The last mitzvah in the Torah is the command to write a Sefer Torah. It is striking that the Torah refers to itself as a Shirah, song. One would have expected that the seminal corpus of Jewish law, the blueprint for Jewish life and living, the repository of Divine wisdom, which Hashem authored to be described as a Sefer, a body of law, a teaching, even a guide, but a song? Who would have thought?
Perhaps the answer is to be found in the unique nature of music. Recently, I was exercising together with a friend, each of us listening to music on air pods. I was taking it slow and relaxed – just enough to call it exercise. My friend seemed to be having a very enthusiastic and intense workout. As we were leaving, I asked him what he was listening to that spurred him on so. He gave me the name of a popular song. I was shocked, since I, too, was listening to that same song, and the most it motivated me was to maintain my balance on the bike. When we compared singers, it became clear that, while the words were both taken from Sefer Tehillim, the melody that accompanied each individual song was as different as night and day.
Words standing alone convey information. A melody, however, breathes life into those words. Lyrics may be the same, but, if the tunes are different, the emotions each evokes is different than the other. One melody inspires joy and exhilaration. The other may arouse a sense of longing and even sorrow. The words remain the same, but the melody transforms the experience.
The Torah is meant to be studied in this manner. It is not merely a text to be read; it is a life to be experienced. When we learn about the bondage in Egypt, we should sense the anguish of slavery. When we read about Krias Yam Suf, our hearts should swell with gratitude and triumph. When we encounter the failings of the nation or the struggles of Moshe Rabbeinu, we should feel their pain and appreciate the lessons born of those challenges.
A Shirah engages the whole person. It speaks not only to the intellect, but also to the heart. Torah study is not intended to be a dry, academic exercise. The Torah must come alive within us. Its narratives, commandments, rebukes and promises should resonate in our souls, shaping the way we think, feel and live.
For the Torah to have the desired effect on a Jew, for it to transform him and allow his soul to soar, it is not enough to simply read the words. One must hear its melody, feel its rhythm, and allow it to become part of his being. Only then does it achieve its ultimate purpose of transforming he who learns it.
A burden is carried reluctantly; a song is sung willingly. One who loves Torah does not merely fulfill the mitzvah of limud haTorah. Torah study is the melody of his life. It is a song and, as such, one is eager to sing it.
When Horav Ovadiah Yosef, zl, became the Torah leader whose unmatched encyclopedic knowledge was displayed in his responsa and writings, people marveled. While there is no question that he was blessed with a superior mind, as he himself explained numerous times, Torah does not become a person’s possession through brilliance alone. It requires an overwhelming love for Torah, a deep-rooted desire not to part from it for even the shortest period of time.
When Chacham Ovadiah was a young avreich in Yerushalayim, his family lived in extreme poverty. The small apartment they called home was crowded, with one room serving as dining room, bedroom and all purpose room. The family never had enough money even for the most basic necessities. Nonetheless, despite the difficult conditions, he would immerse himself in learning for hours upon hours.
One winter night, he was studying deep into the night when the electricity in the neighborhood failed. Most people would have gone to sleep. Chacham Ovadiah was not prepared to give up his precious hours of learning. He went searching for a light in the street, and he eventually continued studying by the dim illumination from a nearby source. He was forced to strain his eyes to read, but he would not halt his learning.
Horav Sholom Yosef Elyashiv, zl, closed his Gemorah when he made a rare visit outside his house or yeshivah/shul. Even then, it was for mere minutes. His day began at 2:00 a.m. until he became gravely ill and weak towards the end of his long life. When Rav Ovadiah was laid up in the hospital, Rav Elyashiv went with his son-in-law, Horav Yitzchak Zilberstein, shlita, to visit. When they left his room, Rav Zilberstein asked his father-in-law, “I have never seen Rabbeinu visit anyone for so long.” Rav Elyashiv replied, “Do you know why Rav Ovadiah is in the hospital? He was searching for a sefer which was on the top shelf of his enormous library. He climbed a ladder and, rather than take the sefer down, he became engrossed in it – while on top of the ladder. Once he was satisfied with what he had read, he got up to return to his desk – not realizing that he was eight feet off the ground! Such commitment to Torah study must be honored.”
Fourteen years prior, the Chacham had sustained a serious heart attack. The doctors wanted to make a life-saving procedure as soon as possible. Chacham Ovadiah said that the procedure must wait three hours. He must return home to complete writing a teshuvah, responsa, releasing a woman who was an agunah, a “chained”woman who was unable to remarry (either because her husband had refused to give her a get; or he had disappeared and his death could not be confirmed; extraordinary circumstances prevented the divorce process to be completed). He feared that if something were to happen to him on the operating table, this woman would suffer needlessly. Apparently, his commitment to his fellow man was on par with his devotion to Torah study.
