In Search of the Hidden Melody

Music, Prophecy, and the Niggun of Purim

Mar 12, 2025

When Einstein met Chaplin in 1931, Einstein said: "What I admire about your art is its universality. You do not say a word, and yet the world understands you."

Chaplin replied: "It's true. But your fame is even greater. The world admires you, when no one understands you."

There is much power in the intellect, but it goes hand in hand with the power of the soul.

On that note, (pun intended) let us turn to the language of the soul - music.

"Music without words is a more unified space because you are not articulating with the particular parts of your mouth, but communicating the Allness of you." — Rav Shlomo Gaisin

Can you imagine a world without music? It’s almost impossible. From the royal courts of London to remote tribes in Mozambique—even in hermit nations like North Korea—music reaches every corner of our existence.

It’s equally difficult to picture a celebration without music. Without that auditory spark, a palpable void emerges. In fact, the absence of music itself often signifies solemn remembrance, as when Chazal ordained that no music should be played to recall the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash1. While the halachic dimensions of music are vast and fascinating, this essay will focus on its spiritual essence, particularly in the context of Purim.

The Midrash2 describes the lavish celebration of the Seudas Achashveirosh in Shushan. His coronation—and the ensuing festivities—were designed to stimulate each of the five senses:

Sight: Achashveirosh arranged beautiful canopies in every hue—green, turquoise, purple, and crimson. These “arrays” pleased the eyes under the sun, spread out like a tent to heighten the visual experience. Tents of varied colors caught the sunlight in mesmerizing ways.

Smell: The party took place in the royal gardens, where every sort of fragrance was present.

Taste: Exquisite food and fine wine in abundant variety ensured that no guest would partake of anything unsuitable for them.

Touch: Sumptuous clothing and beautifully crafted vessels delighted the sense of feel.

Notably, one sense remained untouched: hearing. Why would a celebration be orchestrated to fulfill every sensory desire except for music?

Rav Shlomo Alkabetz, one of the great mekubalim in Tzfat during the time of the Arizal, offers an intriguing explanation3 based on Rav Meir Arama. He notes that hearing is the only sense that cannot be tailored to each individual. Since music is universal, there isn’t a single melody that resonates equally with everyone. Therefore, music was not played.

Rav Alkabetz further suggests that, in theory, a full orchestra of musicians would blend harmoniously and enhance the event. However, it would still be impossible to make the music “perfect” for everyone’s tastes, and being that they didn't have headphones back then, it was left out.

-"Music is a translation of reality."
— Rav Joey Rosenfeld

Digging deeper, Rav Alkabetz explains that music’s transcendent nature might cause people to lose awareness of their surroundings. Unlike the other senses, which drew attention to the tangible features of the celebration, music could transport attendees so deeply that they might forget where they were. Achashveirosh could not fathom having people drift into a trance-like reverie—after all, they were there to celebrate him, not to lose themselves in music custom-made for their souls.

"Music is to recognize that not everybody has the same niggun."
— Rav Joey Rosenfeld

This is where the concept of the niggun—a simple, evocative tune—enters the discussion. Unlike complex musical arrangements that attempt to please every taste, the niggun embodies a purity that encourages focused, deliberate spiritual elevation.

Rav Shlomo Alkabetz is also the author of Lecha Dodi. In it, he hints at a deeper facet of spiritual awakening through music and song. He writes4:

“עורי עורי” – “Awaken, awaken,”
“שיר דברי” – “Speak your song.”

He encourages us to find the strength within ourselves to return to God and actively work with Him. He teaches that once the people have returned to their land and when our higher spiritual awakening unites with our lower, everyday awareness, we hear a call to “speak your song.” In other words, true song is the lifting of the soul—an expression that goes far beyond simple words and dry intellectual ideas. It’s about reaching a level of joy and connection that transforms how we experience life.

In other words, shirah—and by extension, a niggun—represents a level of spiritual expression that transcends routine language. It awakens us from within, allowing the soul to soar beyond everyday constraints.

