I had never heard of the biblical verse, “To You, G-d, silence is praise” prior to this assignment — but it immediately appealed to me. I felt like I stumbled upon a poetic line that simultaneously puzzles and clarifies. I was hooked.
When I began asking people to reflect on this counter intuitive statement, they accepted the challenge with gratitude and excitement. It’s hard to turn down a chance to investigate a haunting conundrum.
Although I am a novice at analyzing Biblical ideas, I have studied poetry since high school. This affords insight into how conflicting ideas co-exist.
I adore Robert Frost. He embraces paradoxical concepts inside a singular, sublime sentence. His epitaph — “I had a lover’s quarrel with the world” — is a good example.
For decades I analyzed this enigmatic declaration. How can a human being have a lover’s quarrel with the world? It didn’t make sense. Yet my heart always understood.
Frost loved life intensely, and that very passion exposed him to grievous disappointments. You are vulnerable only to what you love, whether a person, place or thing.
Now I come to the inherent irony of “To You, G-d, silence is praise.” First, Jews are forever praising G-d. We praise Him together and alone, three times a day or on Shabbat, in synagogue or walking along the Maine coastline.
I often pray with swaying fervor, completely caught up in G-d’s rhythm. But if I’m hurting and cut myself off from G-d, I defiantly shut my lips. To paraphrase Wordsworth, my emotions run too deep for tears, or for prayer itself.
The significance of silence depends on the context. A husband might attribute his wife’s silence to emotional indifference. Some parents worry that silence suggests asocial behavior or worse in their children.
One day a Sunday school teacher called my mom and asked her whether I was “retarded.” Mom exploded. “Why on earth would you think that? My daughter is in the enrichment class at her elementary school.”
“She’s so quiet,” the teacher explained. “She never says anything. So I assumed there’s something wrong with her.” The truth? I preferred my own mind to the teacher’s.
Then there’s awe, which so many of our respondents mention. The transcendent moment renders me mute. A philosophy professor once told me that these experiences defy verbal descriptions. Research backs him up.
It’s impossible to cage the infinite in finite terms. When I give voice to the ineffable in silence, G-d is praised.
The following pieces are meditations on “To You, G-d, silence is praise.”
Ofer Ben-Amots: Israeli-American composer; Colorado College music professor
“To you, G-d, silence is praise” is one of the most mystical verses and profound concepts in the Hebrew scriptures. One of the most common interpretations is that words simply fail us when facing G-d’s unimaginable awesomeness and attempts to praise Him. When words are entirely insufficient, we have to praise Him in silence.
The Hebrew word for “silence” is more than silence. It is, rather, an absolute silence, or even stillness. Turning to the original Hebrew, however, has brought me to take a different approach to this partial verse and to understand it within the context of the entire Psalm.
If we analyze King David’s 65th psalm as profound liturgical poetry, we discover an interesting parallel process: the first one is about sound vs. silence, as the Psalm begins with individual worship, focused meditation in absolute silence, which gradually develops from an audible prayer into a roaring song of praise by the entire earth.
As described in the text, “To You, Silence is praise, O G-d in Zion, and to You a vow is paid,” later becomes a universal praise sung by the desert, the hills, the meadows, and the valleys:
“They drip upon the dwellings of the desert, and hills gird themselves with joy.
“Meadows are clothed with flocks, and valleys are enwrapped with corn;
“they shout for joy, yea, they sing.”
The other, similar concept is that at the beginning the poet speaks of a G-d who dwells in His courts, His house, and His Temple — in other words, “ G-d in Zion.” However, this nearby G-d of Israel quickly becomes universal: “the trust of all the distant ends of the earth and the sea.”
Interestingly, the next psalm, Psalm 66, offers exactly the opposite process, starting with “Shout for joy to G-d, all the earth” and ends with “But G-d heard; He hearkened to the voice of my prayer.”
Thus, from these psalms we learn two important lessons: one, G-d is just as personal and close as He is a distant but magnificent King of the Universe; and two, there are many ways to praise G-d, and they range from an utter silence and a personal vow, to the all-encompassing song of the earth and nature.
