The mystical tradition certainly did. And it saw music not just as entertainment, but as a profound pathway to the divine.

The Tikkunei Zohar, a later, expanded section of the Zohar—that foundational text of Jewish mysticism—dives deep into this. Specifically, Tikkunei Zohar 103 explores the role of music in a time of ultimate redemption. It envisions a moment when all kinds of music will be awakened.

The verse it uses as a springboard is Psalm 150:3-5. It's a joyous explosion of sound: "Praise Him with the shofar blast, praise Him with lyre and harp, praise Him with timbrel and dance, praise Him with stringed instruments and flute. Praise Him with cymbals, praise Him with resonant cymbals."

But here's where it gets really interesting. The Tikkunei Zohar doesn't just take this verse literally. It sees it as a coded message, a map to understanding the relationship between God and the Shekhinah.

So, what is the Shekhinah? It's the divine feminine presence, the immanent aspect of God that dwells within creation. Think of it as God's "footprint" in the world, the part of the divine we can most readily connect with.

According to the Tikkunei Zohar, the shofar—that ram's horn we blow on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur—represents the "Higher Shekhinah." It’s a symbol of divine power and sovereignty. But the "blast" of the shofar, the teq’a, is the "Lower Shekhinah."

Why is this distinction important? The text links the teq’a to a verse from Genesis 32:26, where it describes how "the thigh socket of Jacob was dislocated—teiq’a—in exile." See the connection? The "blast" of the shofar, the Lower Shekhinah, is associated with exile, with separation, with a sense of being broken.

It's a powerful image. The sound that's meant to awaken us, to call us back to God, is itself marked by the experience of exile. It's as if the music carries within it the pain and longing of a world that's not yet whole.

What does it all mean? Well, the Tikkunei Zohar suggests that the music of redemption isn't just about joyful celebration. It's also about acknowledging the brokenness of the world, the exile of the Shekhinah, and the work that still needs to be done to bring about healing and wholeness. It is acknowledging the pain as a necessary part of the process.

The music, then, becomes a vehicle for tikkun olam, repairing the world.

Think about that next time you hear a piece of music that moves you deeply. Maybe it's not just about the melody or the rhythm. Maybe it's about something much bigger, something ancient and profound, something that connects you to the divine, to the Shekhinah, and to the ongoing work of bringing redemption to the world.