Haftarah
Isaiah 61:10-63:9
In another voice
Hook
Imagine stepping out of the late-summer heat of a Mediterranean or Middle Eastern afternoon into the cool, stone-walled sanctuary of a Sephardic synagogue on the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah. The air carries a faint, lingering hint of jasmine and rosewater. Around you, the congregation is not merely listening to the prophetic words of the Haftarah; they are leaning forward, their voices rising and falling in a collective, melodic swell.
The Torah scroll, housed in an ornate, shimmering wooden and silver cylinder—the tiq—has been returned to the Hehal (ark) to the tune of an ancient Spanish or Arabic melody. Now, the Hazzan (cantor) prepares to chant the final of the Sheva de-Nehamata (the Seven Haftarot of Consolation) from the book of Isaiah 61:10-63:9. As the first notes leave the Hazzan's lips, the congregation joins in, transforming a reading of ancient exile and redemption into a living, breathing tapestry of communal survival.
This is not a dry recitation of history; it is a dramatic, sensory re-clothing of the Jewish soul. Isaiah’s promise of "garments of salvation" and "robes of righteousness" is made tangible in the very textures, sounds, and memories of the Sephardi and Mizrahi heritage.
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Context
To understand how this spectacular prophecy of consolation became the emotional peak of the pre-Rosh Hashanah liturgy, we must ground ourselves in three distinct dimensions of the Sephardi and Mizrahi world.
The Place: Aleppo (Aram Soba) and the Levant
Our journey begins in the ancient city of Aleppo, Syria—historically known in Jewish tradition as Aram Soba. For centuries, Aleppo was a bustling hub of the Silk Road, where East met West, and where Jewish life flourished under the tolerant, culturally rich umbrella of the Ottoman Empire. The synagogues of Aleppo, such as the legendary Central Synagogue (which housed the sacred Aleppo Codex), were spaces of intense musical and spiritual cross-pollination. Here, the Hebrew language did not live in isolation; it danced in close partnership with the classical Arabic musical system known as the Maqam. The prophetic words of Isaiah were not merely chanted; they were interpreted through the complex, emotional microtones of Levantine music, turning the synagogue into a palace of sacred art.
The Era: The Post-Expulsion Ottoman Renaissance (16th–18th Centuries)
Following the catastrophic expulsion of Jews from Spain in 1492, tens of thousands of Spanish exiles (Megorashim) settled throughout the Ottoman Empire, integrating with the indigenous Arabic-speaking Jewish communities (Musta'arabim). This era witnessed an unprecedented renaissance of liturgy, mysticism, and poetry. In the Galilean mountain city of Safed, kabbalists like Rabbi Isaac Luria (the Ari) and the great poet Rabbi Israel Najara revolutionized Jewish worship. They viewed the exile of the Jewish people as a cosmic displacement of the Divine Presence (Shechinah). Consequently, the prophecies of Isaiah in Isaiah 62:4-5, which speak of the land no longer being "Forsaken" but "Espoused," were read with an intense, mystical urgency. The Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah became the ultimate moment to sing the world back into alignment, preparing the bride (Israel) to meet her Groom (God) on the New Year.
The Community: The Guardians of the Pizmonim
In the Sephardi and Mizrahi world, the division between "secular" and "sacred" music was beautifully porous. The community developed a vast repertoire of pizmonim—sacred songs of praise set to the popular melodies of the surrounding Arab, Turkish, or Persian cultures. These songs were sung at the Shabbat table, at weddings, at circumcisions, and during the early morning hours of the Sabbath in the practice of Baqashot (petitionary songs). The community members were highly musically literate; they knew which musical mode (maqam) corresponded to the emotional theme of the weekly Torah portion. When Isaiah spoke of the bridegroom adorned with a turban and the bride bedecked in her finery, the community sang these verses using the very same melodies they sang at their children's weddings, binding their personal family joys directly to the national redemption of Israel.
Text Snapshot
The emotional heart of this Haftarah lies in its opening verses, where the prophet shifts from describing the restoration of the land to describing an ecstatic, internal transformation of the human spirit.
Biblical Text: Isaiah 61:10
"I greatly rejoice in the LORD, my whole being exults in my God—who has clothed me with garments of triumph, wrapped me in a robe of victory, like a bridegroom adorned with a turban, like a bride bedecked with her finery."
The Malbim’s Insight: The Anatomy of Joy and the Two Garments
To appreciate the depth of this text, we turn to the classical commentator Rabbi Meir Leibush ben Yehiel Michel (the Malbim, 1809–1879). Though born in Eastern Europe, his analytical commentary became highly esteemed in Sephardic study halls for its precise, grammatical, and psychological insights.
