Sing Something!

Why does the Torah call itself a song? Because a song is something you don’t just hear—you feel it. And that’s exactly what we want for our children’s connection to Judaism.

An Embarrassing Incident

In the 1960s, an Israeli sports team traveled to the Soviet Union—something that was almost unheard of in those days. For the Jews of Moscow, it was a moving experience. They were thrilled to see fellow Jews from Israel and eagerly looked forward to meeting them in shul on Shabbat.

Sure enough, the synagogue was packed to capacity that Shabbat. The athletes came wearing yarmulkes, and the prayers began. But then came an awkward moment. During the Torah reading, one of the players was called up for an aliyah—and it quickly became clear that he didn’t know the blessings. It was an uncomfortable scene. The player stood red-faced, while the local Jews were shocked to discover that a Jew from the Holy Land didn’t even know how to recite the basic blessings on the Torah.

The incident caused an uproar back in Israel. Many public figures expressed outrage at the spiritual disconnect of the younger generation. The education minister at the time, Zalman Aran, spoke out forcefully. He wasn’t content with empty statements—he called for Jewish heritage classes to be introduced in all public schools.

Aran even called in the IDF’s chief education officer for a meeting. With real fire in his voice he said:
“The army is the biggest school in the country—and you’re the principal. You’ve got to create a program of lectures on Jewish identity, funded by the Ministry of Education. Every soldier should be able to make up what they missed during their service.”

The officer was stunned. “Wait a second—have you become religious? Is old age making you worry about the next world?”

Aran shook his head. “No, it’s not that. Let me tell you a story. Back in 1917, during World War I, I was a soldier in the Russian army. One day, we were caught in a vicious battle, lying flat on the churned-up ground with no cover, as German planes rained down bombs. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain tear through my thigh. Blood was gushing out, and I couldn’t stop it. I felt completely helpless, despair closing in.

“And then, inside, I heard a voice: ‘Zyama, say something! Pray! Now’s the time!’ But then another voice shot back: ‘Zyama, don’t be a hypocrite. You turned your back on G-d when you were seventeen, stopped putting on tefillin—now you want to pray?’ So I didn’t.

“Do you see?” Aran concluded. “I’m not religious, I’m far from it. But I still had the background. I went to cheder, I studied in yeshiva. I knew. Today’s kids? They don’t know a thing. And that’s what worries me.”

The officer was moved and responded with a story of his own:

“When the Sinai Campaign broke out in 1956, I was commanding a tank battalion. One evening I was standing tall in a command jeep, waving a flag to signal the tanks behind me, while holding on with my other hand. Suddenly, a massive explosion shook everything. A shell hit my jeep directly, shattering it to pieces. I was thrown dozens of meters, my body riddled with shrapnel, yet somehow I remained conscious. I could hear the tanks roaring past me as I lay bleeding on the ground. And then a voice echoed in my head: ‘Pray!’ 

“And you know what, Mr. Aran? I wanted to—I really wanted to. But I didn’t know a single prayer. Not one. That’s the difference between our generations. You belonged to a generation that knew how to pray but chose not to. I belong to a generation that wanted to pray—but had no idea how.”

The lesson is clear: the very first priority is education. To give our children at least the basic tools—so that if one day they want to pray, they’ll know how. If they’re called up for an aliyah, they won’t stand embarrassed and lost. If they’re alone somewhere, they’ll know how to run a Passover Seder. We’re not talking about turning them all into rabbis. But at the very least, they should know how to light Chanukah candles, which blessing to say, and the difference between “to light Shabbat candles” and “to light Chanukah candles.” When they’re told to come to Kol Nidrei, they should know what that means.

That’s the first step.

Showing Love

But the truth is, we’re aiming for something deeper than just knowledge. In this week’s Torah portion, Vayeilech, the Torah is referred to as a shirah—a song: “Now, write for yourselves this song” … “This song shall serve as testimony” … “Moshe wrote this song” … and again at the end, “Moshe spoke the words of this song” (Deut. 31:19–22, 30).

Why is the Torah compared to a song? There are many explanations. If a rabbi repeats the same sermon twice, people might throw stones at him—or at best, he’ll lose his job. But if a singer repeats a song, the crowd begs for an encore. More than that, it’s simply easier to remember words when they’re tied to a melody.

But the Rebbe explains that the real reason is deeper: a song touches the heart. It connects emotionally. A melody can transport a person back to the first time they heard it, to the stage of life they were in, and they relive the experience all over again.

And that’s the goal in Jewish education. Not just that our children know how to behave in shul, but that they feel connected to it emotionally. When they see a Torah scroll, it should send a shiver through them. Walking into a synagogue should stir their hearts. Hearing news from Israel should touch them deeply. Judaism should be like an electric current—when you touch it, you feel the spark.

But how do we get there? How do we pass this on to our children? 

Let me throw out a question: Do you know where the word ahavah—love—is mentioned for the first time in the Torah? If you listened closely to the Rosh Hashanah reading, you might recall it.

The first time is in the story of the akeidah. G-d says to Avraham: “Take your son, your only son, the one you love—Yitzchak” (Gen. 22:2). The second time is in the very next parshah, at the end of Chayei Sarah: “Yitzchak brought Rivkah into his mother Sarah’s tent, and she became his wife, and he loved her” (Gen. 24:67).

What does that teach us? That love is learned. Because Avraham loved Yitzchak, Yitzchak knew how to love Rivkah—and even how to extend love to others, including Esav. Someone who experiences love at home knows how to share love.

The same is true in Judaism. A child who sees love for Yiddishkeit at home will grow up knowing how to love Judaism too.

A Positive Attitude

There’s a story told about a prominent European rabbi who came to America in the 1930s. He was shocked to discover a strange phenomenon: parents who sacrificed so much to keep Shabbat and kosher, yet whose children were completely disconnected from it all. He couldn’t understand how such a gap could exist.

He looked more closely and noticed a pattern. In homes where parents constantly complained about how hard it was to keep mitzvos, the children abandoned everything. They had grown up hearing the message: “It’s so hard to be a Jew.” That negativity sank in and drove them away. But in homes where parents loved Shabbat, welcomed Yom Kippur with joy, and never groaned, “Ugh, I have to fast again,” those children grew up to love their Judaism.

I once asked a group of Hebrew School first graders: “Who likes matzah?” The answers were fascinating. The kids who said they hated matzah all came from homes where their mothers said out loud how much they hated matzah. And the kids who said they loved matzah? They came from families where their parents said, “I love matzah!”

The message is simple: If we love it, our children will too. It all depends on us.