We’ve talked about Moshe’s psalms, the perakim of תהילים that are attributed to him. There is one other “psalm” that Moshe wrote, that was explicitly incorporated into the Torah.
And I want to look at it because it has many of the same themes as the תהילים we looked at (and much of the same vocabulary, though I won’t spend much time on that). This was inspired by Rav Moshe Eisemann’s Shiras Ha’azinu, and I mentioned much of this material in the Parsha shiur פרשת האזינו תשפ״ד.
שירת האזינו was Moshe’s last נבואה before his death (the timing of וזאת הברכה is a separate question), and it was used as the שיר of the Leviim for the musaf offering on Shabbat:
The mnemonic הזי׳׳ו ל׳׳ך refers to the division of the parsha in to six sections, which correspond to the first six aliyot when we read האזינו today:
מִזְמוֹר שִׁיר לְיוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת, the שיר for Shabbat morning, is not explicitly about Shabbat but about our hope in ה׳‘s ultimate plan for the world. האזינו is the שיר for Shabbat afternoon, and it is also about ה׳’s ultimate plan for the world; it ends with (דברים לב:מג) הרנינו גוים עמו…וכפר אדמתו עמו.
The Aruch Hashulchan wonders why we don’t say it for Shabbat musaf today:
But it’s still important enough, תהיה לי השירה הזאת לעד בבני ישראל, that it’s worth looking at in detail. It is meant to be with בני ישראל through all the difficult times in their future history.
The striking thing about this שירה is that it’s not like the rest of the Torah. It isn’t ה׳'s words; it’s Moshe’s. ה׳ told him (and Yehoshua) כתבו לכם את השירה הזאת.
Moshe starts by addressing, not the people, but his “witnesses”: the heaven and the earth. As we noted in The King and I, those represent the two models of עבודת ה׳:
השמים “serves” ה׳ with אהבה, and ארץ “serves” ה׳ with יראה. Both are inseparable parts of our relationship with הקב״ה. Yeshaya uses a similar metaphor:
But he exchanges the שמיעה and the האזינה. The Ohr HaChaim says that this reflects the fact that Moshe is, even as the greatest of all prophets, still only human.
Moshe compares his words to rain; the metaphor of Torah as water is very common:
But there is more than that. Moshe does not say “תזל כטל אמרת ה׳”; he says “תזל כטל אמרתי”. The Word of G-d may be like life-giving water, but it does not fall like rain or dew. We talked about this in שמחת תורה תשפ״ב:
What is an אשדת?
Everyone reads it like the קרי, as two words. Artscroll translates it as “fiery Torah”. But the כתיב still must have meaning. The only suggestion I’ve seen was from the Mi Yodea website:
So when ה׳ speaks to the people directly at הר סיני, it is like אַשְׁדֹּת, like trying to drink from a firehose. The people can’t handle it. They need Moshe as an intermediary, to turn the flow of metaphoric water into individual drops of rain.
And then Moshe turns to the people and asks them to participate in his song:
And the gemara draws an interesting conclusion from that pasuk:
The gemara sees this song as the prototype of learning Torah; specifically בחברותא, learning together. Moshe is not simply lecturing; he is starting a dialog with the people, trying to understand the ways of ה׳ together.
But Moshe is still משה רבינו, and he still lectures. He turns to ה׳'s justice, and makes a point very similar to תהילים פרק צב and פרק צד, as we discussed in Days of Yore. Those perakim were also written by Moshe, and he is in harsh schoolmaster mode:
He concludes this introductory section reminding the people that אביך קנך, your Father and “Owner”. We see the metaphor of אב all the time, but what does it mean that ה׳ is a קונה? That term is applied in תנ״ך to only four things:
The Ktav VeKabbalah says we are mistraslating קונה. It’s not from קנין, but from תקנה.
The message is that while ה׳ created everything, בני ישראל took special, “personal”, preparation to reach their current state.
Rabbi Eisemann says that the previous aliyah was an introduction, and with the second aliyah we get to the song proper. He calls this “Ha’azinu’s Historiography”.
History starts with הפרידו בני אדם, when the undifferentiated mass of humanity became separate nations. That is the story of מגדל בבל:
We’ve talked about Migdal Bavel as a response to the chaos of the flood, in פרשת נח תשע״ט ; שפה אחת ודברים אחדים meant they all worked in unity for a common purpose. But it went to far, into fascism, “Everything within the state, nothing outside the state, nothing against the state”.
And the number of those primordial nations is exactly the same as the number of families in בני ישראל, למספר בני ישראל:
Haazinu sees בני ישראל as a model of how all humanity is supposed to operate; not the chaos of דור המבול and not the fascism of דור הפלגה. Every person is unique but all people are united. So when ה׳ brings them to הר סיני, they act out that model:
(It would be nice if we could stick to that model)
And in that wilderness where ה׳ ”finds“ us, ימצאהו בארץ מדבר, as a rag-tag mass of freed slaves, He makes us into a people by giving us the Torah. But He doesn’t offer it to just us.