In his commentary on Isaiah 61:10, the Malbim unpacks a subtle redundancy in the Hebrew text: why does the prophet use two different verbs for joy (shosh asis and tagel nafshi), and two different names for God (YHVH and Elohai)?
The Malbim writes:
"Shisah (external rejoicing) refers to the outer actions performed to demonstrate joy, whereas gilah (exultation) is the internal joy of the heart over a new, unexpected goodness that one did not even hope for until now."
He goes on to explain that the name YHVH represents the transcendent Creator of all, while Elohai (my God) represents personal, intimate, and specific divine providence. When Israel returns from exile, they will experience a double joy: an external, visible celebration of God's universal power (shosh asis ba-YHVH), and an internal, quiet ecstasy of the soul realizing that this infinite God is intimately involved in their personal lives (tagel nafshi b’Elohai).
Furthermore, the Malbim distinguishes between the two types of clothing mentioned in the verse: the "garment of salvation" (beged yesha) and the "robe of righteousness" (me'il tzedakah):
- The Beged (Garment): The Malbim notes that a beged is an undergarment tailored specifically to a person's exact measurements. This represents individual salvation—the precise, customized ways in which God rescues each person from their unique struggles.
- The Me'il (Robe/Cloak): A me'il is a large, flowing outer cloak that wraps around all other garments. It is not tailored to one size; it is visible to everyone from afar. This represents the public recognition of Israel's righteousness. When the nations of the world look at the Jewish people, they will see them wrapped in a magnificent cloak of truth and justice, throwing off the false accusations of history.
Rashi’s Insight: The Priest-Bridegroom
Our understanding of this majestic wardrobe is further enriched by Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, 1040–1105), whose commentary is a staple of Sephardic Torah study (Tafsir and Mikraot Gedolot).
On the words "like a bridegroom adorned with a turban" (ke-hatan yekahen pe'er), Rashi makes a striking connection:
"Like a bridegroom who dons garments of glory like a high priest."
The Hebrew word yekahen shares a root with Kohen (Priest). Rashi points out that the bridegroom's festive headwear is not just a fashion statement; it mimics the mitznefet (turban) worn by the High Priest in the Temple. In the Sephardic imagination, every bridegroom on his wedding day is elevated to the status of a High Priest, entering the Holy of Holies of his new home. When God redeems Israel, He does not merely bring them back as citizens; He consecrates them as a nation of priests, dressed in the luminous garments of divine service.
Metzudat David: Wrapped in Redemption
The commentary of Metzudat David (compiled by Rabbi David Altschuler in the 18th century) beautifully synthesizes this imagery of divine protection:
"That is to say, God has surrounded me with salvation and righteousness, like a garment that surrounds the body, and like a cloak that completely wraps the one who wears it."
For the Jew singing these words in Aleppo, Casablanca, or Baghdad, this was not abstract poetry. To be wrapped in God's righteousness was a physical reality. It was felt every morning when they wrapped themselves in the woolen folds of the tzitzit-fringed Tallit, and it was sung with pride in the face of the often harsh realities of life in the diaspora.
Minhag/Melody
In the Sephardic and Mizrahi traditions, a text is never fully understood until it is sung. The liturgy of the Shabbat preceding Rosh Hashanah is a masterclass in how musical modality can unlock the deepest theological meanings of a prophetic text.
The Maqam of the Week: Maqam Rast and Maqam Hijaz
In the Syrian Jewish liturgical system (which is widely practiced today in communities from Brooklyn to Buenos Aires, Geneva to Jerusalem), each Shabbat is assigned a specific maqam (musical mode) based on the theme of the Torah portion or the emotional character of the season.
For the combined portion of Nitzavim-Vayeilech, two primary maqamat compete for dominance, each bringing a different emotional texture to Isaiah's words:
Maqam Rast: The Sound of Foundations and Majesty
Rast is the "father" of all Arab musical modes. In Arabic, the word Rast means "right," "straight," or "truth." It is characterized by a bold, stable, and highly majestic sound. When the Hazzan chants the Haftarah of Isaiah 61:10-63:9 in Maqam Rast, he is emphasizing the legal, covenantal, and unshakeable nature of God's promise. The melody marches forward with confidence. The "garments of salvation" are sung with a regal, steady tone, reminding the congregation that despite the trials of the outgoing year, God's covenant remains upright and true.