Indeed, we find in Tanach that music helps one achieve prophecy. Shmuel HaNavi told Shaul5: “When you reach the city, you will encounter a band of prophets descending from the high place, with a harp, drum, and flute before them, and they will be prophesying. The spirit of G-d will rush over you, and you will prophesy with them, transforming into a different person.”

We see another example in Melachim II.6 After Elisha lost his prophetic connection due to anger, he requested a musician to help him reconnect with Hashem. In essence, by immersing himself in music, he became the “instrument” through which Divine inspiration could flow7.

This parallels the bells and pomegranates on the hem of the efod, which emitted a niggun as the Kohen Gadol entered the Kodesh HaKodashim, thereby elevating him spiritually.

The link between music and prophecy is also echoed in the word chazan, derived from chazon (prophecy). A chazan draws his song from the same source that nourishes the prophets.

Rebbe Pinchas of Koretz shared in the name of the Arizal that the Arizal attained his lofty stature because he served as the shaliach tzibbur, leading the tefilos with a beautiful niggun. As the entire congregation was attached to him through his Negina—and he, in turn, was bound to Hashem—he was able to uplift them all.8

It is not only humankind that serves as Hashem’s musical instrument, expressing His niggun. The Tikkunei Zohar teaches that God created the world and everything in it through a niggun. Even the word “Bereshit” hints at “Shir Alef-Beit,” the same letters rearranged. Thus, niggun is the very force of creation through which the world came into being.

Rav Yitzchak Arama, in Sefer Akeidas Yitzchak, underscores this idea of universal harmony. He writes that the world’s perfection lies in tuning the minor instruments (the microcosm) so that they resonate with the major instruments (the macrocosm). This harmonic proportion is maintained by observing the Torah’s laws. Neglecting these laws disturbs that balance and leads to the world’s spiritual decline. Therefore, it is humanity’s task to direct all inner intention toward restoring this original harmony and the primordial spiritual nature of creation—essentially, the path to salvation.

Rav Nachman teaches9 that shirah (song) is the very glue of creation, maintaining harmony in the universe. To illustrate the spiritual root of melody, he writes:

עִקַּר הַנִּגּוּן וְהַכְּלֵי שִׁיר הֵבִיא לֵוִי לָעוֹלָם, כַּמּוּבָא בַּזֹּהַר (שמות דף יט.), שֶׁעִקַּר הַנִּגּוּן מִסִּטְרָא דְּלֵוָאי, וְזֶה שֶׁאָמְרָה לֵאָה: הַפַּעַם יִלָּוֶה אִישִׁי אֵלַי (בראשית כ״ט:ל״ד)... שֶׁעַל יָדוֹ בָּא בְּחִינַת הַנִּגּוּן וּכְלֵי שִׁיר לָעוֹלָם, הַפַּעַם יִלָּוֶה אִישִׁי אֵלַי בְּוַדַּאי, כִּי הִתְחַבְּרוּת שְׁנֵי דְּבָרִים הוּא עַל־יְדֵי נִגּוּן וּכְלֵי שִׁיר, וְהָבֵן.

Levi, representing din (judgment or definition), introduced the concept of melody to the world. As Leah said when Levi was born, “This time my husband will become attached (yilaveh) to me,”10 hinting that music has the power to join two entities together.

My rebbe, Rav Gerzi, explained that since Levi represents din, music arises from precise, defined notes. What might have been chaos transforms into harmony when each note is set in its correct place. Rabbi Gerzi then cited the Ramchal11, who teaches that music corresponds closely to the vibrational frequencies holding reality together. On a subtle level, everything vibrates in harmony—this is the nature of din. It is also reflected in the Purim story, where what seems like chaos ultimately weaves into a harmonious whole—similar to jazz, which thrives on leaning into discomfort just enough to create something transcendent, yet still anchored in the comfort of familiar scales.

Rav Gerzi elaborated that the musical notes correspond to the seven lower Sefiros. A person’s spiritual development likewise progresses through these “notes,” one at a time, until they form a complete melody. A single note or partial melody may sound dissonant, but when all the parts come together, everything makes sense.

