Leonard
Cohen z”l, was a quintessentially Jewish artist. His
themes and motifs tugged on the heartstrings of Jewish Thought, both contemporary
and millennia-old. To those who would argue that his obvious references to other
faith systems, both within his work and his personal life, discount his work’s
designation as Jewish, I would point out Marc Chagall’s heavy utilization of
the crucifix motif — should Chagall’s work be discounted for this as well? But
there is a difference. Chagall’s corpus mainly focused on contemporary Jewish
life, particularly in the shtetl; Cohen drew his influences from biblical,
exegetical, and liturgical tradition. “The Binding of Isaac” is a
pseudo-midrashic retelling of the Akeidah
narrative; “Who By Fire” is a modern tongue-in-cheek take on Unetaneh
Tokef; most famously, “Hallelujah” not only utilizes that
familiar refrain found across Psalms, but calls upon several poignant moments
throughout our Prophetic narratives.
In
this way, I posit that Cohen was something of a modern-day (non-liturgical) Paytan. The classical Paytan
was not only a poet, but a scholar. The piyutim were filled with both
overt and obscure textual and exegetical references in an effort to elevate the
fixed liturgical practice both through their aural and cerebral qualities. In Cohen’s
contemporary take, he shifted this framework, often subverting the very liturgy
or scripture he referenced. It should be noted that for the classical Paytan,
it did not necessarily matter if the kahal understood the subtle textual
references; the poetry, with all its hints to moments across Jewish text, was
for God’s benefit. It is interesting to wonder, for whom did Cohen write his
music?
Needless
to say, I am a big fan. His music occupies a permanent place in my Spotify
“Heavy Rotation” playlist. I find his melodies beautiful and his words
profound. His lyrics and poetry are evocative and provocative, calling to mind
the lowest depths of the human condition as well as the highest ethereal forms
of divinity.
All
of that said, my stomach turns to knots when his music is used in a liturgical
context. I cringe whenever a shaliach tzibur sets
Psalm 150 to Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” I have ranted to friends and classmates: “There
is a time and a place for a cold and broken hallelujah; P’sukei
D’zimra is never that time.” The whole point of Cohen’s
song is to subvert the idea of the Psalm. The Psalm calls to mind the
celebratory joy of worship — “Praise God for God’s exceeding greatness. Praise
God with blasts of the horn; praise God with harp and lyre. Praise God with
timbrel and dance; praise God with lute and pipe…” Meanwhile, Cohen’s text recalls
King David’s voyeuristic lust for Bathsheba and Delilah’s betrayal of Samson
the Nazirite. The Psalmist’s alacrity and jubilance are replaced by Cohen’s
resigned, resentful, “broken” hallelujah. He does this not to belittle Jewish
worship, but to complicate our understanding — blind, wholehearted,
unquestioning praise simply does not represent our relationship with the
Divine.
So,
too, does Cohen’s “Who By Fire” function as a countertext of the Unetaneh
Tokef liturgy; whereas the somber traditional text places us as
submissive and subject to God’s judgement, Cohen introduces a sarcastic
response to God’s call: “And who shall I say is calling?” Cohen challenges us
to think beyond what God’s judgement is to focus on who is handing down the
decrees. While I would argue that, like “Hallelujah,” the song is inappropriate
in a liturgical context, it can serve as an excellent study question and prompt
for personal thought (in fact, the text can be found as a “Study Text” before Unetaneh
Tokef on page 207 of the Yom Kippur volume of Mishkan
HaNefesh).
Throughout
his work, Cohen does not place himself beneath God, in a submissive, prayerful
manner, but instead, sitting across the table, in conversation with the Divine.
At no place is this relationship more evident than in Cohen’s titular song of
his final album, “You Want It Darker.” He speaks directly to God, “If You are
the dealer, I’m out of the game. If You are the healer, that means I’m broken
and lame. If Thine is the glory, then mine must be the shame. You want it
darker, we kill the flame.” In case there was any doubt as to the identity of
Cohen’s conversation partner, Cohen utilizes the opening line of Kaddish,
“Magnified, sanctified, be Thy holy name.” He goes on to challenge God’s
apparent inaction in the face of our prayers: “A million candles burning for
the help that never came.” Cohen is simultaneously exalting and challenging
God, all while repeating the familiar biblical response to God’s call: Hineini — “Here
I am.”
Clearly,
Cohen struggled with God — as our people, Am Yisrael, tend to
do. But despite his struggle, his irreverence, his sardonic rhetoric, and his subversion
of the liturgy, he still says hineini. To put
it in his own words, “Even though it all went wrong, I will stand before the
Lord of song, with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah.” This is, in my
opinion, his most Jewish line. In the face of adversity and doubt, Jews across
time and space have found a way to reaffirm our faith. Whether by the waters of
Babylon in the face of exile, in the establishment of the Mourner’s Kaddish
following the Crusades, or, recently, in the uptick in synagogue attendance in
the wake of mass-shootings in American synagogues, we reaffirm our faith. This
is what it means to be called Yisrael, to not
only struggle with God, but to follow that struggle with affirmation. In this
way, Leonard Cohen’s work essentially represents the embodiment of the Jewish
experience.
—
Gabriel Snyder is a rising second-year cantorial student at the DFSSM, HUC-JIR. Growing up at Temple Beth Elohim of Wellesley, he earned his BA in Religious Studies from Skidmore College in 2018. He has spent this summer as a Press Intern at the CCAR, where he has worked on a variety of projects for several upcoming publications. He will spend the next year as the student cantor at Hevreh of Southern Berkshire in Great Barrington, MA.
