to wrestle with God and our heritage.

Appropriate music helps me focus on the text. In fact, it forces me to challenge my conceptions about prayer and God, a good thing.