Light, darkness, and the human being

War, malice, and the oppression of ones by others—is this what the Creator envisioned? Or was harmony impossible and unfeasible from the very beginning, unfit for this earthly project?

It seems as though life has come to a standstill. Nothing is moving. We are waiting for rain at Sukkot, drowsily and anxiously scrolling through the news, collectively experiencing the tribulations of our country, which are many—too many. We are praying and despairing. We are following our ambitions, wishing ourselves and others happiness—abstract, nebulous happiness, with only a vague understanding of what it truly is. We are awaiting happiness for ourselves and for the entire world created by God. Or was it created by the human being—the begetter, overreacher, outcast, genius, criminal, saint, or monster? After all, it is humans who are crafted in the image and likeness of God. Thus, much—almost everything—within us comes from the Creator.

In her charming and witty play Oh God! by Israeli playwright Anat Gov, God enters the stage. Tired, disillusioned, and disappointed, He engages in a dialogue with a female psychotherapist.

Surely, everyone living on Earth has imagined such a meeting in one way or another—a conversation with the one who set the mechanism of life on this planet in motion, created the grand universal computer, but did not account for errors and glitches, leaving them to the care of His deputy, student, and follower—humanity…

The chords of the overture help me to recreate and describe the atmosphere of the musical evening, which, like the beams of spotlights, illuminated the fundamental themes: the inner turmoil and poignant reflections of those who came to the beautiful Heichal HaTarbut hall in Rishon LeZion at the end of September, at the close of the Jewish year.

Anxiety and uncertainty have become constant companions of these days and nights: they creep into people’s plans, making them shaky, elusive, as if drawn with blurred, dotted lines. Everything seems unfinished, unreliable, sketchy. It is hard for the heart to maintain a steady, tranquil rhythm. Yet, art is invincible. It emerges like grass pushing through layers of concrete, akin to fresh thoughts piercing the cement of ignorance. Art is what is saving us. And we are saving art. Together, we grow closer to the light, to the harmonious blossoming of paradise. To the miraculous consonance of the cosmos.

We arrived at the Heichal HaTarbut hall in Rishon LeZion to listen to Genesis—an epic musical tapestry woven by composer, philosopher, and poet Baruch Berliner. He created this inspired work by drawing on the power and energetic richness of the text of the Torah.

That night, the Rishon LeZion Symphony Orchestra painted a picture—musical, auditory, and aesthetic—of the entire earthly mega-history.

Genesis is a sketch, a draft, magical living water of a grand narration. It consists of seven parts—seven parables and seven scenes—where music and the voice of the narrator illuminate, pose, and answer timeless and universal questions. Ultimately, the ability to ask and articulate questions may be the essential, most fundamental quality of human thought—a hallmark of inquisitiveness and a source of creative energy. Within each question lies an enduring childlike curiosity.

Berliner’s Genesis has already captured the interest and awakened the curiosity of many people around the globe. And now, this composition by the Israeli composer was performed at home, in his homeland. Conductor Rotem Nir led the orchestra before a hushed, packed hall.

This music, born from the greatest and most mysterious book in human history, sounds strikingly clear and simple. The melody is anything but convoluted; it is free from the composer’s self-indulgence. On the contrary, he speaks a language of tenderness, revering the miracle of creation. I hear a folk song, an ancient motet, an old Jewish melos, and a resonance of Beethoven’s power—a cipher of boundless harmony traversing centuries. Struggle and tranquility coexist. Together, they are inseparable.

Double basses enter with a mystical, menacing rumble; violins rustle and sing, enveloping the skeleton of the bare earth, the rigid bony structure of living beings. The animation tells its own story, purring and murmuring in crimson and green— the shades of darkness and dawn, the hues of the earth. In the moving of images and the play of light, there are subtexts, hints, and fantasy. Just as blood flows through veins, so do the rays of nascent life, whose origins have never been fully explained, stretch and protrude.

The entire narrative, its symbolism and meaning, is conveyed to the audience through music, a palette of light, and the voice of the superb reader, the talented actor Rodie Kozlovsky. He has demonstrated mastery of expressive intonation, forging a vivid and profound connection to the composition.

The modulations of his colorful, magnificent voice, along with his restrained energy, dignity, and artistic talent, perfectly align with the musical dramaturgy, enhancing the message and emotional impact of the music.
Another blessed, radiant, truly precious voice left an impression on me that evening, like a luminous gem, like a pure spring stream. This was the delicate and exquisite sound of the violin played by concertmaster Eckart Lorenzen. His performance style, taste, phrasing, and ability to convey the music’s character adorned this rendition of Genesis.

The creation of the earth, the separation of light from darkness—these ornate, almost pastoral scenes were captivating and charming. Then, the introduction of humanity into this world brought a new level of dramaticism and intensity. Adam and Eve unwilling to submit and their desire to live by their own laws— is this a senseless rebellion or an unappreciated feat?’

And then comes the fall, the transgression, the terrible story, the brutal episode of Abel’s murder…
War, malice, the oppression of ones by others—was this what the Creator conceived? Or was harmony impossible and unfeasible from the very beginning, unfit for this earthly project?

God does not communicate directly with humanity anymore. We discern His presence, traits, and will in certain details, hints, the beauty of a rose, and the sound of a flute, in the eyes of our loved ones. In the ability to empathize, which civilization has not destroyed. Yet it is this very capacity, this characteristic, that frequently disappoints many of us. Thousands upon thousands can repeat but dare not answer the sacramental question: “Where is your brother Abel?” And only silence responds.

The yellow looped signs around the hall symbolize our shared fervent desire to bring back those who can still be rescued from captivity. And the orchestra concludes the tale of the first steps of the Earth, this small, cramped planet, the young homeland of humanity. There stands the young conductor, Rotem Nir, excited and humble. Searching. Uncertain of the answer. Questioning. A youth facing an ocean of stars and waves. Continuing the creation of the world.

Author: Irina Sheykhatovich.
Source: salat.zahav.ru