I value rational thought. I view myself as usually operating logically. Yet, one of the ways I permit myself to embrace irrationality is when I hear the song “Bilvavi.” The slow and uplifting niggun is well known for its ability to evoke d’vekus and a feeling of spiritual elevation. My mother, of blessed memory, walked down the aisle to that melody when she married my father. She cherished its words and tune, perhaps for reasons deeper than she ever articulated. Whenever I hear it now, my mother comes to my thoughts, and the less rational part of me imagines that her spirit is close. In those moments, I feel as though there is a message waiting for me. There is a present in the present.
A few weeks ago, a guest in shul, Rav Shmuel Brazil, sang kedusha to the tune of “Bilvavi.” With my eyes closed, I conjured up vivid memories of my mother from my youth and my adolescence. After davening, I found myself sitting near Rav Brazil at a kiddush, when I suddenly remembered that he was not just singing “Bilvavi.” He composed the niggun. I wanted to know more about this melody that had become a way for me to connect to my mother.
I asked Rav Brazil what had led him to create the tune. His expression looked surprised, almost as if to say that he did nothing special. I pressed a bit more, and he explained that his rebbe, Rav Yitzchak Hutner, had originally composed both the words, and a different tune to accompany them. Rav Brazil felt it needed another niggun, so he composed the now famous “Bilvavi.” The way he spoke about it was almost dismissive, as though it was not worth much discussion. I was perplexed, because it seemed to me that composing such a tune must have taken a great deal of effort, and I wondered why he made it seem so simple.
The conversation at the kiddush continued from topic to topic. Toward the end, in private conversation, Rav Brazil mentioned to me that his wife is a trauma therapist. He described her distinctive approach to therapy and explained that for her, the work is almost instinctive. He smiled and noted that just as therapy flows naturally for her, composing niggunim flows spontaneously for him. At that moment, I understood his earlier reaction. For Rav Brazil, composing “Bilvavi” was not an extraordinary feat. It was a mere expression of his innate talent. His almost inadvertent comparison between a therapist’s intuition and his natural musical talent struck a chord within me.
His comment reminded me of a remark by Irvin Yalom, one of my favorite psychotherapists. Yalom, professor emeritus at Stanford, has observed that on the first day of a new semester, he was already able to discern which students possess the natural qualities of gifted therapists. Much of excellent psychotherapy is instinctive and natural. As I often think of it, great therapists are not made. They are born.
That insight became the message of hearing “Bilvavi” for me. It felt as though my mother had whispered it back into my awareness. Some professionals navigate their professions primarily based on innate talents.
The words of “Bilvavi” itself also echo that message. They speak to a life of personal, individualized Divine service. No two people have the same mishkan to build within. The words, especially the conclusion, also encapsulate my mother as she faced six years of illness, remission, and recurrence with unwavering courage.
בִּלְבָבִי מִשְׁכָּן אֶבְנֶה לַהֲדַר כְּבוֹדוֹ
וּלְמִשְׁכָּן מִזְבֵּחַ אָשִׂים לְקַרְנֵי הוֹדוֹ
וּלְנֵר תָּמִיד אֶקַּח לִי אֶת אֵשׁ הָעֲקֵידָה
וּלְקָרְבָּן אַקְרִיב לוֹ אֶת נַפְשִׁי הַיְחִידָה
I will build a sanctuary in my heart for the glory of His Honor.
And I will place an altar in the sanctuary for the radiance of His Splendor.
And as an eternal fire on the altar I will take the fire from the Binding of Isaac.
And as an offering I will sacrifice to Him my only soul.
“Bilvavi” reminds us that each person can quietly dedicate himself to Divine service in a way that is wholly individual and personal. By definition, your heart is different than all others, so is the mishkan you can construct within it.
Bilvavi, in my heart, mishkan evneh.
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