Parshat : Ha’azinu

The Song that Bears Witness
October 3, 2025
Deuteronomy 32:1-52

Dear Fellow Congregants and Friends,

I have to admit—this passage has always struck me as unusual, even unsettling. Here is Moses, the greatest prophet, the man who spoke with G-d face-to-face, the leader who gave his entire life to guiding a stubborn, restless people through the wilderness. And what does G-d give him on his final day? Not thanks. Not comfort. Not even reassurance. Instead, G-d gives him a bleak prophecy:

“Your people will stray. They will abandon Me. They will suffer. And you, Moses, will not even enter the Promised Land.”

Is this fair? After forty years of unrelenting service, after enduring rebellion, complaint, and loneliness, is it not cruel to fill Moses’ final hours not with gratitude but with dread for the future of his children? Was this punishment—or was it, in some strange way, a gift of truth and endurance?

To answer that, we must look back to last week’s portion, Vayeilech. There, G-d first tells Moses bluntly: “When you are gone, the people will turn away.” It is the sort of revelation no leader wants to hear—that your life’s work will begin to unravel the moment you depart.

But Ha’azinu transforms that hard truth into something lasting: a song. Instead of leaving Moses in despair, G-d gives him words to pass down—poetry that would not be forgotten. Laws can be broken, leaders can die, sermons fade into memory. But a song endures.

Why a Song?

I struggled with this question myself and had to do some research to understand what others said about it. Why, of all things, a song?

Before putting my thoughts down on paper, I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of G-d’s final words to Moses. On the surface, it seemed cruel and unfair, given all the years of devoted service. So, I did what others do now: I searched the internet for classical Jewish Scholars who wrestled with this question. Here I found the writings of Rashi. It turns out that Rashi—Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki—was an 11th-century French commentator whose insights remain the backbone of Torah study nearly a millennium later. His explanation? The song is a legal witness. When Israel strays, Ha’azinu itself will stand up in court and testify: “You were warned.”

Then I discovered the writings of Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra, also known as Ibn Ezra, a 12th-century Spanish sage, poet, and rationalist. His perspective was different: songs are remembered more easily than sermons. By setting the covenant into poetry, G-d was ensuring the people would never forget.

And here’s where the commentary came alive for me personally. Earlier this summer, traveling through Spain and Portugal with my family, we traced the roots of Jewish life in the Iberian Peninsula. Along the way, we came across some of Ibn Ezra’s poetry—remnants of the Golden Age of Jewish thought. It was moving to see how music and verse have always been our people’s lifeline.

So perhaps Ha’azinu is not punishment at all. Perhaps it was G-d’s way of saying to Moses: “You cannot walk into the Land, but your song will. You cannot remain with them, but your voice will.”

The Bleakness and the Hope

Ha’azinu is not an easy listen. It speaks of arrogance in times of prosperity, of G-d hiding His face, of calamities that will befall Israel. It is brutally honest about human weakness.

And yet—woven through its verses is unshakable hope. The song insists that G-d will never utterly abandon His people. He may discipline, He may hide His presence, but He will not erase Israel. In fact, it is precisely in the dark moments—when Israel feels scattered, defeated, even forsaken—that the song calls them back, reminding them they are never alone.

This is the paradox of Jewish history. We are the people who can sing even in exile. Who can recite psalms by rivers of Babylon, who can whisper Shema in ghettos and camps, who can sing Hatikvah after 2,000 years of wandering. The bleakness of Ha’azinu is real—but so is the hope that emerges on the other side.

What Does This Mean for Israel Today?

Modern Israel embodies Ha’azinu in real time. We have seen triumph and terror in a single generation. The State of Israel was born out of the ashes of the Shoah, a miracle of renewal after the darkest chapter in Jewish history. It has become a land of prosperity, innovation, and resilience.
Yet, the song reminds us: prosperity can lead to complacency. Security can tempt us into arrogance. And enemies still surround. Ha’azinu teaches that the story of Israel is not uninterrupted triumph but survival against all odds, a covenant carried forward through both blessing and crisis.

We need only look at the last two years to see this truth. After the horrific attacks of October 7, 2023, the world witnessed an unprecedented wave of global support for Israel and the Jewish people. It felt, for a moment, like nations remembered our suffering and stood with us. But in shockingly little time, that support gave way to something else: the greatest rise in antisemitism in the modern era. From the halls of academia to the streets of Europe and America, the old cycle of suspicion, scapegoating, and hatred resurfaced.

