Opera, Chazzanut, and the Jewish Need to Feel

Some people say they’re bored in shul.

The davening is too long. The chazzan is too slow. The melodies are outdated. (No complaints about the rabbi, though!) But here’s the uncomfortable truth: It’s not the music that changed; it’s us.

Actor Timothée Chalamet recently suggested that opera and ballet can feel boring to modern audiences. His comments caused quite a stir – especially with opera singers and ballet dancers. Yet he wasn’t so much dismissing high culture as he was diagnosing a deeper condition.

Perhaps the issue isn’t the art form; it’s our capacity to enter into it.

We are not bored. We are disconnected. And Judaism was never meant to be experienced from a distance. It demands participation, emotional engagement, and, ultimately, intimacy.

There was a time when chazzanut was not something you listened to. It was something you entered. The drawn-out notes and the rising and falling melodies weren’t merely aesthetic flourishes. They were pathways into the heart. A chazzan elongated a note or sand a falsetto, and people would close their eyes. Today, they check their watches.

We have become spectators of experiences we were meant to live. What once stirred the soul can now feel distant - not because it lost its power, but because we lost our fluency in the language it speaks.

In a world starving for feeling, how can we recapture a sense of closeness?

The Torah’s term for sacrifice - korban - comes from the root karov, to be close. A korban was not about giving something up; it was about drawing near. As Ramban explains, the purpose of korbanot was to awaken the heart of the person bringing them. Watching the offering, one was meant to feel this is very personal. It was a visceral, emotional encounter that stirred introspection, humility, and ultimately, connection to God. The sights, the sounds, the gravity of the moment were designed to awaken something within.

Judaism has never been satisfied with dry observance. It calls for the heart.

Few articulated this need more powerfully than Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, the Piaseczno Rebbe of the Warsaw Ghetto. Writing in the shadow of unimaginable darkness, he taught that the human soul is wired for emotion:

“The human soul loves to feel. Not only in relation to joy, but it loves the emotional experience, even of sadness and crying. People love to see horrific sights and hear terrible stories to the point of tears just to feel emotional.”

The Rebbe went on to note that if we don’t find elevated ways to feel, we will seek diminished ones. The craving for emotional intensity doesn’t disappear; it gets redirected.

This insight feels uncannily contemporary. In a world of constant stimulation, people binge stories, chase outrage, and scroll endlessly - not always for information, but for feeling. We want to laugh, cry, and be stirred. The Piaseczno Rebbe is telling us that this emotional hunger is holy, but it must be guided.

Why does being in shul or davening sometimes fail to move us? Because too often, we approach it as spectators rather than participants. We evaluate the chazzan, critique the tune, or calculate time remaining. We stand outside the experience. But emotional connection cannot be outsourced. The Rebbe emphasizes that it is not any specific melody that unlocks the soul; it is the willingness to enter into the emotional state itself:

“Not only with a tune of broken heartedness, but also with a joyous song…sometimes a person cries during a happy tune…sometimes dances to the somber tune of Kol Nidrei…”

A genuine experience is not performance. It is found in immersion.

Perhaps Chalamet’s critique is less about opera and more about us. We have lost the patience - and perhaps the courage - to let ourselves be carried by something slow, unfamiliar, and emotionally demanding. But Judaism insists that is precisely where connection lies. To daven is not to endure a service; it is to offer oneself. To sing is not to produce sound; it is to reveal the soul.

The Piaseczno Rebbe even suggests a simple, radical practice. Sing quietly to yourself at home. Not for anyone else. Not even for beauty. Just to awaken the inner world that longs to be expressed.

We live in a time of profound distraction - and profound longing. People may say they are bored, but beneath that boredom is often a deeper ache: to feel something real. The right response is not to abandon depth for brevity, or tradition for trend. It is to rediscover how to engage.

If the problem is disconnection, the answer is not shorter davening or better performance. It is deeper participation. We need to stop observing and start participating. Don’t evaluate the davening. Enter it. Even for a moment.  Try singing a little more. Not so people can hear you, but because the soul needs expression. Slow down even for one moment of the prayers. Choose one beracha, let it land, and make it mean something personal. Create emotional space at home. Sing quietly. Sit with a pasuk. Just feel - without distraction, without pressure.

Whether you like opera or cantorial music or not, we must lean into our emotional and spiritual selves. To step into the davening instead of standing beside it. To sing not as a critic, but as a seeker. To allow the ancient rhythms of Jewish life to do what they were always meant to do. To bring us close. Karov.

At our core, we are not just looking to be entertained. We are looking to be moved. The question is not whether the music still works. The question is whether we are ready to listen - not just with our ears, but with our souls.