Maqam Hijaz: The Sound of Yearning and Teshuvah
As the High Holy Days approach, many Hazzanim prefer to shift the Haftarah into Maqam Hijaz. Hijaz is a deeply evocative, mournful, yet warm scale that features an augmented second interval, giving it a distinctively "oriental" and soul-stirring sound. It is the musical language of longing, humility, and repentance (teshuvah).
When the Hazzan chants:
"Upon your walls, O Jerusalem, I have set sentries..." Isaiah 62:6
...the melody of Hijaz captures the aching heart of the Jewish people waiting through the long night of exile. The sentries on the walls are not just physical guards; they are the prayers of the Jewish people rising through the night. The microtones of Hijaz allow the Hazzan to weep through the notes, turning the synagogue into a collective plea for the restoration of Jerusalem.
The Piyut Connection: "Ahot Ketanah" (The Little Sister)
To fully appreciate the musical environment of this Shabbat, we must look at the transition from the Sabbath into Rosh Hashanah. In Sephardic and Mizrahi communities worldwide, the very first prayer sung on the eve of Rosh Hashanah—before the evening service (Arvit) begins—is the magnificent piyut Ahot Ketanah ("The Little Sister").
Written by Rabbi Avraham Hazan Girondi in 13th-century Spain, this liturgical poem is structured around the image of Israel as a "little sister" who is sick, vulnerable, and yearning for her beloved. The poem's refrain at the end of each stanza is a powerful plea:
"May the year and its curses come to an end..."
But in the final stanza, as the transition to the new year occurs, the refrain dramatically shifts:
"May the new year and its blessings begin!"
The thematic links between Ahot Ketanah and our Haftarah are profound. Isaiah speaks of Jerusalem no longer being called "Forsaken" (Azuvah) but "I delight in her" (Heftzi-bah), and her land "Espoused" (Beulah) Isaiah 62:4. The piyut uses the exact same marital imagery. When the congregation sings Ahot Ketanah in the haunting, rhythmic melodies of the Moroccan, Iraqi, or Turkish traditions, they are physically enacting the transition predicted by Isaiah. They are stripping off the tattered, dusty clothes of the old year's curses and wrapping themselves in the bridal garments of the new year's blessings.
The Syrian "Pizmonim" Tradition
In the Syrian tradition, the Shabbat of Nitzavim-Vayeilech is marked by the singing of specific pizmonim (paraliturgical songs) that match the weekly maqam. One of the most beloved songs for this Shabbat is Yidid Menat Menat, composed by the great Aleppo-born poet and cantor Rabbi Raphael Antebi Taboush (d. 1918).
The song, written in Maqam Rast, praises God as the ultimate "Friend" who heals the brokenhearted. During the communal Shabbat lunch, families gather around long tables laden with meze (small appetizers), stuffed grape leaves, and kibbeh. Between courses, they sing these intricate, multi-part songs. The elders teach the younger generation how to modulate from Rast to Hijaz, ensuring that the theology of hope is passed down not as a set of dogmas, but as a shared musical language.
Contrast
While the message of Isaiah is universal to all Jewish communities, the way this Haftarah is experienced in the Sephardi/Mizrahi world presents several beautiful, respectful contrasts to the Ashkenazi tradition.
The Musical Philosophy: Maqam vs. Steiger
In the Ashkenazi tradition, the Haftarah is chanted using a standardized system of cantillation marks (trope or neginot) that follow a specific, historic musical scale (often referred to as a steiger or prayer mode, such as the Adonai Malach or Magen Avot modes). The reading is generally soloistic; the maftir (the person called to read the Haftarah) chants the text while the congregation listens quietly, occasionally correcting a mispronunciation.
In contrast, the Sephardic and Mizrahi approach views the ta'amim (cantillation marks) as a flexible framework that can be adapted to the chosen maqam of the day. The Hazzan does not merely read; he improvises within the rules of the maqam, adding vocal ornamentation (tarnim), dramatic pauses, and emotional coloring. Furthermore, the congregation is highly active. When the Hazzan reaches key verses of comfort, such as:
"As a youth espouses a maiden, your sons shall espouse you..." Isaiah 62:5
...the entire congregation will sing the verse aloud together, transforming the solo chant into a powerful, choral declaration of faith.
The Ritual Atmosphere: Somber Introspection vs. Festive Royalty
The weeks leading up to Rosh Hashanah in the Ashkenazi world (the month of Elul) are characterized by a solemn, deeply introspective atmosphere. The blowing of the Shofar at the end of morning services and the reciting of Selichot (penitential prayers) in the days immediately preceding Rosh Hashanah are designed to evoke a sense of awe, trembling, and existential humility.
