NEW COLUMN MISHPACHA 11/28/2016

TIME TO SING

Mourning — pure, unadulterated mourning — doesn't come easy in this industry.

Always, when hearing sad news of a petirah of a great man, part of the brain starts racing. What day of the week is it, when are we printing, do we have space in the magazine.

Everything depends on mazel, Chazal teach us. Sometimes, a petirah is marked with an expansive article, and other times, equally great people slip away unnoticed. Perhaps they leave us on Erev Yom Tov, or maybe there's another sort of breaking news that eclipses them that week.

It is entirely possible that they are the ones with the mazel — I'm making no assumptions about what's ultimately a favor for the neshamah — but it's fair to say that respectful coverage down in this world indicates a certain admiration for the departed.

Reb Ben Zion Shenker was niftar on a Sunday, perhaps the least ideal time, in terms of magazine coverage.

That kind of tight timing comes with a question: scramble to cobble something together in a few hours, or wait for another week and do a comprehensive job? Every situation has its own answer. As it worked out, we waited for the following week. In hindsight, I realized how appropriate it was. Shenker's music is not for the impatient. If you expect to hear a song once and then know it, he's not your man. So it seemed fitting that rather than rush the tribute, we added layers, nuance, detail — exactly how Reb Ben Zion wrote music.

This, in turn, had me ruminating about the fact that not just this magazine, but every mainstream chareidi outlet gave this musical master the honor usually reserved for gedolei Yisrael. Why?

Can it be that we were mourning not just the man, but what he represented? Can it be that the eulogy was not only for his impact but for the genre, the era, the people?

Okay, so bear with me here. If the fact that Ben Zion Shenker composed “Eishes Chayil” and “Mizmor l'Dovid” are what excites you, then you're not an authentic fan, sorry. Everyone knows those songs. But if you know, say, “B'tzeis Yisroel” or “Heitiva” or “Kaddish”, then you can keep on reading. I remember how my father ate Melaveh Malkah each Motzaei Shabbos. No, he didn't just wash for Melaveh Malkah , grabbing a k'zayis of toast to be yotzei, and you can be sure it wasn't pizza. It was a seudah — candles, tablecloth, challah, fish.

He sang zemiros, none of them with less three parts, but the centerpiece was Ben Zion Shenker’s “B'motzaei Yom Menuchah”. It's a song that contains the full gamut of Motzaei Shabbos emotions — the peace and serenity of Shabbos, anxiety and worry about the long week ahead, the acute pain of life in golus, hope and anticipation for next Shabbos, longing for the ultimate Shabbos. It's a song with more parts than there are tracks on the average contemporary album. As children, we fell asleep to that song.

Under warm covers, we could sense the ache: Provide relief for your people, send Tishbi to the groaning one, and let groans and sorrow flee.

The hurt: Gather in the scattered people from the hands of a cruel nation.

The hope: The wellsprings will then flow as Hashem's redeemed will return and draw the waters of salvation — and the torment will be forgotten.

The conclusion: With sound of cheer and joyous song our lips will then exult. Please Hashem, save now...

And we'd fall asleep reassured that all would be well, that all is already well. These days, Motzaei Shabbos is about Avos Ubanim. Rush, we'll be late, there's nowhere to park, there are no more seats, where is the test we have to fill out, where do I sign, okay, next kid, and carpools to choir practice or hockey or wherever. Move, move, keep moving. (Off-topic note to any of the parents of my children's friends who may be reading this: why do my wife and I seem to be driving more than anyone else? Is everyone's car in the shop, all the time? Oh, and someone left a blue glove in the back seat last winter.)

And finally, late Motzaei Shabbos, when the house settles down and the doors are blessedly locked, there's work. Maybe a few minutes to finish off the last few Rashis on the old parshah. But who has time to sing? Who has patience for six-part songs designed to be sung a certain way: too fast and you'll break it.

Ben Zion Shenker was the master not just of song, but of how to sing, how to approach singing. As a child, my father took me to daven in the famed Modzhitzer shtiebel in Flatbush where my great-uncle, the outstanding baal tefillah Reb Akiva Besser, and Reb Ben Zion Shenker and others like them had created a sanctuary of song.

It was Sukkos, and I remember being struck by how comfortable they were within the niggun, how unapologetic they were about the whole thing. The chazzan was singing “Pischu Li” and everyone was involved: no one was looking at parshah sheets or studying the bottom of the tissue box or cleaning their glasses or, worst of all, singing stoically, with a can't-beat-em-join-em face. They were singing l'shem singing.

People who took singing seriously because they took the song seriously because they took themselves seriously!

Reb Ben Zion made music for the last generation of song. In the outpouring of respect for his craft, there's an undertone of hope. In that genuine nostalgia, there’s an appreciation for the gifts that Reb Ben Zion bequeathed.

You know how people are mekabel to say Bircas Hamazon from a bentsher? I'm thinking that, in memory of Reb Ben Zion, maybe it's time I find out what all the rest of the stuff in the bentsher is about....