Dynamic Duos: The Power of Partnership

Batman and Robin.
Ruth and Gehrig.
Bert and Ernie.
Moshe and Aharon.
Simon and Garfunkel.

Who do you think of when you hear the term dynamic duo?

Some of the greatest achievements in history belong not to individuals but to pairs. Two personalities, two skill sets, working together to accomplish something larger than either could alone.

The Torah understood this long before comic books, baseball legends, and rock stars.

When God commands the construction of the Mishkan, the most sacred project of the desert, He does not appoint a single architect. Instead, the Torah introduces a partnership: Betzalel ben Uri and, alongside him, Oholiav ben Achisamach.

Betzalel is described as a once-in-a-generation talent, filled with divine wisdom, understanding, and knowledge in every form of craftsmanship. If anyone could have led the project alone, it was him. But the Torah insists otherwise. The Mishkan, the dwelling place of God among the Jewish people, would be built through partnership.

The contrast between the two leaders is striking. Betzalel comes from the prestigious tribe of Yehudah, the tribe of kings. Oholiav comes from Dan, a tribe descended from one of Yaakov’s handmaids and considered less prominent. Yet the Torah repeatedly pairs their names together, reminding us that sacred work is never meant to be accomplished alone.

This idea becomes the foundation of Jewish intellectual life.

Torah is rarely studied alone. Instead, it is learned in chavruta, two partners sitting across from one another, questioning, challenging, and refining each other’s thinking. Some of the most famous relationships in the Talmud are partnerships. The legendary debates between Rabbi Yochanan and Reish Lakish pushed each other to deeper insight. When Reish Lakish died, Rabbi Yochanan could no longer function as a scholar. The friction that once sharpened his thinking had disappeared. The same dynamic shaped the debates of Hillel and Shammai and later the discussions between Abaye and Rava.

Jewish wisdom grows through dialogue. Truth emerges when voices meet.

The power of partnership does not remain confined to the Beit Midrash. Sometimes it shapes the course of history itself. Today we are witnessing an extraordinary alliance between Israel and the United States as they confront the threat posed by Iran.

Recent coordinated military operations have involved shared intelligence, joint planning, and synchronized strikes between the two countries. Some Israeli officers have even referred to the current conflict as a “war in English,” reflecting the unprecedented level of operational coordination between the two militaries. In January, the Pentagon described Israel as a “model ally.” The Jewish State does not ask the United States to fight on its behalf. It demonstrates both the willingness and the ability to defend itself independently and is therefore deserving of unequivocal support.

Two nations. Different strengths. One mission. Just as Betzalel and Oholiav combined their talents to build the Mishkan, alliances today allow partners to accomplish what neither could achieve alone.

Partnerships like these do not appear magically. They require intention, attention, and effort. God commanded Betzalel and Oholiav to work together. Hillel and Shammai developed a connection despite disagreement. The US-Israel relationship wasn’t always complementary. It required effort on the part of communal leadership and individual initiative to bring our two countries together. The relationship may seem inevitable and indispensable, but strong partnerships are never automatic. They must be built deliberately.

Most of us will never command armies or construct a Mishkan, but each one of us can be part of a dynamic duo. If Betzalel and Oholiav teach us anything, it is that meaningful achievements rarely happen in isolation. We are also able to cultivate stronger partnerships in our own lives.

We can find a chavruta. Torah was designed to be studied through conversation and challenge.

We should seek people who think differently. Great partnerships are rarely made of identical personalities. The most productive collaborations often come from complementary strengths.

We need to try and elevate others. The Mishkan was not built by two people alone. Betzalel and Oholiav inspired an entire nation to participate.

We must stand together in difficult moments. Partnerships are tested not when things are easy, but when the stakes are high.

Thousands of years ago the Torah introduced a simple but powerful idea: sacred work is built through partnership. Betzalel and Oholiav built the Mishkan together. Chavruta partners build Torah together. Allies stand together in moments of global challenge. And each of us can build alliances that strengthen our lives, our communities, and our world.

Because sometimes the most powerful force in history is not a single hero. It is two people - or two nations - standing side by side.

The Road to Victory is Paved with Patience

Many of us have done it in the last few days.

Refreshing news sites every few minutes, scrolling through social media feeds, checking multiple sources hoping that this outlet will have the inside information that all the others somehow missed.

In times of crisis, particularly during war, our need to know what’s next becomes almost compulsive. How many missiles remain? What’s the end game? When will there be a ceasefire? We are all invested in what is going on. We love Israel! We have friends and relatives in Israel. We have Pesach plans. Maybe we have weddings there this summer…

The headlines and soundbites come fast and furious. We hear voices insist that the effort against Iran is doomed to fail. Others claim there is no strategy. Commentators speak with great confidence about outcomes that nobody truly knows. The reality, however, is far more complex. The fight against evil - especially an entrenched and dangerous regime - is rarely quick or simple. It requires resolve, courage, and something our modern culture often lacks: Patience.