The word “Purim” shares the root “Pur,” akin to “Perurim”—crumbs. Crumbs on their own appear insignificant, but when combined properly, they form a finished product that reveals their true purpose. Achieving this level of harmony—whether in music or in life—often requires patience, waiting for all the disparate pieces to align before the complete picture emerges.

Rav Tzadok writes12 that true shirah emerges when the present moment is fully realized—when all pieces come together. This principle applies to Purim as well as to the future Redemption:

שירה הוא רק כשמכיר הנוכח כענין ראתה שפחה כו' אז נפתח פיהם לומר שירה. ולכן אין אומרים שירה על נס שבחוץ לארץ כי הדר בחוץ לארץ דומה כו' שאין מכיר הנוכח ... כי לעתיד נאמר שיהיה שיר חדש... תדיר יהיה חדש. כי השיר מצד ההכרה ובכל רגע יהיה הכרה מחודשת ושיר חדש...

Rav Tzadok explains that shirah flows from recognizing the “here and now,” a level of Divine presence that was fully experienced, for example, at the splitting of the sea. In the future era of redemption, this awareness will be constant, yielding a never-ending “new song.”

As stated above, Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, in his Adir BaMarom, states that the planets themselves move by virtue of musical waves: “All those things above are carried out by music, and all the luminaries, when they go out from their source, are motivated by music.” According to the Zohar13, each planet has its own music, and the constellations themselves create melodies. Furthermore, it is taught that the sun’s music is so sublime that, if our ears were not blocked, we could hear it—but its beauty would be overwhelming to the point that our souls would leave our bodies.14

Rebbe Pinchas of Koretz teaches: “Angels on high create new songs daily, and with the power of the new song they renew each day the miracle of creation.” In other words, the act of singing is intimately bound up with continual creation.

Separately, there is a fundamental idea in Kabbalah—and one that appears throughout the teachings of Rebbe Nachman—often expressed as:

התגלות הבריאה בכל אופן הוא רק בסוד שיר פשוט, כפול, משולש ומרובע.
“All revelation of creation occurs through the secret of the fourfold song: simple, doubled, tripled, and quadrupled.”

This notion underscores how each phase of creation emerges from a progressive, layered Divine melody. It also serves as a bridge to the next discussion: when we sing a niggun, we tap into this creative process, aligning ourselves with the Godly force that sustains and renews the world. The breath Hashem blew into our nostrils was, in essence, the breath of a niggun.

Indeed, all of creation can be understood as a song. Each day of the week has a specific Shir shel Yom, corresponding to that day’s act of creation. Perek Shira reveals that each element of creation—animal, plant, and even inanimate objects—has its own shirah.

As the Yaaros Devash15 elaborates:

- אמנם ידוע כי כל תנועת הגלגלים המה בקול ושיר כדדרשינן במדרש (ילק"ש ח"ב רמז כב) שאמר יהושע לחמה דום שכשהיא הולכת אומרת שירה ואמרה מי יאמר שירה במקומי אמר יהושע אני אומר והיינו כי ע"י שירה יכולים להתדבק בשפעת שכינה ועי"כ יכולת בידם לקבל שפע וכל כוחות רוחנים אפילו הממונים על עופות מחצבים ודוממים אין להם יכולת לקבל שפע ולהשפיע כי אם בשירה וזהו פרק שירה של כל עופות וכדומה וכ"כ האר"י ז"ל ובעל חסד לאברהם להדיא וכאשר יחדלו לומר אין להם יכולת להתדבק כ"כ וזהו קול של תנועת גלגלים אפילו חכמי יונים מודים עד שאמרו בשם פיטאגראס שאמר בהיות אויר צלול והארץ שקטה מהומים שומע קול תנועת הגלגל אבל עכ"פ הכל תלוי בשירה

In short, even the heavenly spheres sing. As they move, they create a sacred resonance that sustains and directs spiritual energies. All of creation—down to the most subtle forces—relies on song to receive and transmit Divine influence. When that singing ceases, the flow diminishes. Hence, our active participation in shirah—through niggun and mindful celebration—allows us to tap into the very forces that sustain the world.

