Zeh hayom asah adonai, nagila v’nismecha bo. This is the day G-d has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it. On Yom Kippur? Really? Yes, really.
Soon we will recite the words of Yizkor. Much has been written about yizkor this year in light of October 7th. I want to pause to do something else.
People come to services for the High Holy Days for a number of reasons. Some come to pray, to talk to G-d. Some come to talk to their friends. Some come to eat. Yes, break-the-fast is coming. Really. Some come to stare out the stained glass windows and reflect. Some come to hear the music. Thank you, Stephanie and Stew and the choir, Some come to hear the words of the rabbi. Yes, really. They expect them to be inspiring, uplifting, funny, entertaining. And some come to feel connected to all the generations that came before.
Connected to all the generations that came before. That’s right. We survived. We are here. That brings me joy and hope.
You, each of you, is a chain in that tradition. A link. A connection. Deep, deep connections. Some of you have experienced recent losses, within the year or even within the last month. Some of you have experienced more distant losses.
Many of you sitting in this room have memories of other people sitting in this very room. You know just where Peretz sat, or the Bursteins. You may know the story of how this congregation came to have “mixed seating”, men and women sitting together. Thank you Adeline Kohlhegan, who my husband called the original Rosa Parks.
You may be missing your spouse. You may be missing Perry and Wanda, Paul and Lynn, Marc and Suzy, Sherry, people who have moved away but still feel connected to CKI and to each of you. After the last hurricane, I reached out to each of them to make sure they were still OK, whatever OK means. Many of you did as well. And that meant the world to them. Synagogue friendships often last a lifetime, even across the miles. I reached out again this week as the hurricane loomed large in Florida, offering home hospitality to those who might need a Florida break.
Paul and Lynn are now in Northbrook, safe, although without water in Asheville, which is why they are here in Illinois. Water may not be returned to Asheville for months. Paul may come out tomorrow to help build the sukkah that he recommended that the Men’s Club purchase. That’s connected. Even before the hurricane, people have stayed connected. Opportunities like Zoom and Facebook make that much easier.
These walls and especially the stained glass seem like they share these memories. They have watched and they have listened. In addition, we chant Sh’ma Koleinu, begging G-d to hear our voice. To me when Stephanie chants the haunting tune it sounds like a gurgling bubbling brook.
Just after the Torah service, here at CKI we add Yizkor. Some people come to Yom Kippur specifically for Yizkor, to feel that connection through the ages.
Yizkor was a brief prayer added to Yom Kippur. Yom Kippur is seen as the most joyous holiday on the Jewish calendar. All the way back to the Talmud, which teaches that Yom Kippur is one of the happiest days. (Ta’anit 30b). While many may see this time period, the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur as being full of fear and trepidation. We tremble thinking about the ancient liturgy proclaiming that who shall live and who shall die. Instead, we need to find a way to see it as a time of joy.
Why? It is a chance to feel forgiveness and start fresh, free of the burdens of bad feelings, resentments and regrets. A midrash teaches that G-d gave Yom Kippur to the Jewish people with “great love and joy.” It is a chance to change and become a better person. It is a day set aside to not focus, to disconnect from the material world. At the end of the day, we leave refreshed and renewed.
And yet, even at our most joyous times, we remember those who came before. That is one of the reasons we smash a glass at a wedding. We remember the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. We miss those who could not be at the wedding.
At some point we extended the recitation of Yizkor from Yom Kippur alone to the three pilgrimage festivals: Sukkot, Passover and Shavuot. It is based on a verse from Deuteronomy, which tells us that when we make our pilgrimage to Jerusalem we are to remember and to not appear empty handed. Each person was to make a donation according to his (or her) ability. (Deut 16:15-18)
Four times a year, essentially at the turning of the seasons, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Pesach and Shavuot, we stop and pause and remember. We have three other days of remembrance. Tisha B’av in the heat of the summer. Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day and Yom Hazikron, Israeli Memorial Day that then leads immediately into Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israeli Independence Day,
Zachor. Remember. Zikraon. Remember. Remember not to forget.
There is not a fully fixed liturgy for Yizkor or even a “correct” place in the service. Too recent for that in our long Jewish history. Some do it when the Torahs are still out and the Torahs become the witness. Some do it as part of musaf in the early afternoon. Some do it just before the afternoon service. Some link the Avodah service to the martyrology and then to yizkor.
These days there seem to be four parts to Yizkor
- Some readings and prayers that set the tone for this solemn part of the service.
- Paragraphs that you recite personally remembering your own beloved family members. Specifically in our book you will find ones for father, mother, husband, wife, son daughter and other relatives and friends. And Jewish martyrs.
- El Male Rachamin, the memorial prayer that is also recited at Jewish funerals. It begins G-d Full of Mercy.
- A special prayer, Av HaRahamim (Ancestor of Mercies), probably composed as a eulogy for communities destroyed in the Crusades of 1096, is recited by the congregation as a memorial for all Jewish martyrs.
Some congregations, including ours also recite Psalm 23. And while Yizkor surpisingly doesn’t specifically require Kaddish many congregations end on that note. This means, however, that you do not need a minyan for Yizkor and it could be recited at home alone.
