Today is about endings. This day on the Jewish calendar is known as Shemini Atzeret. The word Shemini means 8th, but the word עֲצֶ֣רֶת is mysterious. No one knows exactly what it means. One possible meaning of the Hebrew root word, atzar, is “to hold back” or “detain.” Another is “to stop.” There are some obvious connections between these two meanings. This holiday, of course, is the conclusion – not only of the Sukkot festival, to which it is directly linked in the Torah, but also in many ways of the entire High Holy Day season.
In fact, some commentators argue that Shemini Atzeret is – as my friend, contemporary commentator Emily Jaeger colorfully puts it – like a private after-party. Rashi imagines God as a king who throws a large banquet. After all the other guests start to leave, the king urges his beloved children to stay one more day, too painful is the thought of parting with them. Following the lengthy and exhausting weeklong rager that is Sukkot – which according to some traditions is meant to be a holiday for all of humanity – and at the end of an intense High Holy Day season that keeps us in close proximity to the Divine for the better part of a month, God asks us, the Jewish people, God’s most cherished guests, to linger a little longer (Rashi, commentary on Lev. 23:37).
We all know the line made famous by the band Semisonic (though actually first uttered by the first-century Roman philosopher Seneca), “every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” Sometimes, endings are opportunities to move forward and set out in new directions. Yet sometimes, endings hold us back; they can detain us, leaving us frozen in time, tethered to the past, uncertain of how to move forward, or where to go next. Grief can envelop us, even paralyze us.
Many of us feel this acutely this year. You may recall that Shemini Atzeret is, according to the Hebrew calendar, the first anniversary of the tragic events of October 7; the holiday forever marred by the memory of all that was lost on that dark day. It is, of course, fitting that we traditionally recite Yizkor, the memorial service for lost loved ones on Shemini Atzeret; from this moment forward, it will be impossible not to include those who were murdered on October 7th and in the subsequent war when we recite Yizkor on Shemini Atzeret.
And so today, on this first yahrtzeit of that Black Sabbath, and as we recite Yizkor, I want to invite us to think about what it might mean for us to remember all that we lost one year ago today, especially since the trauma has continued to unfold every day since – in the subsequent, and now widening, war that has claimed the lives of countless thousands; in the fact that over 100 Israelis are still being held hostage by Hamas, their whereabouts and wellbeing unknown; in the fact that numerous hostages have already been killed in captivity; in the fact that the war has unleashed a torrent of antisemitism that threatens our people all over the world – with no end in sight, and no clear pathway forward.
In such a time as this, it is worth considering and reflecting on the actual words we recite as part of the Yizkor service. First, we actively recall our loved ones. This is important, because it reminds us right away that remembering is not a passive act. True, sometimes a memory will pop into our minds, uninvited, perhaps even unwanted. But the kind of remembering we do today is active; we deliberately call to mind our lost loved ones – not to make ourselves feel sad, although this might be a consequence of the act, and taking opportunities to truly confront our pain can be an important part of the grieving process – but rather to pray on their behalf, that they continue to find tranquility in paradise, enveloped in God’s eternal love, thereby decentering our own sorrow and placing our attention on another’s wellbeing.
We continue on this path – reminding ourselves that death need not be the end, that one ending can be a new beginning, an opportunity for breaking through the stasis, pushing past our grief, refusing to despair or let ourselves be paralyzed by our pain – by pledging to perform acts of kindness and pursue a more just society in their honor, perpetuating their place in the world by embodying their values. In this way, we insist, their soul will be bound up in the bonds of everlasting life, and affirm that their memory will be a blessing – that they will forever remain part of of our lives and part of our world as we repair the world in their honor and through their guidance and inspiration, that it is upon us to actively ensure that their lives will continue to play a role in making our world a better place.
And then we recite “yitgadal v’yitkadash shmei rabah,” may God’s great name be magnified and sanctified, an assertion that God’s greatness only exists theoretically, in potential, awaiting our deeds, “b’hayeihon uv’yomeikhon uv’hayyei d’khol beit Yisrael / through our lives and our days and the lives of the whole House of Israel.” Only through our own concerted action can we make God’s majesty manifest in the world, leading ultimately to a world that is as perfectly peaceful as heaven itself: oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu, v’al kol yisrael, v’al kol yoshvei tevel. When we recite the Kaddish, we not only affirm God’s greatness – we remind ourselves that God’s presence in the world is contingent upon our actions — our lives, our choices, and our commitment to embodying divine values.
Of course, none of this changes the reality of our loss. Translating our sorrow into action, our memories into movements, can’t raise the dead. But that doesn’t mean we are powerless to bring more life into the world. Facing the fact of our own brokenness can be paralyzing. Or it can be energizing, reminding us that there are repairs to the ruptures of our reality that we indeed can make.
