Two weeks ago, my dear colleague, Rabbi Avrohom Birnbaum, wrote a thoughtful and heartfelt piece expressing concern over a song in which children aspire to be like a singer. His unease was understandable and sincere. Words matter. Niggunim matter. And the images we place before our children most certainly matter. He did not feel that aspiration toward an entertainer would be “a brocha that one would bestow on his children on Erev Yom Kippur.”
Indeed, he is absolutely right. It may not be a brocha to give to our children on Yom Kippur. It is not a brocha for us to give, but it’s important to understand why children want to be like certain individuals. What strengths are they looking for? Are they looking for the honor, the cheers, the posts, and the kavod?
When they want to be like Rav Chaim, does it mean that they want people lining up day and night asking them for brachos or is it an expression of a desire to know kol haTorah kulah?
Now, to compare, I once met a wonderful chassidishe Yid who was raised in Israel and grew up in a totally secular home. The only thing Jewish his mother did was light candles on Erev Shabbos and pray that her son would be as powerful and steadfast as Ben Gurion.
The man told me that one day he heard about an encounter with some rabbi named “Chazon Ish,” who defiantly argued with Ben Gurion and even refused to look him in the face. After that, his mindset changed. He exchanged his mother’s blessing and went on a quest to be as strong as the Chazon Ish. A quest that led him to a life of Torah. Even from a mother’s aspiration that her son be like Ben Gurion.
I chuckle a bit as I remind myself of a question and answer that I heard from Rav Gershon Ribner. He was asked by a father-in-law who wished his grandson to be named after his own father, a man whose reputation, let us say delicately, was not entirely sterling. His son-in-law agreed to the name, but the grandfather feared that he had in mind a different person. If the name of his father was, for example, Shmuel or Chaim, perhaps his son-in-law had Shmuel Hanovi or Rav Chaim Soloveitchik in mind rather than the grandfather in question.
Rav Ribner’s advice was simple and brilliant. He told the grandfather to approach the son-in-law and say, “We are so moved that you named the child after my father that I would like to pay for the entire bris.” The truth would reveal itself quickly. Either the son-in-law would accept or he would demur and clarify his intentions. Names, Rav Ribner implied, can carry multiple referents. Aspirations do too.
But when a child aspires to be like someone else, we have to know what the nekudah is that he seeks. When a child sings that he wants to be like someone whose voice moves people, whose songs awaken feeling, and whose presence brings joy or comfort, it does not automatically mean that he dreams of spotlights or applause. Sometimes it means something far simpler. I want to touch hearts. I want to uplift. I want to matter. I want to draw someone a bit closer to Hashem with my music.
And sometimes, a child’s dream is not the final destination. It is the first rung on the ladder.
We do not take the big leap from earth to heaven. We take baby steps. The Torah itself tells us that the techeiles of the tzitzis resembles the sea, which resembles the sky, which resembles the Kisei Hakavod. One step at a time.
Sometimes, a boy can want to be like a singer not because of the applause, but for the many opportunities they have to light up the lives of others, cholim, and those who are depressed, with the talent endowed to them by the Ribbono Shel Olam.
I admit freely that I have a personal fondness for many singers, not because I am musically inclined, but because I have seen what people blessed with talent can do when they use it properly.
When one of my sons was gravely ill and hospitalized with what we were told was a terminal condition, a singer named Shloimy Dachs (among others) came to the hospital to cheer sick children. As he left each room, he offered his customary blessing that one day he would sing at their wedding.
Years later, when my son became engaged, we had booked a modest one-man band due to hall restrictions. My son had long forgotten that hospital visit. After all, it is difficult to remember things from a time shortly after brain surgery.
But when he happened to meet Shloimy and shared the good news, Shloimy’s eyes lit up. “I promised you,” he said. “I am playing at your wedding.”
When my son gently protested that he had already asked another musician, Shloimy waved it away. “I’ll take care of it.”
I told Shloimy that I would be honored to have him, but the wedding hall will only allow for a keyboard. Once again, he replied, “I’ll take care of it.”
He did. Not only did he handle canceling the original musician with dignity, but he arrived at the wedding with a full six-piece band and played with heart and soul. When it came time to pay, he refused to take a penny more than the cost of the one-man band.
Afterwards, despite our insistence, he would not accept anything further. “I tell children in hospitals that I will sing at their weddings,” he said quietly. “Until tonight, I never had the chance to keep that promise.”
I am not a singer. But that remains the most powerful music moment of my life.
There are countless stories of tremendous chesed from so many of these singers, from Lipa to Shwekey to Mordechai Ben David, from whom I experienced many chassodim.
After my son had his surgery, a group of his friends made a small seudas hoda’ah to mark his recovery. It was a small get-together, certainly not the kind of event that one would imagine drawing a world-renowned singer.
One of the boys at the seudah had to leave early to attend a wedding. When he arrived there, he noticed that Mordechai Ben David was singing. Gathering his courage, he approached him and said simply, “There is a small seudas hoda’ah taking place for a boy who is recovering from brain surgery. Would you be able to come by and sing for a few minutes?”
Mordechai Ben David answered honestly and without pretense. “I’m really tied up at this wedding,” he said. That, understandably, should have been the end of the story.
But it was not.
At approximately eleven-thirty that night, after the wedding had concluded and most people would have been heading home, Mordechai Ben David approached the young man again. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go. I want to go and sing for him.” No fanfare. No announcement. No expectation of recognition.
I recently saw a beautiful clip of Shulem Lemmer, who I know as a member of the same Daf Yomi chaburah that I attend, going to sing for a wounded soldier who woke up from a coma hearing his music.
So my colleague is right. On Erev Yom Kippur, standing in a kittel, a father may dream that his child will grow to be a gaon olam and a tzaddik.
But perhaps the child, singing innocently, is dreaming of being one who sings from the heart, who brings joy, who moves others toward something higher. That is not the end of the journey. It may only be the beginning.
And it is our task, as parents and mechanchim, not to extinguish those dreams, but to guide them upward. Guide them to use their dreams and aspirations to be mekadeish Sheim Shomayim with all of the gifts that were endowed to them.
Just saying.
