From the Bimah: Jewish Lessons for Life Temple Emanuel in Newton

Yizkor sermons tend to be challenging for rabbis because we give a lot of them.  We say Yizkor four times a year.  If you do the math year after year, that is a lot of Yizkor sermons, and what is there new to say?  What is there to say that we haven’t said before?  That you haven’t heard before?

I wish we had that problem again this year.  Unfortunately we don’t.  This is a Yizkor with an entirely fresh angle.  The last time we said Yizkor was October 7.  I don’t need to tell you that the months since October 7 have been, and continue to be, the most harrowing for the Jewish people, since the Shoah. What is the impact of this hard new chapter on our private Yizkor mediations now?

I want to ask you to imagine for a moment that you are one of the Israelites fleeing Egypt. And let’s be granular. I want you to imagine that you’ve been a slave for decades. That your life is dictated by the whims of a cruel pharaoh, that your days are spent lugging huge stones, that you’ve been separated from your family, kept apart so that you can work harder. I want you to imagine that after decades of hard work, you are tired. Your bones creak. Your muscles are sore. When Moshe tells you that God has heard you, that he’s going to get you out, you can’t even process that possibility. You can’t even catch your breath.

You might have stayed in Egypt, and simply enjoyed a few days off, but during this past week, Egypt has become more miserable than ever. You’ve endured water shortages, frogs, lice, hordes of wild animals, disease, hail, darkness, and widespread destruction. There aren’t enough resources to stay. And so, even though walking is the last thing you want to do, you’re marching with 3 million Israelites, following some cloud towards a “Promised Land.”

After what seems like forever, walking day and night following God’s mysterious pillar of clouds and fire, you make it to the Sea of Reeds only to hear Pharaoh’s army following behind. Wearily you race ahead, walking through the water on dry land. In terror you watch as Pharaoh’s armies give chase, and then with relief you see the waters crash down on them.

You’re safe. You’re exhausted. You’re relieved. What do you do?

Abe and Sarah have been happily married for more than 60 years. They share children, grandchildren, great grandchildren.  One fine day, Sarah says,  Abe: I’d like a banana sundae.  Would you please go to JP Licks?  Of course! It would be my privilege! What kind of banana sundae do you want?  Abe, write it down.  A banana sundae has a lot going on.  Would you please get me three flavors: chocolate chip, Oreo, and cake batter. Then whipped cream. Lots of hot fudge. With a cherry on top.  Abe, write it down.   I don’t need to write it down.  I’ve got it.  Off he goes. Thirty minutes later, he comes back, smiling and triumphant.   Sarah, I got you just what you wanted! A dozen hot, fresh bagels. And delicious plain cream cheese, which you always love. Abe, I told you to write it down. I told you you’d forget.  I don’t want plain cream cheese.  I want cream cheese with scallions.

This is an old joke that my father in love used to tell, but the older I get, the more I realize that this joke is no joke.  This joke has a deep pathos.  The pathos that Abe is not the person he used to be. The pathos that Sarah is not the person she used to be.  The pathos that their decline does not have an answer or a happy ending.  The pathos that their children, grandchildren  and caregivers are increasingly going to be called upon to help get them through their days safely.  The pathos that their life is going to be changing in ways that they would not have chosen and cannot control.

Abe and Sarah’s 60-year love story has complexity to it.  A lot of joy. A lot of love. A lot of rich shared history. A lot of what matters most in the world.  And a lot of pain and loss.  How do we think about the totality of their story—and of ours?  How do we make sense of not only the happy parts but also the rough patches?

This morning we are trying to make sense of two things that have their own cycle, their own rhythm, their own ups and downs—and that at first blush do not seem connected but in fact deeply are.  The first is Through the Decades membership in Temple Emanuel for folks who once celebrated their Bar or Bat Mitzvah here, as an adult or as a teen, and are still connected to our community.  The second is the outburst of hatred on college campuses directed against Israel and the Jewish people.

This year, on the 8th day of Pesach, we will say Yizkor. In a recent clergy conversation as we were planning out this class, Michelle asked the simplest and most profound question, one I had never thought about before. Why do we not say Yizkor for fallen ideas and ideals? For broken hopes and dreams?

If we did, there would be so much to say Yizkor for this year. Think of all the ideas and ideals that have fallen since October 7. Think of all the hopes and dreams that feel utterly vanquished.

Michelle’s question shined the light on a simple fact: we only say Yizkor for dead people, not for dead ideas and ideals. We say Yizkor for parents, spouses, children, siblings, friends—people. We don’t say Yizkor for a peace process that feels terminally derailed; for a sense of pre-October 7 normalcy in Israel; for the rise of eliminationist Jew hatred on college campuses throughout our country; for the golden age of American Jewry that is either over or seriously threatened; for democracy in our own country and throughout the world that feels so very tenuous.

Why not? What wisdom is encoded in our holiest and wisest sources for how to think about ideas and ideals, hopes and dreams, that feel not realizable in our lifetime?

April 23, 2024

Do you remember where you were last Saturday night when we learned that Iran was firing more than 330 drones and cruise missiles into Israel? Shira and I spoke to several Israelis, and they used three words to describe last Saturday night.

One word was apocalyptic. We spoke with an Israeli woman living in Boston who spoke to her Israeli sister living in Tel Aviv, and the sister said the sirens are blaring, we are going into the bomb shelter, and I do not know what will be on the other end of this attack, whether Israel will be, whether we will be. Please know that I love you. The Israeli sister who received this called it apocalyptic. Can you even imagine what it would be like to make or to receive a call like that? Thank God, Israel and Israelis survived. Thank God, there were no fatalities from Saturday night. But the Israeli sister who went with her three young children and husband into the bomb shelter did not know that at the time, nor did the Israeli sister in Boston.

Then there was a second word: surreal. We spoke with our brother and sister-in-law in Jerusalem. They said the night was surreal. When the sirens were sounding, they went to their safe room where they could not sleep. When the sirens were not sounding, since they could not sleep anyway, they cleaned their kitchen for Pesach for the umpteenth time. Their kitchen has never been so clean. And the morning after, it was over, the missiles and drones had been shot down, the sun was shining, and people went about their Sunday, seemingly as if they had not been attacked by 330 drones and missiles. Surreal.

And then a third phrase, courtesy of Micah Goodman. Radical uncertainty. There is radical uncertainty about the narrative that best captured Saturday night and its aftermath.

One plausible narrative: This was an evening of miraculous strength and success for Israel. After all, virtually all 330 drones and missiles were shot down by Israel’s defense systems, and by Israel’s partnership with its allies--America, England, and other unnamed regional partners. They worked in concert to produce a biblical miracle. 330 fiery agents of death, zero deaths.

But there is a second narrative, also plausible. Israel was attacked by Iran in a brazen way. Israel’s citizens were forced to scurry to shelters. This time they emerged okay, who knows about next time.

Which leads to the next radical uncertainty: what to do next?