But the other nations reject the Torah. We know the aggadah; it’s not so that they want to worship other gods, but that they want to serve other values (they like their theft and their murder). So ה׳ ends up ה׳ בדד ינחנו, leading them alone (“alone” refers to Israel rather than הקב״ה) because אין עמו א־ל נכר, they accepted Him alone. We will see that אל נכר is much broader than other gods. מעמד הר סיני should have been an opportunity to bring the world back together. In that sense, it was a failure.
But here we are: ה׳ loves בני ישראל because they fulfill the mission that was intended for all of humanity.
But then every thing goes wrong.
This section is pretty self-explanatory; ה׳ made us successful and we betrayed Him by serving idols. Ironically, Moshe calls us “ישרון”, the straight ones, as we become more and more crooked. One striking thing is the idea of אלהים לא ידעום;חדשים מקרב באו. They don’t adopt the gods of the other nations; that would be at least understandable. They make up their own new gods.
But why are we so concerned about avodah zarah? It is not a problem nowadays.
And when the Torah talks about the dangers of success, it doesn’t mention idols. It’s “כחי ועצם ידי”—forgetting ה׳'s role—that is the danger.
Rav Eisemann says that the אלהים לא ידעום is much broader than just worshipping idols. The gemara describes the book of עבודת כוכבים that Avraham aggadically wrote; his magum opus of what ethical monotheism really means.
That is the danger of שמנת עבית כשית: we forget G-d. We attribute our success to all sorts of other things, and set up other things as priorities.
And the consequence is מידה כנגד מידה: G-d will forget them. This is concept of הסתר פנים.
בני ישראל are a דור תהפכת, a topsy-turvy generation.
Yirmiyahu has an example of just that:
And so when ה׳ punishes us, He simply removes the protection that we talked about in תהילים פרק צא, in Three Score and Ten:
And now we will have to be afraid of מזי רעב ולחמי רשף.
ה׳ threatens אמרתי אפאיהם; ”I thought about this concept of אפאיהם“. There is a lot of discussion about what that means. It could come from אף, anger:
Or it could refer to פאה, the corner. I will destroy them, leaving only a tiny remnant (like the מצווה of פאה):
Or I will destroy even the פאה:
Or I will scatter them to the far corners of the earth:
I would assume the ambiguity is intentional; there are many possible end points for the history of בני ישראל, all bad, all ending up with the people disappearing from the stage of world history.
But ה׳ won’t let this happen, not because the Jews are so wonderful, but because without them, because the world won’t get the message: לולי כעס אויב אגור
פן ינכרו צרימו; פן יאמרו ידנו רמה
ולא ה׳ פעל כל זאת.
It is similar to Moshe’s argument when he prays after חטא עגל הזהב:
And Yechezkel’s vision of the ultimate redemption:
Ramban makes the point that we can’t rely on our merits, and we can’t rely on the merits of our ancestors either:
What does that mean, תמה זכות אבות?
So at the point of וישמן ישרון ויבעט, we have lost the right to be called
(ישעיהו מא:ח) זרע אברהם אהבי, and terrible things happen to us, but we are kept around to be a lesson to the world.
Then Moshe describes how foolish the nation is for not realizing that ה׳'s hand was behind everything that happens, both the victories and the losses:
This part of Haazinu is ambiguous. Who are these ignorant people, לו חכמו ישכילו זאת?
Animal Farm ends there. But Haazinu continues with ה׳’s response. He will make them drink the wine of their own deeds, a metaphor that comes up in תנ״ך often:
In ישעיה it is clearly Israel that is drinking the poison of ה׳’s anger; in ירמיהו it refers to the enemies of Israel.
Here the text remains ambiguous. Both interpretations are true. However, the second half of our aliyah unambiguously turns to the salvation of Israel.
Now this is a glorious song; this is a שיר:
Rabbi Shulman has talked about the nature of shir in תנ״ך as specifically referring to a victory song. It is a “good” שיר if it attributes victory to הקב״ה, and a “bad” שיר that leads to terrible consequences if human being celebrate their own glory. So this is a good שיר. But Rabbi Eisemann points out a problem with Haazinu as שיר:
If this is a שיר, then we should only sing it after the victory. How can we sing this שיר now, when we hope and pray for לי נקם ושלם but it hasn’t happened yet? The answer is that Haazinu is not a שיר about the ultimate victory over our enemies; that is a שיר for the future.
This is a שיר about אסתירה פני מהם. Even in the most terrible times, ה׳ is still with us, just “hidden”.
And the song concludes on a positive (though gory) note:
Despite all our failings, ה׳ will forgive us and save us, and return us to our land: וכפר אדמתו עמו.