Doris Schwartzberg: educator, artist, Temple Sinai member
The first thing is determining the meaning of the title statement. Can it be an instruction to G-d on what silence means to Him? Maybe it is an interpretation of what G-d believes. Let’s assume the latter and go from there.
We need to understand what praise is. Praise is not asking for help. Praise is not expressing thanks for a favorable outcome. Praise is recognition of the good.
We need to calculate the meaning of the statement. How can we apply it? It is important to construe what transpires when this statement is made. It is all in the context.
G-d would interpret silence as praise when, for instance, the Israelites quit complaining about food or conditions while wandering in the desert after escaping Egypt with G-d’s help. The cessation of whining would indicate belief in G-d, and the word of G-d.
The question then arises, does G-d accept awe as praise?
When one sees a beautiful sunrise or something magnificent and quietly admires the beauty, this may be silent praise of G-d’s creation. One need not express, even silently, an acknowledgement of G-d’s handiwork — but it is still a form of praise.
It could be that the cessation of pleas to G-d for help in adverse situations and the quiet that follows is a silence G-d appreciates as praise. It’s also possible that when people who curse and blame G-d for their problems become silent, G-d considers this silence as praise.
There is a concern that silence means people are not acknowledging the presence of G-d. Therefore there are no words or praise, no pleas for help, no curses or condemnations.
Only silence.
Marlin Barad: community leader and student of Judaism
Elie Wiesel once alluded to the discipline of silence in Jewish tradition during an interview. The interviewer was surprised, noting that Jews love words so much, and asked why people have never heard of Jews practicing silence. Wiesel simply replied, “Well, we don’t like to talk about it.”
It almost goes against the grain of our Jewishness to be silent. We love verbosity, arguments, even screaming if necessary, to make our points. Our love of books in general and sacred texts specifically, makes us, arguably, some of the most literate people on the planet. But do we ever shut up long enough to hear the sound of our own silence?
When I read Psalm 65, “Silence is praise for You, O G-d,” or psalm 62, “Only toward G-d does my soul, calmed, keep silent . . .” I wonder about the ambiguity of my relationship with Hashem. Am I to speak to Him in awe-inspiring and glorious praises, solemn entreaties, emotional and plaintive wails? Or am I supposed to wait for that “still, small voice” that only my soul can hear and respond through silence?
Maimonides, citing Psalm 65, thinks that the highest form of praise we can give Hashem is silence. The Maggid, disciple of the Baal Shem Tov, even declared, “It is best to serve G-d by silence.” Chullin 89a states: “What should a man’s pursuit be in this world? He should be silent.” Pirkei Avot 1:17 states, “All my days I have been raised among the sages and I have found nothing better for oneself than silence.”
All praise silence is an appropriate way to serve Hashem. Silence is a basic religious response to G-d and the world. Silence is that mysterious link with the Divine.
Yes, but how does this really work? If I keep silent, my thoughts overwhelm me. If I verbally pray, I get caught up in the words and the cadence and forget that I am supposed to be communing with G-d. How can I speak to my G-d?
This has been my constant “thorn” since I began my studies in earnest years ago. I didn’t know enough to even ask the questions about prayer, praise and silence. Yet by studying, patiently layering knowledge upon knowledge, and applying a “leap of faith”with kavvanah (intent), I have experienced quiet moments of insight.
It is then that I praise G-d for the birth of a child, for the sight of a dazzling sunset, for the salty smell of a vast ocean, and His powerful presence in the loftiness of mountains. I speak to Hashem in these silent moments and thank Him for the beauty and sacredness of this world. I am secure in my knowledge that G-d creates all, provides all, protects all and loves all.
In conclusion, I want to give you the reinterpreted words of Psalm 65 by Rabbi Yael Levy:
“To You, G-d, silence is praise.
“Fulfilled is the person who chooses to draw near
“And dwell with You,
“Who opens to the goodness of Your presence.
“In awe we witness You
“In the bringing forth of the morning
“And as the evening sings with joy.