Ha’azinu tells us this is not new. We have seen it before. And we will outlast it again. The covenant stands.

What Does This Mean for the United States?

The United States has been, for centuries, a promised land for Jews. A place where we flourished, free to be both American and Jewish without contradiction. But Ha’azinu warns that abundance carries its own dangers. “Jeshurun grew fat and kicked” (32:15) is not only Israel’s story—it can become America’s too.

When wealth dulls gratitude, when freedom erodes into division, when moral clarity gives way to polarization, a nation risks forgetting its covenant with history, with justice, and with G-d.

And here too, the aftermath of October 7th offers a chilling lesson. America was among the first to stand firmly with Israel, and yet in our own cities and universities, Jewish students, professionals, and congregants have faced open hostility and fear. It reveals how fragile the “song” of the covenant is when memory fades and complacency sets in.

Ha’azinu reminds us that America, like Israel, must choose: will it treat its blessings as entitlement, or as trust?

What Does This Mean for Ocean Reef and Our Community?

And here at Ocean Reef? Surrounded by beauty, prosperity, and community, we live with extraordinary blessing. But Ha’azinu presses us too: do we see this only as comfort, or as responsibility?

The Reform tradition tells us that covenant is renewed through acts of compassion, justice, and inclusion. The Conservative tradition insists that covenant survives through memory, discipline, and continuity. Both together remind us that Ocean Reef is not just a haven of luxury—it is a place to build covenant, to sing our song, to hand down values that will endure long after we ourselves ascend our own Mount Nebo.

Antisemitism: The Old Cycle, the Eternal Song

Ha’azinu also speaks directly to the cycle of antisemitism. The pattern is as old as Jewish history: Jews are welcomed, they prosper, they help build societies—and then, in times of fear or envy, they are rejected, scapegoated, expelled, or worse.

This is the story of Spain’s Golden Age, Germany before the Shoah, Russia under the Czars—and, heartbreakingly, it is becoming the story of our own era. We thought the lesson of the Holocaust was “Never Again.” Yet today, antisemitism rises unchecked, normalized in ways that would have seemed impossible only a decade ago.

Ha’azinu reminds us: this cycle may repeat, but our faith cannot falter. We may face rejection, but the covenant is never broken. We may be hated, but the song is not silenced. Faith and memory are our eternal response.

Closing Reflections

At first glance, Ha’azinu feels unfair. G-d did not thank Moses with comfort, but instead burdened him with a vision of his people’s failures. Yet perhaps this was the deepest act of trust. G-d knew Moses could face the truth honestly and still leave his people with a song. A melody that would outlast him, a witness that would carry them through exile and return, blessing and hardship.

And maybe that is the lesson for us as well. Life will not be free of cycles—prosperity and arrogance, welcome and rejection, blessing and calamity. But the song of Ha’azinu teaches us that the covenant endures. That even when G-d’s face feels hidden, His presence is not erased. And that our response to every exile, every wave of hatred, every challenge, is to keep singing.

This week, we also stand at another threshold. We have just emerged from the holiest day of the year—Yom Kippur. We fasted, we prayed, we asked forgiveness. And now, with the book of life newly inscribed, we face the unknown challenges of this year.

The timing is not accidental. Ha’azinu is read in the very days after Yom Kippur, when we are freshly aware of our frailty, our failings, and also our potential for renewal. Just as Moses left his people with a song to guide them, we too leave the sanctuary of Yom Kippur with words and prayers to carry us into the year ahead.

What will come for Israel, for America, for our Ocean Reef community? We cannot know. But we do know this: the covenant is our anchor, the song is our guide, and our prayers bind us together in faith, courage, and hope.

And so, we close with the ancient words for peace, understanding, and unity:

עֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו הוּא יַעֲשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם עָלֵינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל וְעַל כָּל יוֹשְׁבֵי תֵבֵל.

Oseh shalom bimromav, Hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu, v’al kol Yisrael, v’al kol yoshvei tevel.

May the One who makes peace in the heavens make peace for us, for all Israel, and for all who dwell on earth.

Shabbat Shalom

Michael L. Weiss, Ph.D., ABD., HCCP

President, Congregation Ocean Reef