October 5, 2025|י"ג תשרי ה' אלפים תשפ"ו From Ha’azinu to the Sukkah: The Command to Sing in Every Season By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

Yael and I are getting older and one way it shows is that Daniel, our youngest, is in his last year of high school. After this year, it’ll be a year or two in Israel, then college, and suddenly Yael and I will be empty nesters. I’ve tried to imagine what that’s going to feel like, and honestly, the scariest part isn’t the quiet house. It’s “Shalom Aleichem.”

Here’s why: when the kids are home, somehow our voices blend. It’s not perfect, but it works. But when it’s just the two of us – let’s just say, it does not work. I don’t know if my voice changed or Yael’s did, but when we try to sing together alone, we’re way off key. It’s rough. And I’m realizing: this may be the real challenge of the empty nest – learning how to keep singing together, even if it’s not perfect.

But maybe it’s okay if we don’t sing that well together. Maybe it’s not about hitting the right notes. It’s about the song itself. And the Torah teaches us that song – shira – is central to what it means to live a Jewish life.

Mitzvah number 613 – the last mitzvah commanded by God

וְעַתָּ֗ה כִּתְב֤וּ לָכֶם֙ אֶת־הַשִּׁירָ֣ה הַזֹּ֔את וְלַמְּדָ֥הּ אֶת־בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל שִׂימָ֣הּ בְּפִיהֶ֑ם לְמַ֨עַן תִּהְיֶה־לִּ֜י הַשִּׁירָ֥ה הַזֹּ֛את לְעֵ֖ד בִּבְנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵֽל

“So now, write down for yourselves this song (shira), and teach it to the Children of Israel. Put it in their mouths, so that this song may be a witness for Me against the Children of Israel.”

The last mitzvah commanded by God is to write this shira – this song. The word shira here refers to Shirat Ha’azinu, the song in this week’s parsha, though in halachic terms the mitzvah is to write the entire Torah. It’s a deliberate double meaning: Moshe is commanded to write Ha’azinu, and we are commanded to write a Sefer Torah. But that raises a question: why call the Torah – or even Shirat Ha’azinu – a shira, a song? What does music or poetry have to do with law and history?

Not all shirot look the same. Shirat Ha’azinu is a sweeping prophetic poem, recounting God’s kindness to Israel but warning of future sin and punishment. Shirat HaYam, on the other hand, is a jubilant outburst of thanksgiving after the splitting of the sea. One song celebrates triumph, the other warns of tragedy. What unites them as shira – and what does that teach us about why the Torah itself is called a song?

Let’s explore three answers, and then suggest a fourth that prepares us for the upcoming holiday of Sukkot.

The Netziv (Rav Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin) gives the first key. He explains that although the Torah is written in prose, it must be read as poetry. Like poetry, Torah speaks in hints and layers. It says less than it means. It requires interpretation, imagination, and sensitivity to nuance. For example, the Torah doesn’t tell us what Avraham felt at the Akeidah, or what Yitzchak thought, or how Sarah responded. It leaves silence – space – that cries out for interpretation. This is why Torah is shira. In prose, the meaning lies on the surface. In poetry, the meaning lies hidden beneath the words, like harmony beneath a melody. By calling the Torah a shira, we are told that Torah is endlessly layered, a song to be replayed again and again, each time revealing new harmonies.

Rav Yechiel Michel Epstein adds a second approach. Torah is called shira because Torah is dialogue. Chazal tell us: elu v’elu divrei Elokim chayim – “these and those are the words of the living God.” Torah is not a single voice but many voices – argument and counterargument, question and response. And what is music if not harmony created from many voices? A single note is flat. A chord is rich and vibrant. So too Torah. It is not diminished by multiple interpretations, it is beautified. Torah is not a solo – it is a choir.

Rabbi Sacks offers a third perspective. Torah is called shira because it is not meant to be absorbed only with the mind; it must be felt with the soul. Words alone can instruct, but music can move, uplift, and transform. That is why we chant the Torah, sing our prayers, and even study Gemara with a tune. Judaism insists that Torah is not dry text or cold law – it is God’s songbook, waiting for each generation to give it voice. When we sing Torah, we remind ourselves that faith is not just about knowledge, but about connection – about hearing the music beneath the noise of life.

As Rabbi Sacks notes, Torah as song touches the deepest layers of the spirit. Rav Kook captures this beautifully:

השירה היא ההבעה השכלית העליונה היוצאת מתוך ההסתכלות הרחבה והעמוקה באור א-ל עליון ופליאות מפעליו—

“Song is the highest form of intellectual expression, emerging from a broad and profound contemplation of the divine light and the wonders of God’s works.”

But there is one more dimension. Not all songs are songs of triumph. Shirat HaYam is an outpouring of joy. Shirat Ha’azinu, by contrast, is full of warning and pain. It recounts Israel’s future sins, the hardships they will face, and the consequences of turning away from God. It is a song that confronts difficulty, struggle, and uncertainty. And yet both are called shira. Why? Because Torah teaches us that we must sing even in difficult times. To sing means to stay connected – to God, to meaning, to hope – even when life is hard.

Elie Wiesel tells a remarkable story about his first meeting with the Lubavitcher Rebbe in the 1960s. The Rebbe had read some of his works and asked why he was so angry with God. Wiesel answered, “Because I loved Him too much.” The Rebbe pressed further, “And now?” Wiesel replied, “Now too. And because I love Him, I am angry with Him.” The Rebbe disagreed gently: “To love God is to accept that you do not understand Him.” Later in their conversation, Wiesel asked, “How can you believe in God after Auschwitz?” The Rebbe responded softly, “How can you not believe in God after Auschwitz?”

Wiesel admitted that he expected the Rebbe to defend God – but instead, the Rebbe saw that Wiesel’s anger came not from absence of faith, but from love of God and the struggle within faith itself. At the end of their meeting, Wiesel asked the Rebbe, “Make me able to cry.” The Rebbe responded, “That’s not enough. I shall teach you to sing.” That response shaped Wiesel deeply. For the rest of his life, his faith was not the absence of questions, but the courage to keep singing through them.

And isn’t that the message of Shirat Ha’azinu? Sometimes song means joy, like at the sea. Sometimes song means struggle and warning, like in Ha’azinu. But in both cases, we are commanded to sing. The Jew’s task is not only to cry, but to sing through the tears – to remain connected to God, to hope, to meaning, no matter the circumstances.

And that is also the message of Sukkot. On Sukkot we are commanded to rejoice – v’samachta b’chagecha. But how? We leave our sturdy homes and live in a fragile sukkah, exposed to the wind and rain, precarious and vulnerable. The Torah is teaching us: true joy is not the result of perfect security. True joy is the ability to sing even in a sukkah, even when life feels uncertain. The sukkah’s fragility mirrors the challenges of our lives – sometimes secure, sometimes exposed. Shirat Ha’azinu, the Rebbe teaching Wiesel to sing through his struggles, and the fragile sukkah of Sukkot all remind us the same truth: we are commanded to lift our voices in song – celebrating, questioning, and rejoicing – whether life is secure or precarious, whether our hearts are full of triumph or heavy with warning, because true faith and true joy are found in the courage to sing through it all.

Just like Yael and I in our empty nest – our “Shalom Aleichem” may not hit the right notes, our voices may falter, but we must keep singing. The Torah teaches us that life, like song, is about persistence, connection, and courage. We are called to lift our voices, imperfectly but wholeheartedly, to God and to one another. And in that, we discover joy, meaning, and the enduring power of shira – even when the house feels quiet, the voices thin, or the melody uncertain.