My teacher, Rabbi Sharon Brous, recently shared the wisdom of Amos Oz, the legendary Israeli literary giant, who was also a “great warrior for peace.” Oz was once asked, “considering all that has been broken, and all the grave challenges of our time, what should we do now? Here’s how he answered: [There’s] a fire, and the flames are big and horrific. Every one of us has to choose what to do when confronting a big fire. You can run for your life and leave those who can not run to burn, because unfortunately they cannot run. You can write an angry letter to the editor blaming those who started the fire. But you can also take a bucket of water and pour it on the fire. And if you don’t have a bucket, use a glass or a cup. And if you don’t even have that, use a teaspoon. Every one of us has a teaspoon. Fill it with water and throw it in the fire.”
In this time of immorality and irrationality, we can be voices of reason and conscience our world so desperately needs.
In this era of “competitive victimization,” we can open “our hearts with compassion and curiosity,” seeking “to add more light than heat,” and to stay at the table, and in the tent, with one another when we disagree (Brous, “A Hope Born From the Depths of Sorrow”).
In this time of soulless tribalism and callous, reflexive, nationalism, we can recommit ourselves to loving both our Jewish family – not always easy – and simultaneously to uphold the Torah’s demand that we also and equally love the stranger. We can, in Rabbi Brous’ words, cultivate hearts capacious enough to hold the anguish of Palestinian and Israeli mothers who have had to bury babies over the past year. We can pray for the release of the captives, for the safety of the brave young people fighting to protect innocents, for all war-weary families; for an end to war, for a just and peaceful future for Palestinians and Israelis, and for the protection of all human life.
Indeed, we can do more than merely pray. Rachel Goldberg-Polin, mother of Hersh – whose brutal murder in captivity just a few short months ago serves as a stark reminder of the stakes involved in our pursuit of justice and humanity – prayed in her powerful eulogy that Hersh’s death might “be a turning point in this horrible situation in which we are all entangled.” But Rachel, as we all know, is matching the words of her mouth and the meditations of her heart with the marching of her feet and the works of her hands.
Indeed, many of those wielding teaspoons against the raging fires of this moment are, like Rachel, themselves bereaved. Some are themselves former hostages. Some still have family in captivity. “Some [are] Palestinians [who have] had family members who were killed in Gaza or in the West Bank” (Brous). These courageous advocates for a different future model for us what it looks like to transform pain into purpose, to honor the memories of those we have lost by actively working to create a world worthy of their legacies. They could and should be among the most paralyzed by grief. They certainly have ample cause to despair. Instead, they have picked up their teaspoons, and have headed toward the fire, convinced that the best way to honor their loved ones’ memories is to transform them into forces for repairing the world.
We can do our part by joining our voices with theirs – as well as platforming and supporting those Israelis and Palestinians who are, each and every day, working fiercely for a different future – advocating for Israeli and Palestinian leadership worthy of their respective people and responsive to their highest ideals and most audacious longings; refusing to accept the inevitability of eternal enmity between Jews and Muslims, Israelis and Palestinians; defying the current path of endless cycles of bloodshed; giving birth to a new hope out of the “blood and ash” of the broken present; reminding us all that bitter conflicts have ended in the past, and this one can, too.
True, Rabbi Brous points out, “these voices are not exactly normative.” At least not yet. But we can help make it so. “One teaspoon of water [may be] powerless in the face of a raging fire. But we must remember, and keep reminding one another: we are not just one teaspoon. As Oz said: The teaspoon is very small and the fire is very large. But there are many of us, and every one of us has a teaspoon. [So what can we do? This, Oz continued, is...] my simple answer to this question. I do what I can as a teacher, as a writer, as a neighbor, as a citizen to pour some water on the flames of hatred and incitement and fanaticism and bigotry and prejudice. I have words and I use words. My words are my teaspoon.” Likewise, each of us has our own teaspoon, whatever it may be; our own tool to do our part “to put out this fire. Some [of us] will write, and some will preach. Some will donate. Some will speak up at the dinner table, or at the board meeting. Some will gently reach out to friends” and show them how to have a heart “big enough to hold all this heartache and humanity.” We all have a role to play. As Jonathan Polin, Hersh’s father, prayed in his eulogy for Hersh, “May his memory be a revolution.”
Today, we affirm that to mourn and to remember in our tradition is to make a revolution – to rebel against the status quo, to refuse to accept as inevitable the oppression and bloodshed so pervasive in our world, to insist that what today seems impossible is just a thing that hasn’t happened yet, and to recommit ourselves to the work of forging a future unburdened by our past. We honor those we have lost by dedicating ourselves to their ideals and values, committing ourselves to justice, compassion, and healing; creating a world worthy of their legacies.
As we recite Yizkor today, let us remember — not just with our words but through our deeds.
Let us honor the memories of those we have lost by recommitting to the work ahead, rededicating ourselves to pursue a world that reflects the values and ideals of those we have loved and lost, recalling that each and every act of justice, each gesture of kindness, every drop of water in each of our teaspoons, sanctifies and magnifies God's presence in the world, advancing a world suffused with God’s goodness, a hallowed and heavenly peace.
May the memories of our loved ones inspire a revolution. May our remembering be a revolution.
And may we continue to build a world worthy of those we cherish.
So may it be God’s will. Amen.
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