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Memory and Membership

Yizkor Yom Kippur 5772 By Rabbi Mark Greenspan
It's hard to believe that it's been a decade since I first joined the Oceanside Fire Department. Frankly, over the past year, I havent been a very good firefighter, making far below the percentage of calls one needs to be a member in good standing. Because I'm the chaplain, they cut me some slack. Last spring, I asked to be down-graded to from Class A to Class B firefighter, which means I can help outside at fires, but I can't run into burning buildings any more. It was probably a good decision given my age and the fact that I've never been as brave as my fellow firefighters! Recently, I started wearing my pager again so I can make calls. It's no easy feat when you have 24/7 job. Still, I miss the thrill of being on the truck on the way to a call and those few minutes before and after a call when the guys would come together in fellowship and banter in the firehouse. A firehouse is a little like a family, with the members caring for one another, teasing one another, coming together in a pinch, and sometimes bickering like a family. If I've learned one thing over the past decade, in the fire department, it is that shared memories makes us a community. When we're together in the fire house, we often reflect on past experiences. A discussion might begin, "Remember when" or "Back in 85, we were on our way a signal ten when..." These memories make us laugh and sometimes they're more somber. There is a sense of kinship contained in these memories even if one wasnt yet a member in 1985. When one becomes a member of a firehouse, one learns to tell the stories and own them. As a member of the department you not only need to know what to do at a fire but you have to learn the history that has shaped your department. Shared memories are an important part of Judaism. Recently, on Shabbat morning, we read Parshat Ki Tavo. It contains a description of the Bikkurim, or the First Fruit ceremony. Early each summer, our ancestors would make their way to the Temple in Jerusalem with the first fruits of their harvest. After presenting the fruit to the priest, each person would make a statement, summarizing Israel's history and they would give thanks for the good land and fertile crops which God had given them. This is the only place in the Torah where we find such a verbal declaration in conjunction with a Temple offering. Commenting on this passage, Dr. Jeff Tigay points out that the essence of the Bikkurim ceremony was not the giving of the first fruit but the declaration. The ceremony was an opportunity to review Israel's shared history and acknowledge that their good fortune was a gift from God. Maybe that's why this declaration migrated from the festival of Shavuot to the Passover Seder after the temple was destroyed. The words which our ancestors recited on Shavuot, "My father was a wandering Aramean; he went down to Egypt few in number, and there he became great, numerous and mighty nation..." became the central sections of the Passover Haggadah! The Yom Kippur liturgy also contains a shared narrative. We not only recite prayers and confess our sins on Yom Kippur but we tell a story. In the Avodah service, we recall the priestly rite of atonement which took place in the Temple in ancient times, and we recite Eleh Ezkerah, the Martyrology, the stories of martyrdom and Kiddush Hashem, personal self-sacrifice which our ancestors underwent. Through these stories we learn that atonement comes at a price: it's more than just saying "I'm sorry." We become a link in the chain as we recall how our ancestors atoned for their transgressions and

renewed their lives in the face of adversity. The Machzor becomes a history book filled with triumph and pain. It reminds us that we are part of a grand and glorious history. Yom Kippur is all about the stories and experiences we share: that is what makes us a community. Stating one's shared history, whether one does so in a firehouse, while sitting in synagogue, or at home is a way of creating a sense of belonging. It is also a way of expressing a sense of group responsibility. It is a way of saying "we are a family." I suspect that every family does this in one way or another: we have shared stories and secrets that set us apart from others and make us who we are. On special occasions we get together and reminisce. Sometimes we dont even have to state the whole story; a simple allusion and everyone in the group shakes their heads knowingly. For a traditional Jew, a morning does not pass that one does not state our shared history with all other Jews: we recall the Exodus from Egypt as part of the daily service. In the Shacharit service, we say, "You rescued us from Egypt; You redeemed us from the house of bondage. The first born of Egypt were slain; your first born were saved. You split the water of the sea..." Beyond its theological implications, our liturgy is a way of saying that we are one family, with a shared history and common memories, with a story that we all tell. That story is not just a story; it has implications for how we live. It expresses values and ideals. It challenges us to think about the type of people we should be. But what happens when a group of people no longer share a common story? What happens when we dont know our own story because no one ever shared it with us or we're simply not educated? What happens when we disagree about our story or find ourselves uncomfortable with it? Some years back, author Anne Roiphe wrote a book called A Generation Without Memory: A Jewish Journey in Christian America. The book grew out of an article she had published in The New York Times entitled ''Christmas Comes to a Jewish Home.'' In this earlier article, Roiphe celebrated the joys of Christmas trees, singing carols and Santa Claus and told how one Passover, when she heard the story of the plagues and the fate of the Egyptians at the Red Sea, she left the table out of sympathy for the victims. Needless to say, there was an avalanche of letters to the Times by people outraged by her article. To her credit, Roiphe began to explore her Jewish roots. But the problem is even more complicated. Even among those who 'know' the story of the Jewish people and our more recent history, there is little agreement these days about how to tell the story. We Jews disagree with one another because we no longer have a shared narrative. We tell our story differently from one another, and emphasize different aspects of our history. For Orthodox Jews, Jewish history began at Sinai and for Reform Jews it all begins with the prophets. For Conservative Jews, history is all about the sages and their ability to be innovative in their interpretation of Jewish law. For Hasidic Jews the essence of our story revolves around the Baal Shem Tov. For most American Jews, history began with their immigrant grandparents crossing the Atlantic Ocean and throwing their Tefillin overboard when they arrived in New York Harbor. Narrative creates identity. So I wonder, do we have a common story? Even the Holocaust and Israel are no longer 'shared story.' There's a battle going on in the Jewish world these days about what the story of Israel should be. Depending who you ask, you'll hear a different version of what these events mean for Jewish life. The "traditional" narrative is all about the precariousness of Jewish survival. In this narrative, Jewish existence, both in Israel and around the world, is threatened by imminent danger. In this narrative you either support Israel or you're against her. There's no room for criticism - heaven knows, we have enough enemies who are seeking to attack and delegitimize the Jewish state. In the other narrative, Israel is a great experiment in creating an ideal Jewish society built on the ethical and Jewish values When Israel is mistreats its minorities or is guilty of excluding non-orthodox Jews from

