The Gender of Song

There are two species of song in the human experience. One is the song of gratitude expressed by a mother who is inspired by her newborn baby. Her boundless joy bursts forth with praise to the Almighty for her precious gift. Ironically, all the pain and discomfort of the last several months is suddenly forgotten. Nonetheless, because her happiness was paid for with blood,  her song is referred to by the Sages as the Shira Chadasha; a song composed in the weaker, or feminine gender.

The father’s song is different. True, he rejoices with his newborn child, but he sheds no blood. His chant is therefore called the Shir Chadash; an expression of thanks that is Rabbinically characterized as a song of the masculine gender. 

All the songs, we are told, that have reverberated through the corridors of Jewish history have been written in the “feminine key,” reflecting our national anguish and short lived salvation. An example of this can be found in this week’s Biblical reading, when Moses and the children of Israel pay homage to G-d in a song of miraculous triumph. But as we know,  the road that led to the Splitting of the Sea was paved with the sweat of slavery and the burden of bondage. Even the lyrics of King David, the sweetest of all singers, were tainted with bloodied hands and created amidst a nation torn by strife.

If it seems that the world can be a harsh place, it is. The fact that music and song, especially the feminine-gendered one,  still wells up within the human spirit is a testament therefore to our power of forgetfulness. For if all the heartache and sadness would remain clear in our memories, could man ever give voice to melody or poetry? This seems to be the conventional view agreed to by students of human psychology.

There was however one actual case where this accepted theory of convenient memory loss was not a factor in the production of a major musical production.

The Midrash notes that the opening word of Moses’ song, “Az Yashir - Then they sang” just happens to be one of the first words out of Moses’ mouth when he complained.  This occurred right after the first encounter between the Jewish leader and Pharaoh, the consequences of which were that the Hebrew slaves would now have to collect their own straw.

“What have you done,”  Moses asks. “Mei’az - Ever since I came to Pharaoh, he has done harm to this People.”  The Midrash after duly noting the duplicate phrase az, explains that Moses was saying, “I previously sinned with the word az, I will now rectify my earlier complaint by starting my song with az.”

The Beis Halevi finds a deeper message hidden in the Midrash.  If one finds himself in a difficult predicament and G-d delivers him, he feels a sense of gratitude. However, if the indebtedness comes from the sole fact that you were saved, then the outpouring of thanks is going to be tempered by the realization, “I wouldn’t be saying thank you now, if G-d hadn’t arranged the crisis in the first place.”

What is unique then about the Shira rendered by Moses was that the shepherd of sheep and souls was praising Hashem not just for being redeemed. He rejoiced in having been the medium by which G-d’s greatness would be acknowledged and publicized. He proclaimed “az” for he now wished to express his thanks for his former oppressive circumstance. 

The recognition that every phase of our tortuous and harrowing exile is an integral piece of the masterplan will be the note that will introduce a new genre of music. It will be a symphony composed by our Heavenly Father and written in the masculine. And it will be sung after all the swords will be beaten into plowshares and the wolf will join the lamb in universal harmony.