This neglect of Adon Olam is exacerbated by some of the melodies that accompany it

The Shabbos morning davening seems to have come to an end: Adon Olam is being sung, the men are folding their tallisos and chatting, and most of the congregants are slowly filing out of the shul.

A handful, however, remain in their seats; for them, the davening is not really over. Adon Olam is being sung, and since they realize that this apparently simple song contains the basic teachings of Judaism, they join in.

Does this ditty really contain basic teachings? Is this pretty little song, usually relegated to be led by a cute little boy, truly fundamental?

Listen, however, to the words. The very first line contains a pillar of our beliefs about the nature of the Creator: “asher malach b’terem kol yetzir nivra [Who reigned before anything was created].” These familiar words, mumbled thousands of times by young and old over the decades, refer to the eternity of the Creator Who was always present and had no starting point.

This is a principle difficult for humans to grasp. Mortals can hardly understand the meaning of immortality. Transient beings who are here today and gone tomorrow cannot imbibe the idea of something that was always present and had no beginning. But this is precisely what is concealed in the ineffable Name of G-d: the yud and the hei and the vav and the hei represent hayah, hoveh, v’yihyeh, “He was, He is, and He will be.”

This parallels a later, familiar line: “v’acharei kichlos hakol, levado yimloch, Nora [at the end of time, when all has ceased to be, only He will remain, the Awesome One].” And it continues, alluding to the ineffable Name: “Hu hayah v’Hu hoveh, v’Hu yihyeh b’sifarah [He was, He is, and He will be in His glory].” This is the meaning of eternity: without a beginning, without an end. He always was and always will be.

This hymn, song, poem, statement of faith — it is all these — ends on a high note: “b’Yado afkid ruchi, b’eis ishan v’a’irah [Into His Hand I entrust my soul when I sleep and when I awaken].”

Here we have a major statement of Jewish faith, but in many synagogues around the world, it is completely ignored, serving merely as background noise as we rush out after davening. Deep thinking about the Omnipresent and the Omniscient One will have to wait; the cholent is getting cold.

The issue is not our disinterest in matters theological, though that may be a factor. The issue is — as Rav Moshe Chaim Luzzato writes in his introduction to his classic Mesillas Yesharim — “ki l’fi rov pirsumam, kach hahe’elam meod, v’hashikchah rabbah” — i.e., the more something is widely known, the more it is ignored and overlooked.

Perhaps familiarity does not always breed contempt; but familiarity, if we are careless, can frequently lead to neglect and to dulling routine. This is an ever-present (omnipresent without the cap!) risk in human relationships in general and in our davening in particular.

The frequency of certain tefillos like Ashrei or the Shemoneh Esreh or the Shema attests to their importance. Shema carries with it the Biblical injunction to recite it “when you lie down and when you rise up,” and Ashrei and Shemoneh Esreh are the twin pillars of prayer and are recited three times each day. Their very ubiquity is a signal that they require special effort and kavanah. In truth, one can discover constant newness in them if one listens carefully to them, whereas the occasional prayers like, say, Hallel or Bircas Halevanah or Bircas Hachodesh, are infrequent and therefore do not require renewed effort.

Any prayer that is recited regularly — such as Aleinu or Bircas Hamazon — is a prime candidate for the abyss of routine and rote unless we are attentive and vigilant. The very fact that Adon Olam not only closes the Shabbos davening but is found at the very beginning of the daily Shacharis should jolt us into a realization of its prime significance.

This neglect of Adon Olam is exacerbated by some of the melodies that accompany it. Some bear an inane kindergarten rhythm; others recall the beat of a merry dance. Only occasionally does the form follow function, and does the music reflect the profundity of the words. It is rather ludicrous to refer to infinity, eternity, and timelessness to the tune of a nursery-school ditty. A modest suggestion: Take a moment simply to read Adon Olam minus any melody.

In any case, we will surely be forgiven for the incongruous music, and there are worse transgressions than leaving shul during Adon Olam. Nevertheless, renewed attention to and respect for this key poem will surely add meaning to our davening, and exaltation to our neshamos — especially in this season of return to our Creator.

And, though I cannot speak for Him, I suspect that the Adon Olam Himself might be very pleased as well.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1078)