"Everyone has a Gan Eden and Gehenom within themselves; Gan Eden is the lungs. Singing a niggun is coming from your inner Gan Eden."
— Rav Shlomo Gaisin

As children, we first learn to speak. As adults, we learn to sing. To truly learn how to sing, we must pause our speaking and listen for the niggun.

Initially, we master the letters of the Alef-Bais. Next, we learn the nekudos (vowel points), and only after that do we progress to the ta’amim (cantillation notes). As Rav Joey Rosenfeld explains in his introduction to Rav Kook’s Reish Milin, the structure of this progression corresponds to the four levels of the Hebrew language described by the Arizal and Rav Chaim Vital16:

Otiyot – letters
Nekudos – vowels
Tagin – crowns on the letters, symbolizing a link between the black letters and the white space
Ta’amim – cantillation notes

Mystically, these ta’amim represent a loftier realm of song—beyond ordinary speech—where the deepest expression of the soul takes place.

Rav Reuven Sasson17 expands on this by examining the two major shiros in the Chumash. He points out that shirah is, by definition, something that spans from the beginning to the end of a process. A song consists of phrases, words, and letters. The letters are joined by the vowels (the nekudos), while the phrases are woven together by the musical notes (the ta’amim). When someone is struggling, it can feel like a lone Hebrew letter bereft of vowels or cantillation, disjointed from past and future. But once a person grasps the whole picture—both what has come before and what is yet to be—they gain the ta’amim that carry them forward, forming a coherent sentence, poem, and eventually a full song.

This expansive perspective, embodied by ta’amim, elevates us beyond the present moment into a broader symphony. Rav Sasson explains that everything ultimately works out for the good, a truth reflected in the idea of “reasons” (ta’amim can also mean “reasons”). Understanding these reasons transforms one’s challenges into a harmonious melody. Even in difficult times, we can keep singing the niggun to move forward, remembering the wider context and infusing life with shirah.

Rav Moshe Dovid Vali18 notes that music—especially shirah—touches the essence of a person. It can evoke profound emotion by reaching the depths of the heart, unifying people, and creating harmony. During hardships, when words fail, shirah remains a powerful source of comfort and expression.

As mentioned, Rebbe Nachman teaches that a niggun has the power to unite two disparate entities. We see daily how a niggun can sweep people into profound collective ecstasy. In modern times, intense enthusiasm—sometimes verging on mass rapture—is rarely seen outside of musical performances in their many forms. Neither the spoken nor written word, nor even dramatic art, can match music’s capacity to forge a powerful and unbreakable bond. When giant amplifiers pour out sound, thousands can be carried beyond their everyday reality.

Rebbe Nachman repeatedly emphasizes the transformative power of melody. He writes19: “It is good to accustom oneself to self-inspiration through melody, for a niggun is something extraordinarily exalted. It has the great power to stir the human heart and draw it toward God, may He be blessed. Even someone who cannot sing well can still arouse himself with a melody in private. For the loftiness of melody is beyond all measure.”

Nevertheless, Rebbe Nachman20 also cautions that a niggun is an instrument, and like any instrument, it can be directed toward either holiness or impurity.

Much of the world’s negative forces (black magic, sorcery, and the realm of the Sitra Achra) also harness music. We must therefore ensure our niggunim come from a pure source, channeling the power of music into paths of holiness rather than allowing it to slip into the darkness of tumah.

The Piacesna Rebbe, in Hachsharas Avreichim21, writes that niggun can trigger a profound spiritual awakening—akin to a small taste of prophecy. Although it belongs to a lofty realm, we who are “simple folk” should engage in a practical, comprehensible avodah that we can apply consistently. Through steady effort and mindful singing, the higher dimension of niggun can flow down to us—even if its true greatness lies beyond our grasp.