“We see You in the fields cloaked with sheep
“And in the valleys enveloped in grain.
“The fields, the valleys, the sheep shout with gladness.
“They even sing.
“All this is revealed
“In our praise of silence.”
(From Psalm 65: 1, 5, 9, 14)
Emily Kohn: 17, president, Temple Sinai Youth Group
The words, “To you, G-d, silence is praise” remind me of an old saying: “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”
Silence is a virtue of respect. In class we respect our teachers by being silent, by listening to them. In movies theaters we remain silent out of respect to those around us. If we don’t have something nice to say, we show our respect by remaining silent.
During Shabbat services, there is always a time for silent prayer, normally before or after the Amidah. This allows the congregation to reflect on the prayers and also the needs of those we pray for. We, as Jews, perform this silent prayer together.
In this case, silence is a uniting factor, allowing us to share an unspoken bond with those surrounding us. Silence allows for deep contemplation — pausing in the chaos of life, even if for just a moment. Silence lets us see what is important. There is something special and all-encompassing about silence, just like G-d.
Sometimes the best way to show respect, praise, to think deeply, to unite, to see the important, to not say something hurtful or to just relax is through silence.
“To you, G-d, silence is praise,” because to us it is peace.
Elizabeth Sacks: cantor, Temple Emanuel
“Silence is praise” — a curious sentiment for a tradition that so clearly celebrates the power of sound and song, and a potentially problematic statement for someone in my profession — for someone who daily cajoles and convinces people to raise their voices in musical praise to G-d.
What is this silence? How can the absence of sound be considered praise to G-d? I offer two explanations — one textual and one experiential, one exploring the verse in its Biblical context and one lifting the verse from its surroundings and considering its meaning against the backdrop of our lives.
At first glance, this verse appears out of place in the Psalms, almost contradictory. The words that immediately precede it — “For the leader. A Psalm of David. A song” — seem to directly thwart its meaning. If silence is praise to G-d, then why are we declaring that very idea in song? A fuller picture emerges, however, if we look to the psalms before and after, to Psalms 64 and 66, and consider these three psalms as a continuum.
Psalm 64 begins, “Hear my voice, O G-d, when I plead; guard my life from the enemy’s terror. Hide me from a band of evil men, from a crowd of evildoers, who whet their tongues like swords . . .”
In the opening of this psalm, then, speech and sound are described as a destructive power.
The psalm continues, “G-d shall shoot them with arrows; they shall be struck down suddenly. Their tongue shall be their downfall . . .”
This psalm makes clear how sound can be an affront to G-d and a path to ruin for those who use it poorly.
Given the pointed warnings regarding sound in Psalm 64, it is no wonder that Psalm 65 begins with “silence is praise.” But as we read through to the end of Psalm 65 and continue on to Psalm 66, a different perspective on sound emerges. Despite beginning with, “silence is praise,” Psalm 65 concludes with, “The meadows are clothed with flocks, the valleys mantled with grain; they raise a shout, they break into song.” By the end of Psalm 65, the text describes song as an outburst of thanksgiving to G-d.
Psalm 66 begins immediately afterward with, “Raise a shout for G-d, all the earth; sing the glory of His name,” and continues later with “I called aloud to Him, glorification on my tongue . . . G-d listened and paid heed to my prayer.”
Taken together, then, these three psalms — 64, 65, 66 — create a fuller understanding of “To you, G-d, silence is praise.” The message of these three psalms seems to be that in comparison with cruel and evil words, silence is indeed praise to G-d. But sound, and in particular song, also have the power to be pleasing to G-d.
The arc of these three psalms reminds me of a chasidic saying about the power of music, “Silence is better than speech, but song is better than silence.”
But what if we removed Psalm 65:1 from its Biblical context and took seriously its charge, “To You, G-d, silence is praise”? How can we make sense of this statement when so much of our time is spent praising G-d aloud — particularly in song?
Because I am a musician, and a Jewish musician, it is tempting to assume that I spend most of my time perfecting the sound of praising G-d — obsessing over each note, focusing on every rhythm, ensuring that every voice and instrument is aligned with one another to create the most beautiful sound possible.