The prayer that intrigues me the most is that personal prayer.
May G-d remember the soul of avi mori, my father, my teacher, (name here) who has gone on to his world, because, without making a vow, I shall give to charity on his behalf.
As reward for this, may his soul be bound in the Bond of Life, together with the souls of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah; and together with the other righteous men and women in the Garden of Eden.
Acknowledging that our parents were our teachers, our very first teachers seems especially poignant. The idea that I would give tzedakah in my parents’ names seems equally important, especially on this day of Yom Kippur. In my case I might choose to give to the Nature Conservancy, The Literary Council or some other organization that my parents supported heavily. The idea that they would be rewarded in the world to come and that I would be rewarded here based on their merits is _________________
What is that reward? It is taught in the Talmud that we should repent the day before we die. The rabbis quickly ask then, but we don’t know when we will die. The answer, we should repent every day. That seems especially appropriate on this Yom Kippur morning.
Teshuvah is not just for Yom Kippur. It is for every day. It is even included in our daily Amidah prayers and in the full night time Sh’ma.
Yet, sometimes the relationships we have with our parents are not “healthy” They need healing. Or in some instances are beyond healing. Do you still need to recite Kaddish for someone like that? Rabbi Harold Kushner of blessed memory would say yes. Here is a yizkor meditation in memory of a parent who hurt by Rabbi Robert Saks:
“Dear God, You know my heart. Indeed, You know me better than I know myself, so I turn to You before I rise for Kaddish. My emotions swirl as I say this prayer. The parent I remember was not kind to me. His/her death left me with a legacy of unhealed wounds, of anger and of dismay that a parent could hurt a child as I was hurt. I do not want to pretend to love, or to grief that I do not feel, but I do want to do what is right as a Jew and as a child.”
These feelings are real. And complicated. And it is not appropriate for me to talk you out of them or to say that you are wrong or that your feelings are not your feelings.
For many of you sitting here, you may be missing a parent, a spouse, a child, a dear friend. Those feelings can be complicated as well. But there is something in choosing to remember that actually brings us closer to joy. Grief and Joy live together. Maybe that feeling is nostalgia, or pleasure or comfort at remembering those good times. Maybe it is that sense of connecting across the ages and being a chain in that long tradition. Maybe there is no perfect word in English or Hebrew. But we are here. Together. Remembering, Connecting.
The psalmist understood this as we see in Psalm 30:
Weeping may last for the night. But joy comes with the dawn. You turned my mourning into dancing,
my sackcloth into robes of joy, We will dance again, We will dance for them. Even if that means I still have to learn to dance.
In the Amen Effect, the copies of which are on the back table as part of our community read,
“the community of survivors, as the horror of the Roman conquest and all that was lost began to sink in. Many survivors and their children became ascetics. “How could we possibly eat meat,” they reasoned, “which used to be sacrificed on the Temple altar, or drink wine, which was poured as libation, when every bite and sip reminds us of the destruction?” What they were really asking: How could one even live in light of all that we’ve lost? That thinking may sound extreme, but it was increasingly normative in their time. One of the prominent rabbis in the survivor community even decreed that Jews should no longer marry. How could they think of bringing children into a world of so much pain and persecution? His view was rejected—it would have ensured the end of the Jewish people!—but his thinking persists to this day. During the past decade, I’ve heard from many young people a reluctance to bring children into the world in light of climate devastation. These conversations are painful. believe strongly that we need not to give up on the world but to invest in a healthy, resilient future. And even still, I both respect and resonate to the impulse to preempt human suffering at all costs. I really do understand. But listen to the rebuke those ascetics received from the great Rabbi Yehoshua: “Okay, no meat or wine,” he said. “But then you really ought to stop eating bread, too, because the meal offering can no longer be made after the destruction.” “That’s fine,” they said. “We can live on produce.” “Well, but you really shouldn’t eat fruit either,” Rabbi Yehoshua said. “Because the first-fruits can no longer be brought as an offering. And by the way, you really should also stop drinking water, now that water-libations have ceased.” And to this they could find no answer. Checkmate. “We’re listening,” they said. So Rabbi Yehoshua taught them, and us, a lesson about loss and life: “My children,” he said, “hear me out. You must mourn. The devastation deserves our attention and commemoration. But to mourn too much, to live in perpetual deprivation, is simply wrong. Instead, the challenge is to find a way to grieve and live.” How, though? How can we hold that tension? Rabbi Yehoshua offered some very practical guidelines: When we paint our homes, he advised, we should leave a little patch bare, unfinished. When we prepare a feast, we must leave out one delicacy. When we get dressed up, leave off one piece of jewelry. We remain always mindful of what we’ve lost, even as we build houses and eat good food, get dressed up and go dancing, fall in love and maybe even make art and babies. The moral of this story: even in the deepest suffering, there is still joy. To be alive is to see that this world overflows with blessings. Even here, even now. You grieve, and you live.”
— The Amen Effect: Ancient Wisdom to Mend Our Broken Hearts and World by Sharon Brous
This leaves me, all of us, deeply, deeply connected. This is what community does. It lightens our burden of suffering and that leads to joy. That is what this community does. This brings me hope and joy. We will dance again. We will dance for them.