-“When language aspires to the transcendent, and the soul longs to break free of the gravitational pull of the earth, it modulates into song.”
—Rav Jonathan Sacks22

He references the Beis Aharon, who interprets the pasuk “Look (תשורי) from the peak of Amanah”23 as meaning that the pinnacle of emunah lies in shirah. Niggun functions as a key to unlock the soul’s hidden emotions—but whether it leads to holiness or self-indulgence hinges on individual intention. Two people may feel the same inner stirring; one channels it into greater service of God, while the other misuses that inspiration.

Since our aim is to free the soul so it may reign over the body and attach itself to holiness, we immerse ourselves in niggun as part of our avodas Hashem. Like someone who enjoys fine wine without owning a vineyard, we need not compose new tunes—existing niggunim suffice. Simply take a familiar melody, turn inward, and imagine yourself standing before God. At first, you may feel you are merely singing to awaken your heart, but gradually your very soul will begin to “sing,” lifting you closer to Hashem.

At times, words of tefilla might spontaneously arise amid the melody. They may initially reflect worldly concerns, yet as your soul ascends, purer and deeper tefillos emerge. On other occasions, no words at all appear—only a yearning beyond expression, akin to a child leaning on a loving father just to be near him. Whether in tears or joy, the goal is to uncover the soul’s hidden depths.

Therefore, when you find yourself among Chassidim—whether during davening, at a seudah, or during a tish—join their singing. Done sincerely, it evokes the experience of “When the musician played, the hand of God came upon him”24. No loud shouting is necessary; even a soft whisper can resonate in the highest heavens.

"When you sing a niggun, you are filling the outer space with your inner space."
— Rav Shlomo Gaisin

In his shiur on Hachsharas Avreichim, Rav Moshe Weinberger emphasizes that niggun is one of the most powerful means to unlock the deepest chambers of the soul. It can expose the soul’s essence, yet it does not guarantee holiness; a person must choose to direct the emotions it arouses toward serving Hashem. Otherwise, those same feelings could lead one astray—like two people experiencing joy who respond in entirely different ways.

He adds that while external aids (such as a bit of wine) can briefly open the heart, niggun provides a more lasting avenue to genuine inner connection. It can draw on what the Piacesna Rebbe calls the “Heichal HaNiggun” (the sublime chamber of melody), even when one cannot fully grasp its heights.

Ultimately, Rav Weinberger underscores the Piacesna Rebbe’s guidance: even a short phrase of a melody, sung with authentic focus, can shift from an external practice to an inner, self-perpetuating flow of tefillah. In this way, niggun moves beyond mere entertainment and becomes heartfelt avodah, enabling a person to strengthen faith, awaken joy, and draw the soul closer to God.

There is always a hidden melody playing in the background of our lives; our task is to tune in and listen for it.

Rav Joey Rosenfeld teaches that the deepest musical joy emerges from empty spaces. He explains the deeper meaning of the instrument known as the Chalil, a flute, which literally means a hollow space. When one breathes into emptiness, allowing the breath to expire, thereby creating new sound out of lack. This melody arises from our chasronos (deficiencies), revealing the hidden power of the Infinite Light in the chalal (void) itself25.

He continues, noting that the path to your niggun is accessed through the secret of silence—a silence not borne of having nothing to say, but one that recognizes the limitations of language. Even when every word has been spoken, it ultimately falls short. In that space, we uncover the “song of the future,” which blossoms from patience, joy, faith, and trust cultivated within the chalal hapanui (empty space).26

Rebbe Nachman27 teaches that when we share something with another person—whether an idea, a feeling, or a niggun—we generate an Ohr Chozer, a reflective energy akin to bouncing a ball against a wall. No matter how the other person responds, that energy inevitably comes back to us. Rav Gerzi explains that by expressing what lies within us, we gain greater ownership of it, becoming stronger and more alive rather than diminished by any negative reaction. Like the ball returning time and again, the vitality of whatever we share—be it wisdom, emotion, or melody—resonates back, deepening our spiritual grasp and reminding us that genuine self-expression always leaves us enriched.