the religious establishment then Israel's soul is imperiled. For these people, what's the point of having a state that is not a "Mamlechet kohanim v'goy kadosh - a nation of priests and a holy people? So we have two versions of contemporary Jewish history: in one Israel is imperiled from without and in the other, Israel is imperiled from within. Do you see how powerful and how divisive stories can be? There are two groups in the Jewish communities these days who simply cannot 'hear one another.' The right wing accuses the left of being anti-Semites and the left wing accuses the right of being fascists. If we are to survive, we need to listen to one another and acknowledge the truth in each other's narratives. Maybe we need to create a new narrative; we need to redefine our shared history. These are issues we need to explore - they are crucial if we are to understand the significance of Israel in the contemporary world - and also the role of Israel in our lives as Jews. In a few minutes we're going to recite Yizkor. This, too, is a time to reflect and recall our personal story. Each of us comes here with our own unique story but we share a common narrative of sorrow and grief. Loss unites us. It is for this reason that I love sitting with families prior to a funeral listening to them tell the story and struggle with their memories. Sometimes I wonder if two siblings raised in the same household, had the same parents, their stories are so different from one another. And unfortunately sometimes families simply can't talk to one another anymore - their family story is so different that they simply can't even agree to disagree. We have a hard time listening to one another un-judgmentally. One way or another, these stories we tell shape our character. We make choices how will we remember those who have been part of our life. Some of you have heard me tell this story before. Some years back I attended a 'silent retreat' for rabbis. Can you imagine sixty or seventy rabbis sitting around silently meditating for five days? I know; its unbelievable. In any case we did it - not even davenning together as a minyan. Each day, however, we would bring our Tallit, Tefillin and prayer book to a common room where we would silently pray together. Except I couldnt pray. There was one person on the other side of the room who came down each morning with two pairs of Tefillin. You see, there are two types of Tefillin: Rabbeinu Tam and Rashi. And very, very, very, pious Jews put both on each day, one after the other. So this young guy would put on one pair of Tefillin and then about half way through his davening, take them off and put on the other set! And as I watched, I got angrier and angrier - who did he think he was with two pairs of Tefillin! He didnt look pious enough to be wearing Rabbeinu Tam Tefillin. But I couldnt talk so I just bristled as I watched him pray. Finally, the retreat ended. As we went around greeting one another for the first time, I walked over to this two-pairs-of-Tefillin wearing fellow, introduced myself, and I asked: Tell me - why exactly do you put on two pairs of Tefillin? He said: A few years ago my wife and I tried unsuccessfully to have a child. We went to doctors and tried everything. Finally, someone said: go see a certain rabbi from Israel who's visiting New York. He's known to be a 'wonder worker.' So I did. The rabbi suggested that I begin putting on Rabbeinu Tam and Rashi Tefillin every day. Last week we celebrated our daughters first birthday" I was mortified. But you know, that little incident was the most important thing that happened to me at the retreat. I was humbled by the fact that I was so judgmental of others. And I realized that I judged this man based on a narrative I invented for him. Once I heard his story, I saw him differently. Not only that but once I heard his story - I saw myself differently as well. We need to listen to one another's stories and we need to share our stories as well: the stories that make us a people, not just a religion. The story of our spiritual journey toward Jewish identity and enlightenment. Our family stories that often bring us together and sometimes divide us. And our

congregational stories. There is a story about why we are here and how we became a congregation. Too many people who join synagogues these days do so as consumers - having taken what they want, they walk away. But that is not how a community is built. Together we build memories and share memories. We come together to celebrate our memories. As we recite Yizkor I hope that our stories will bring us closer together. And I hope they will inspire us to grow larger, and more connected to the world around us. Join with me as we recite the Yizkor service.