Mi Chamocha and the Power of a Good Playlist

Mi Chamocha and the Power of a Good Playlist
Senior Cantor Dan Mutlu

So in case you missed it, it’s Shabbat Shirah.

This is the week where we read the Torah portion, Beshalach, and it is basically the ancient world’s equivalent of a blockbuster action movie. It’s got plagues, a high-stakes chase scene, a miraculous escape, and, of course, the grand finale: the parting of the sea.

It’s the moment when the Israelites officially leave Egypt behind, and what’s the first thing they do after witnessing this mind-blowing miracle? They break into song. And, this isn’t just any song—it’s the song, the Song of the Sea, or Shirat HaYam in Hebrew. This is the musical number that would make even Broadway jealous. Moses and the Israelites belt out their praise, and it instantly becomes way more than an interlude, it becomes a defining moment. So distinct, in fact, that when Torah scrolls are written, the song is spaced out differently from the surrounding text, visually setting it apart. We’ll see this in just a little bit when we chant from the scroll. But this song also serves as a natural boundary in the story of our people, marking the transition from slavery to freedom, from Egypt to the wilderness, from survival to something more profound—identity. So why a song? Why not a well-structured speech or a carefully crafted essay? Well, sometimes words alone just don’t cut it.

As a cantor I may be biased, but when emotions run high—when we’ve experienced something so transformative that ordinary speech can’t contain it—we sing. Music takes us beyond logic, into something deeper, something communal, something lasting. And here’s where it gets even more interesting: The lyrics of Shirat HaYam are an intense mix of emotions. There’s a lot of celebration, but also some pretty vivid imagery like that of Pharaoh’s army sinking “like stones” or God being described as a “man of war.” Yet, when it came time to shape our Jewish liturgy, our sages didn’t put those verses front and center. Instead, they chose Mi Chamocha—“Who is like You, O God?”—a verse that shifts the focus from revenge to reverence, from destruction to divinity. They could have chosen the battle scene, but instead, they chose the awe. They chose the part of the song that lifts up God’s greatness rather than Israel’s enemies’ downfall.

This isn’t just good theology—it’s good psychology. What we choose to lift up and sing about, shapes who we are. We Jews could have let our identity be defined by what our ancestors escaped from, by our collective anger and trauma. But instead, our sages leaned into something more aspirational. The Israelites didn’t just sing about the downfall of Pharaoh; they sang about the sovereignty of God. Our sages then chose to lift up a song of liberation over a song of destruction. And that choice still shapes us today.

Think about our own prayers. Every service, we sing Mi Chamocha, not to gloat over Egypt’s defeat, but to remind ourselves that we are a people defined by praise, not vengeance. Even on Passover, when we recall the plagues, we spill a little wine—not to celebrate the suffering of our enemies, but to acknowledge that their suffering was a tragedy, one that we wish weren’t necessary. This is a powerful lesson for life. We all go through hardships. We all have obstacles to overcome, and sometimes, yes, we are tempted to put on a dramatic soundtrack as we watch our metaphorical enemies sink like stones. But what if, instead, we choose songs of hope and praise? Songs that remind us of what we are moving toward, not just what we are moving away from? Life isn’t always the grand parting of the sea.

More often than not, it’s trudging through the wilderness, trying to figure out what’s next. Choosing to sing Mi Chamocha means choosing to be in relationship to God, choosing to remember that we weren’t alone even in our people’s most frightening moments. It’s in these moments that the songs we choose to sing matter most. If we sing bitterness, we become bitter. If we sing hope, we build something better.

When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high
And don't be afraid of the dark

At the end of a storm
There's a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of a lark

Walk on through the wind
Walk on through the rain
For your dreams be tossed and blown

Walk on, walk on
With hope in your heart
And you'll never walk alone
You'll never walk alone