The Shaarei Orah28 teaches that Tehillim—called “Zemiros” (זמירות)—serves as a precursor to Tefillah, preparing one for prophecy and closeness with Hashem. Dovid HaMelech composed these Zemiros to clear away the spiritual “clouds” that obstruct tefilla.

The term “Zemiros” is linked to “mazmer” (מזמר), meaning “machete”. Thus, “זְ֭מִרוֹת הָיוּ־לִ֥י חֻקֶּ֗יךָ בְּבֵ֣ית מְגוּרָֽי׃“ “Your laws were like Zemiros for me in the house of my fears”29 implies that these songs act as spiritual machetes, scattering negative forces and letting prayer rise unhindered and uniting the soul with the Divine.

Though Rav Kook was not especially known for his appreciation of music or for composing songs, he offers a profound explanation of “mizmor” and “shir.” According to Rav Kook, “mizmor” (melody) emerges from raw emotion poured forth before words can fully contain it, while “shir” (song) refines that emotion by shaping it with thoughtful insight. When these two elements blend—uniting heart and mind—they create a complete spiritual expression that resonates on a deep, personal level and speaks to our highest understanding. This unity echoes the devotion felt at the Temple’s dedication, alluded to in the phrase “Mizmor Shir Chanukas HaBayis.”30

Words are the language of the mind. Music is the language of the soul.”
— Rav Jonathan Sacks31

Elie Wiesel shares the haunting tale of a niggun born of desperation and faith:

On the eve of Purim in a Nazi-occupied ghetto, a chilling ultimatum arrives: the Nazi commander demands that the Jewish council surrender ten Jews to be hanged at dawn—a grotesque “tribute” to Haman’s ten sons from the Purim story. If the leaders refuse, the entire ghetto will be liquidated without mercy.
Desperation and dread grip the community. That night, as flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows on crumbling walls, the rabbi at the heart of the crisis paces anxiously. He pores over the works of Maimonides, scans the responsa of Rishonim and Acharonim, and rereads the rulings of hallowed sages, frantically seeking some halachic or mystical key to unlock salvation. Yet no argument or precedent can reconcile this cruel choice with the sacredness of life.
In his darkest moment, the rabbi recalls a teaching from the Ba’al Shem Tov, founder of the Chassidic movement in the eighteenth century. The Ba’al Shem Tov had once tried to shatter the chains of evil with a special niggun—a wordless, joyful melody believed to wield extraordinary power. But even the Ba’al Shem Tov’s attempt faltered for lack of true simchah. Burdened by the suffering he witnessed, the Ba’al Shem Tov could not fill the niggun with the pure delight it required. Realizing his own time was ending, he entrusted this sacred melody to the rabbi’s ancestors, passing it down over generations like a hidden torch. Now, that ancient niggun lay within the rabbi’s hands—an untested instrument of hope.
Yet the rabbi is torn: to wield the niggun effectively, one must sing from a place of genuine joy. How could joy possibly be mustered in the face of imminent death? Weary but determined, the rabbi embarks on a desperate quest for clarity. First, he reaches out—spiritually if not physically—to the Vilna Gaon, renowned for his towering scholarship and fearsome commitment to truth. Legend tells that the Gaon hands him a slip of paper scrawled with the name “Eliyahu” repeated ten times—perhaps a cryptic summons to self-sacrifice, as if to say, Let these be the ten who ascend in place of the others, even if it costs everything. The rabbi’s heart is torn by this stark solution.
Suddenly, the Berditchever—the famed “defense attorney” of the Jewish people—steps forward in the rabbi’s imagination. His voice resonates with compassion: “This is not merely about your own sacrifice or even ten individuals. Klal Yisrael is one body. Would you separate yourself from them now, at the moment they need you most?” The rabbi realizes that isolating himself or a select few is not an option. This tragedy does not call for solitary heroics but for communal unity.
By the time dawn’s cold light seeps into the ghetto, the Nazi officer returns, his demand unchanged: ten names, or the entire ghetto will be razed in an hour. Pale-faced but resolute, the rabbi gathers his trembling flock in the battered courtyard of the synagogue. Children cling to parents; elders stand with stooped shoulders; fear radiates from every corner. In a voice hushed yet urgent, the rabbi teaches them the Ba’al Shem Tov’s niggun—the very melody once passed down as a last chance to break the hold of evil. It is no mere weapon, he warns, but a cry for divine compassion that must be filled with authentic joy. Summoning courage from places they did not know existed, the ghetto’s Jews begin to sing.
Slowly, one pure voice after another joins the melody, weaving itself into an otherworldly harmony. The niggun—wordless yet profound—penetrates the dense fog of despair. In that moment, the rabbi feels an inexplicable lightness, as though centuries of sages and ancestors are standing shoulder to shoulder with them. He imagines the Vilna Gaon himself, now bending his head toward this niggun, lending his solemn authority. He sees the radiant presence of the Ba’al Shem Tov—urging them to sing past their pain and find a joy deeper than their suffering. Even the Berditchever’s pleas echo in the strains of the melody, uniting heaven and earth.
All at once, the rabbi notices that the crowd around him seems vaster than the ghetto’s confines. The entire Jewish people—souls from every generation and every exile—appear to join in one cosmic chorus. Echoing off the cold walls, this niggun reverberates into realms unseen, defying the Nazi soldiers who prepare their grim orders. The pain is still there, but so is an unbreakable current of hope, and together they push the melody to transcendent heights.
With mechanical efficiency, the enemy begins its gruesome task—yet the niggun does not falter. It floats above horror and brutality, a living testament to the power of unity and faith. In that desperate courtyard, the melody grows louder, as though carried by angelic voices beyond human ears. Neighbors clasp hands, tears stream down drawn faces, and the sweet, haunting notes carry a collective plea straight to the gates of heaven. In the face of unimaginable cruelty, this shared song—rooted in both grief and the glimmer of impossible joy—becomes a bulwark against despair.
Whether or not physical deliverance comes, the niggun remains: a legacy of resilience, a promise that, even in the darkest corners of history, a melody can pierce the silence and summon a spark of salvation. As the final notes echo across the courtyard, they inscribe in every trembling heart the realization that evil can wound the body, but it cannot mute the soul’s song when it is sung together, in faith and love.