In many Sephardic and Mizrahi communities, while the gravity of judgment is certainly felt, the dominant note of Elul is one of festive royalty and loving closeness. Selichot are recited for the entire forty days of Elul, starting from the first day of the month. Because this practice is so prolonged, it becomes a regular, rhythmic part of daily life.
By the time the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah arrives, the community has been waking up before dawn to sing poetry for weeks. Consequently, the Haftarah's imagery of the bride and groom is met not with anxiety, but with a joyful sense of anticipation. The synagogue is decorated, people wear their finest white clothing, and the service is conducted with the celebratory energy of a wedding feast. The transition to the New Year is approached with the confidence of a beloved child returning to a loving parent, as expressed in the final verse of our Haftarah:
"In love and pity it was He who redeemed them, raised them, and exalted them all the days of old." Isaiah 63:9
The Physical Torah: The Tiq vs. The Mantel
A striking visual difference lies in the physical presentation of the Torah itself. In Ashkenazi synagogues, the Torah scroll is wrapped in a soft velvet mantle (mantel), which must be slipped off before the scroll can be unrolled.
In most Sephardic and Mizrahi communities (with the exception of the Spanish and Portuguese Western Sephardim), the Torah is housed in a rigid, cylindrical wooden or metal case called a tiq (or * תיק*). The tiq is often covered in hammered silver, gold leaf, or rich velvet, and topped with heavy silver finials (rimonim) containing small bells that chime musically as the Torah is moved.
When the Torah is read, the tiq is placed upright on the Tevah (bema) and opened like a book. The scroll is never removed from its protective, royal armor.
This physical majesty directly mirrors the imagery of our Haftarah. When Isaiah speaks of Jerusalem as a "glorious crown in the hand of the LORD, and a royal diadem in the palm of your God" Isaiah 62:3, the Sephardic worshipper looks directly at the tiq standing proudly on the Tevah—gleaming, crowned, and unbreakable. The Torah is not just a text; it is the physical embodiment of the royal majesty of the Jewish people.
Home Practice
To bring the sensory richness and spiritual confidence of the Sephardi and Mizrahi tradition into your own life this Shabbat, try adopting this simple, beautiful practice:
The Sensory Ritual of "Ma'zahar" (Orange Blossom or Rosewater)
In North African (Moroccan, Algerian, Tunisian) and Levantine Jewish homes, the transition from the mundane week to the holiness of Shabbat—and especially the transition into the High Holy Day season—is marked by the use of aromatic flower waters.
What You Need:
- A small bottle of culinary-grade Rosewater or Orange Blossom Water (Ma'zahar), easily found in Middle Eastern or international grocery stores.
- A small, decorative spray bottle or a simple bowl.
How to Practice:
- Scenting the Home: On Friday afternoon, as you prepare your home for Shabbat, spray a light mist of orange blossom or rosewater in the dining area. The bright, sweet, citrus-floral scent instantly elevates the atmosphere, shifting the brain from the stress of the workweek to a state of expansion and joy.
- The Blessing of the Senses: Before the Friday night meal, or during the Havdalah service at the end of Shabbat, pour a few drops of the flower water into the palms of your guests and family members. Invite them to rub their hands together and inhale the scent.
- The Intention (Kavanah): As you breathe in the aroma, recite the traditional blessing for sweet-smelling trees/shrubs:בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה׳ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם בּוֹרֵא עֲצֵי בְשָׂמִים.*"Blessed are You, LORD our God, Sovereign of the universe, Who creates fragrant trees."*
- The Connection to Isaiah: Reflect on the words of Isaiah 61:3: "To give them a turban instead of ashes, the festive ointment instead of mourning, a garment of splendor instead of a drooping spirit." Let the sweet scent be a physical reminder that you are stripping off the "ashes" of the past year's worries and wrapping yourself in the "garment of splendor" for the year to come.
Takeaway
The Sephardi and Mizrahi heritage teaches us that prophecy is not meant to be read in a flat, monotone voice. It is meant to be lived, tasted, and sung.
When we engage with the words of Isaiah 61:10-63:9 through the lens of the Aleppo pizmonim, the psychological depth of the Malbim, and the royal majesty of the tiq, we discover a profound truth: redemption is not just a future event; it is an active state of mind.
As we stand on the threshold of Rosh Hashanah, let us carry the confidence of the Hazzan chanting in Maqam Rast. Let us throw off the dusty, tailored garments of our individual worries, and wrap ourselves in the magnificent, universal cloak of communal hope.
May the old year and its challenges fade away, and may the new year, with all its melodies, fragrances, and blessings, begin.
Tizku L'Shanim Rabbot—May you merit many beautiful years!
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