But, as any performer will tell you, the grace and power of a performance lies in the contrasts — in the spaces and the silences in between the swellings of activity. Because these spaces — these silences — are not merely the absence of sound. These silences are the connectors, providing opportunity for reflection while compelling the sound to begin again and move forward.
Imagine the silence that occurs in the moments immediately after a piece of music, performed live, concludes. That silence rings with energy, pregnant with extreme emotion, a coda to whatever the music, the sound, was trying to communicate.
And imagine the silence that occurs before an outburst of emotion —of joy, of sadness, of thanksgiving, of hope. That split second, or sometimes longer, before we can verbalize or vocalize what we feel inside us.
I believe that it is in these silences — these before, after, and in between silences, that we often connect to G-d or a sense of something larger than ourselves. And so we say, “To You, G-d, silence is praise,” not because silence is empty or still but because we know that there can be so much contained within it.
Rabbi Asher Klein: DAT Minyan
As I was thinking about words that would help explain why and how silence can be a form of praise to Hashem, I immediately thought about my grandfather Armin Klein, of blessed memory.
When he passed away only a couple of months ago, I was asked to speak at his funeral and convey some thoughts or lessons that I received from my grandfather.
The problem was that my grandfather was such a quiet and unassuming individual that trying to convey his special character forced me to look beyond sharing inspiring words or meaningful conversations. That was simply not his style.
Nevertheless, I believe that his silence was his greatest lesson.
Considering all he had been through — a Holocaust survivor, immigrant to the US trying to support his family, steadfast devotee of a Torah lifestyle regardless of the many sacrifices entailed, and [victorious over] other challenges that he would probably not want publicized — it is quite amazing how he persevered and never complained.
His silence was a deafening roar to those who understood how much he deserved to complain. He chose to take the high road of dignity and acceptance of Hashem’s master plan. His silence was a constant praise of Hashem, as he chose to live a life that did not include focusing on and talking about the negative aspects of life.
He easily could have harped upon the atrocities that he witnessed firsthand, kvetching and whining about how life should be easier or more forgiving, or bemoaning how the righteous and innocent suffer while evil perseveres. Instead, he lived a life committed to strengthening his family and future in a positive and unassuming manner.
Alec Zussman: 17, DAT graduate, attending Yeshiva Sha’alvim next year
It seems like an oxymoron. How can you show thanks to Hashem and praise him with total silence? Judaism is about being proactive; how are you supposed to convey praise to Hashem without putting it into words? It’s nonsensical.
Let’s answer a question with a question. What is silence? It comes in many different forms. There is the awkward silence that accompanies the pause in a conversation, the silence that comes from shock or bewilderment, and there’s also the silence that shows care, compassion, as well as support. Sometimes silence can show ambivalence or rudeness, but in other times, it can be used to express something that cannot be conveyed with words.
Several months ago, we read in the Torah that Aaron’s sons were killed instantaneously by Hashem when they walked into the Kodesh HaKadoshim (the holiest place in the Tabernacle). When Aaron was told what happened to his sons, he didn’t have a visible reaction towards their deaths. He didn’t cry out in pain or pass out on the spot. It says in Leviticus 10:3 that Aaron was silent.
The reason for Aaron’s silence wasn’t what it seemed. Instead of the verse reading Vayishtok (“He was quiet”), it used Vayidom, a more peculiar word. Aaron clearly made the choice to be silent at the time, not because Moses was saying, sheket bevakasha, hey. Rather, he was at a loss for words.
This is, of course, a negative case in which silence is used. However, silence can run the gamut of emotions from the extreme negative to the extreme positive where strong feelings cannot be expressed in words.
So, how can we use silence as part of our praise of Hashem to strengthen our connection with Him? In 2014, we have many things, maybe more than we realize, that inspire us to thank Hashem. We have our families, a good livelihood, and even our own state, Israel.
Perhaps this coming Shavuot, as well as throughout the year, we can pause, be silent and realize that words cannot fully describe how thankful we are to Him.