The year following my Bar Mitzvah, I was asked to read Torah and sing the Shema during the High Holidays. Following the service, a friend of my parents came up to me and exclaimed, “I know what you’re supposed to do, you are supposed to be a Cantor!” Fourteen-year-old me smiled and nodded, while simultaneously whispering to myself: “That is the absolute last thing I want to do.”
As a young Jewish kid, it was the norm to fight with my parents about why I had to go to religious school while all of my secular friends got to play hockey and sleep in on Sundays. My parents would tell me week after week during my objections (tantrums), “You will understand why this is important when you are older.” “Yea right!” I snapped back. I would then go back to secular school on Monday and my friends would rip on me, making fun of the fact that I couldn’t come to sports practice or hang out because I “had to go to Hebrew School.” In my early years at religious school, I loved studying Jewish history and learning Hebrew. Unfortunately, the kids whom I had befriended there began making fun of me for liking the learning too much.
I was teased for going to religious school by my secular friends, and teased for liking religious school by my religious school friends. The result? I hated going to religious school, and I thought that being Jewish was the most uncool thing I could be.
One day, my class in secular school was studying world religions and our teacher asked if any parents had connections to houses of worship that could host field trips. My father was the president of our synagogue at the time, so he got in touch with my teacher and organized a class trip to our shul, Temple Ohabei Shalom in Brookline, MA. Leading up to the trip, I was filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Deep down, I was afraid that all of the kids who teased me for going to religious school were going to see this as an opportunity to disrespect the temple building and/or the temple staff – let alone me. I remember being very nervous when I got on the bus with the class for the field trip.
Upon arrival, the Religious School director spoke to our class about what it means to be Jewish, (cue the usual middle school snickering and banter, nothing too alarming.) Then we were brought into the sanctuary. The sanctuary at Ohabei boasted a towering and stunning gold dome with beautiful architectural ornaments and carved columns. Upon entering, my secular school class became hushed, and I realized how many beautiful memories I had experienced in that space: sanctuary sleepovers that we called “shul-ins,” B’nai mitzvah, and services with my family. I had been going there every year since I could remember.
We took our seats and our cantor, Robbie Solomon, walked out onto the Bima. He greeted the class and began to sing the call for people coming up to bless the Torah. His voice filled the room; the glimmering radiance of his melody reverberating within the cavernous sanctuary. As I looked around at my secular school classmates, they all sat transfixed, mouths agape, eyes wide open.
After we left the sanctuary, I heard the excited murmur of my classmates, the same ones who had been making fun of me for going to religious school. “Did you hear that guy singing? That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.” Did you hear how his voice filled the room? I didn’t know a person could sing like that.” “When he sang, I felt so peaceful.”
I never forgot that day. The power of music, specifically Jewish prayer singing, was significant enough to change people, if even for a moment. None of the people who were making fun of me in regular school knew much about Jews or Judaism, and yet they still viewed it negatively. When they heard the music, however, they briefly dropped their prior convictions and stopped their teasing. They confided in me that what they heard had changed them.
My decision to serve the Jewish people through music grew in large part from that particular moment of challenge and uncertainty. A melody from a cantor was able to transcend the negativity and bias that a group held towards Jewish people. I can guarantee that many of those kids grew up and forgot that experience. They forgot the feeling of peace and unity that the songs of the cantor brought. However, like me, I can also guarantee that following that day, there were some who never forgot how that cantor’s singing made them feel.
Music has the power to touch something deeper in all of us. It can bring a sense of peace, soften hearts, and create moments of connection that transcend prejudice and bias. That day in the sanctuary, my classmates experienced a shift—not just in how they saw Judaism, but in how they felt about themselves and the world around them. Singing has never been a complete antidote for hatred and ignorance. A genuine expression of spirituality through exquisite tones and melodies has never fully healed the historical and ongoing prevalence of baseless hatred. Although it has not happened yet, I dedicate my life to this work because I have faith that, someday, it will.
Shabbat Shalom,
Cantor Jake Harris
Temple Beth El of Boca Raton