There is a niggun for Klal Yisrael, and a niggun for each of the creations in the world. More profoundly, each individual has a unique niggun—one that reconnects us to our Creator and touches the deepest recesses of the soul, guiding it toward its ultimate potential. Our task is to discover this personal melody. We need only to find stillness, to listen for our niggun, and let it draw us nearer to the Divine.

“God is the music of all that lives, but there are times when all we hear is noise. The true religious challenge is to ignore the noise and focus on the music.”32

“If I were asked how to find God, I would say: Learn to listen. Listen to the song of the universe in the call of the birds, the rustle of trees, the crash and heave of the waves. Listen to the poetry of prayer, the music of the Psalms. Listen deeply to those you love and who love you. Listen to the words of God in the Torah and hear them speak to you. Listen to the debates of the sages through the centuries as they tried to hear the texts’ intimations and inflections.”
— Rav Jonathan Sacks33

Chazal teach that with the arrival of Mashiach, a new song will be revealed. Perhaps this signals a renewed creative energy—or perhaps it means we will each discover our own inner niggun, merging with the niggun of the entire creation to form something altogether new.

As we celebrate Purim—however we do so—let us remember that whatever depth remained untapped at Achashverosh’s feast can now be accessed on this auspicious day. In the stillness where we listen for that niggun, we can touch upon a prophetic awareness, realizing that we are simply God’s musical instruments within the ever-flowing harmony of existence.

In Search of the Hidden Melody

Music, Prophecy, and the Niggun of Purim

Thank you to my father - Rav Yaacov Haber, Rav Yehoshua Gerzi, and Rav Joey Rosenfeld for their assistance with this post.

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