Introduction: The Final Verse of Shir HaShirim
Gentlemen, I want to open today with something that perhaps we have never stopped to consider. We are approaching a discourse called "HaYoshevet BaGanim" (She who dwells in the gardens), and the name of this discourse is taken from a verse — but not just any verse. It is the second-to-last verse of Shir HaShirim (the Song of Songs):
You who dwell in the gardens, friends are listening to your voice; let me hear it.
Stop for a moment and think. Shir HaShirim — "the Song of Songs which is Solomon's," the Holy of Holies of all the Writings, in the words of Rabbi Akiva — this entire scroll is one great love song between the Holy One, blessed be He, and Knesset Yisrael (the Community of Israel). And how does it conclude? Not with a kiss, not with a wedding, not with "and you shall live by them." It concludes with a request. A small request, almost whispered: "Let me hear it." Let me hear your voice.
And I ask you: is this not strange? A complete love, a love of thousands of years, and in the end — longing? In the end someone is still pleading, "Let me hear you"? As if he had not yet heard?
The Contradiction Within the Verse Itself
Now let us enter within, for this verse — even before we reach the maamar — already contradicts itself. Listen carefully.
On one hand it is written: "companions hearken to your voice". That is to say, there is already an audience. These companions — whoever they are — are already standing, already hearkening, already hearing the voice. The voice is already heard! And immediately afterward, in the same breath, comes the request: "let me hear" — let me hear it.
So what is this? If the companions are already hearkening to your voice, why is there still a need to request "let me hear"? Who here is lacking the voice? After all, it is already in the air. And it does not end there. Who even are these "companions"? Why are they separate from her — she dwells in the gardens, and they only "hearken from outside"? And why specifically "in the gardens", in the plural, and not a single garden?
Hear me well: every word here is a riddle. "She who dwells" — who dwells? "In the gardens" — in which gardens? "Companions" — which companions? "Hearken" — if they already hearken, what is the problem? And "let me hear" — who is requesting, and why does he still need to request?
This is not a verse. This is an ambush of questions.
Why Specifically at Ne'ilah?
And I want to add another layer, because here is where the beauty begins. Notice when these words are spoken.
We have an instinct — when something concludes, we speak grand words. A closing speech. A declaration. "This is how I loved you forever." And instead, at the very moment of closing of the entire love song, what do we hear? A thin voice, almost pleading. A father who longs for his child. A husband who longs, after all the years, for the voice of his wife.
And grasp this contrast, because upon it stands the entire discourse: here is a situation in which, seemingly, everything is complete — "friends are listening," the voice is heard, the congregation is arranged — and precisely there, within that very completeness, someone says: No. This is not what I want. That voice which I hear — I do not want it. "Let Me hear" — I want a different voice. A voice I have not yet heard.
Which voice do you already hear, and which voice are you still asking for? That is the question. And in the answer to it — I promise you — is hidden one of the most beautiful ideas in all of chassidic teaching about what prayer even is, and what the Holy One, blessed be He, wants from us, here, from the Jew who sits below "in the gardens."
What We Are About to Discover
So let us summarize where we are heading, so that you'll know what you're waiting for. Because this entire discourse, ultimately, comes to crack open two points.
The first point: who is this "one who dwells in the gardens," and what does it say about us — about every Jew living his ordinary life, down here, in this world, "in the gardens," seemingly far from the King. Chassidus won't let us read this as a romantic tale about a distant love. It will turn it into something that happens within your own heart, today, in the Shacharis prayer.
And the second point — the great one: what is the difference between the voice that "the friends listen to," and the voice of "let me hear it," which the Holy One Himself asks to hear. Because here, my friends, lies hidden the difference between ordinary service — beautiful, orderly, "fine" — and service that shakes the heavens. Between a voice that is enough for the friends, and a voice that is enough for the Father.
In the coming lessons we will enter into the words of the discourse itself, and we will see how it takes this small verse — the final whisper of Shir HaShirim — and turns it into an entire compass for life. But take the question with you already now: which voice of yours has already been heard enough — and which voice are you still holding inside, and have not let out?