Patience is not merely a personality trait. It is a Jewish virtue.
“A person should always be patient like Hillel and not impatient like Shammai.” (Shabbat 30b)

The Gemara illustrates this through a remarkable story about Hillel the Elder. A man once wagered that he could provoke Hillel into anger. He repeatedly knocked on the door and interrupted Hillel on a busy Friday afternoon with insulting and absurd questions. Each time, Hillel calmly wrapped himself in his robe, greeted the man respectfully, and patiently answered. After several attempts, the provocateur finally exploded in frustration: “Are you Hillel, the Nasi of Israel? If so, may there not be many like you!” “Why?” asked Hillel gently. “Because I lost four hundred zuz betting I could make you angry!” Hillel replied calmly that it was better the man lose his money than that Hillel lose his patience.

It is easy to be patient in theory. It is much harder when the pressure is real.

The Hebrew word for patience is savlanut. Interestingly, it shares a root with sevel, suffering, and sivlot, burdens. Patience is not pleasant. It is not passive relaxation. It is often difficult emotional work. It means enduring uncertainty. It means tolerating discomfort. Sometimes it means carrying a burden we would much rather set down. But that is precisely why patience is a virtue.

Patience – or the lack of patience – may also explain the oddity known as Jewish time.

An old Jewish joke asks: Why are Jews always late? It all began when they were waiting for Moshe to come down from Har Sinai. They kept checking their watches to see if the forty days were finished. Their anxiety grew, and their impatience led to panic and eventually to the sin of the Golden Calf. Part of atoning for that mistake, the joke suggests, is that Jews stopped looking at their watches ever since. Hence, Jewish time was born…

It’s humorous, but it contains a profound truth. Impatience can lead to terrible decisions.

Modern culture thrives on immediacy. Everything is instant: news updates, social media reactions, political judgments. But Jewish history unfolds on a different clock. Rabbi Yehuda Amital, the founding Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Har Etzion, used to note how many movements use the word “Now.” Peace Now. Moshiach Now. He understood the longing behind those slogans, but he would gently urge perspective. After all, he had survived the Holocaust and later fought in Israel’s War of Independence. During the Shoah, he could never have imagined that he would one day fight in the army of a sovereign Jewish state.

History can turn, but it rarely turns overnight.

Jewish tradition teaches this perspective clearly. “Do not be contemptuous of any person and do not dismiss any thing, for every person has his moment and everything has its place.” (Pirkei Avot 4:2) “Everything has its time.” (Kohelet 3:1)

The defeat of evil rarely happens instantly. The story of Megillat Esther unfolded over years of hidden developments before the sudden reversal that we celebrated on Purim. From the inside of history, events often appear chaotic and confusing. Only later do we see the pattern.

When Moshe asked God to reveal His ways, God responded that a human being cannot see the divine plan while it is unfolding. Only “achorai,” from behind, looking backward, can we begin to understand. This does not mean we stop caring about what is happening. Far from it. But it does mean shifting our focus. Instead of obsessively refreshing news sites trying to predict the future, we can focus on what is within our control. We can pray for the safety of our brothers and sisters in Israel, the IDF, and the American armed forces. We can support efforts to assist those impacted by these hostilities. We can increase our Torah study and mitzvah observance. We can strengthen and comfort those who are anxious or afraid.

Moshe Rabbeinu led the Jewish people through the wilderness without knowing how every event would unfold. He acted with faith, courage, and commitment to his mission even without having all the answers. Our role is similar. We may not know exactly how the current struggle will end, but we know how we are supposed to respond.

Am ha-netzach lo mefacheid mi’derech aruka - The eternal people do not fear a long road.

We have been around for thousands of years, and we are not afraid to play the long game. We have lived through a long period of exile, experiencing the worst of atrocities, yet we continue to build, waiting patiently for the ultimate redemption. There are steps forward and setbacks, but we know we will be victorious.

Patience does not mean passivity. It means cultivating the ability to work steadily over time. To remain committed even when the results are not immediate. With the twin engines of time and effort, we discover deeper faith, stronger communities, and a richer relationship with God. The fight against evil - whether in ancient Persia, twentieth-century Europe, or the Middle East today - is never easy and never instantaneous. But Jewish history teaches us something remarkable: Patience, faith, and perseverance have carried our people through challenges far greater than any single moment in the news cycle. And with God’s help, they will carry us through this one as well.