Yom Kippur Sermon 5777

by Rabbi Jessica Zimmerman Graf

Over the summer, Elie Weisel died. He was a writer, professor, and Holocaust survivor. As a teenager, he lost everything—and started his life again.

His obituary in the New York Times explained, “In the aftermath of the Germans’ systematic massacre of Jews, no voice had emerged to drive home the enormity of what had happened and how it had changed humanity’s conception of itself and of God. Wiesel… became an eloquent witness for the six million Jews… He, more than anyone else, seared the memory of the Holocaust on the world’s conscience.”

Elie Weisel spent his life speaking about the unspeakable horrors of the Holocaust. In 1986, he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his life’s work. At that time, the Nobel Committee commended him for the universal message he taught the world. The Committee announced: “through his struggle to come to terms with his own personal experience of total humiliation and of… utter contempt for humanity" Elie Weisel became a “messenger to mankind… sharing a message of peace, atonement and human dignity.” Out of the depths of his pain, Weisel managed to teach compassion.

It is 70 years after the end of the war… the liberation of the camps… the establishment of a Jewish homeland. In the immediate aftermath, the Jewish people couldn’t talk about the horrors. For many years, the Jewish community was “frozen in silence.” (New York Times). Now, with enough distance, we have built museums and memorials to the victims of the Holocaust. We have endowed chairs in history departments at major universities to teach about what happened. We have written and directed movies about this terrible time. It’s no longer a taboo subject—too painful to address at all. In many ways, overtly and not so overtly, the Holocaust has become a profound part of our identity as a Jewish community.

We live with the trauma. are a community that sleeps with one eye open—always watchful. are very sensitive to anything that feels like a threat to us. And, we have a heightened awareness of human suffering in general. Among the lasting effects of our history, we have become careful, vigilant and compassionate.

The Shoah—the Hebrew word used for OUR genocide—is only one among many that the world has seen. Part of the legacy of our people’s suffering is a commitment to ensure that it doesn’t happen to us or to others. “Never again!” we say over and over. It is a commitment the Jewish people has made. “Never again!” means we won’t let others experience the pain of our past. This promise is part of what it means to be a Jew in the modern world. We must never forget this promise to help, even as genocide has continued to plague our world.

But—the Shoah is receding into history. As one scholar of the Holocaust recently wrote, [At this time] “‘we are moving from lived memory to historical memory.’” (New York Times) In the last decade, half of the Holocaust survivors in Israel have died. Soon, there will be none left. Anywhere. Their stories will live on only as history.

Our kids will no longer have relatives who were in concentration camps. They won’t hear first-hand accounts of courageous actions. They won’t hear stories of terrifying moments in hiding. They won’t find boxes of letters or photos, high up in a closet—a reminder of a relative murdered by the Nazis.

In some ways, allowing our excruciating history to retreat into the past feels liberating. Wouldn’t it be nice to celebrate Jewish culture and music and food—and never have to think about the murder of 6,000,000 of our people? Wouldn’t it be freeing to go to a Jewish film festival and only find movies about Jewish athletes and smoked fish—and never think about the hatred that nearly decimated our people…? Wouldn’t it be uplifting to visit Israel and think about the technology and medicine invented there—and never think about the Jewish families destroyed in Europe? If only we could wipe our history clean, we could pretend that we’ve always been a welcome part of this country—and every other country. If only it were true. But it isn’t.

The terrible story of what happened to our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents in the Shoah is inextricably part of our own story. As Elie Weisel wrote, we now have “a past that belongs to our collective memory. To forget would be not only dangerous but offensive; to forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time.” This history is ours. In some ways, it is a burden that we carry. We don’t want to be defined as victims. Can we forgive? Will we forget?

Today is the day we pause from our lives to think about forgiveness. And to wonder about its limits. What does it mean to forgive… and never forget?

A couple of years ago, the New York Times reported a rather remarkable story. As a symbol of solidarity, some young Israelis have tattooed their grandparents’ concentration camp numbers on their forearms. Yes—you heard me correctly. Some young Israelis have voluntarily tattooed their grandparents’ concentration camp numbers onto their own arms. I read the article, and then stared at the newspaper in disbelief. How could this be true?

The article begins, “Eli Sagir showed her grandfather, Yosef Diamant, the new tattoo on her left forearm… Mr. Diamant had the same tattoo, the number 157622, permanently inked on his own arm by the Nazis at Auschwitz. Nearly 70 years later, Ms. Sagir got hers at a hip tattoo parlor downtown after a high school trip to Poland…”

I tried to picture this. How irreverent. How profound.

I read on…

The young woman explained why she did this: “‘I decided to do it to…tell my grandfather’s story and the Holocaust story. All my generation knows nothing about the Holocaust. They think it’s like the Exodus from Egypt… ancient history.’” (New York Times, September 30, 2012). Ancient history??? It was merely 70 years ago. And already, it’s fading away.

On the one hand, it is good that the Holocaust is not defining us. And quite remarkable that the survivors who rebuilt their lives created a Jewish future for us to inhabit. And on the other hand, we stand, today, at a pivotal moment in our people’s story. The Holocaust and its survivors are disappearing. Now, it is up to us to keep alive the question that their existence hasn’t let us forget: What does it mean to be a Jew in a broken world?

It seems each time we hear the news, there is a report of a new—and worse—disaster-- another bombing, shooting or destructive act, borne of hatred. Some days it’s hard to feel hopeful. Some days, the world seems irreparably broken. What does it mean to be a Jew in a broken world?

First, we must never forget our own history. As Elie Weisel taught, Nothing good comes of forgetting; remember, so that my past doesn't become your future. We must be vigilant in keeping the story of the Holocaust alive so that it belongs to each of us—and to the generations ahead.

Second, it is our job to change the world. To be a Jew means to maintain an unwavering commitment to eradicating “sinat chinam”— baseless hatred—from our world (and our elections!!!). It is the most insidious and destructive of plagues. It is highly contagious and absolutely fatal. We have learned: We cannot tolerate even the tiniest bit of “sinat chinam”—of hatred that allows for evil. Our tragic history must continually remind us of that painful lesson. It is part of our inheritance.

And third, our Holocaust survivors came out of the darkest places and affirmed life by rebuilding their lives—and choosing life. Their enduring legacy—their most important lesson to us—is HOPE.

Tomorrow morning, we will read from the Torah portion Nitzavim. Bacharta b’chaim lmaan tichiey ata v’zarecha… I have set before you blessing and curse, life and death. Choose LIFE! So that you and your children will live. Even in our peoples’ darkest times—the dream of life kept us alive. Elie Weisel so beautifully wrote, “Because I remember, I despair. Because I remember, I have the duty to reject despair.” Surrounded by blessing and curse, life and death, we are instructed to choose life and never to give up hope. Judaism roots us firmly in the past but looks always to the future… to the possibility of what lies ahead.

Nearly twenty years ago, Elie Weisel wrote a letter to God, entitled, “A Prayer for the Days of Awe:”

“Master of the Universe, let us make up. It is time. How long can we go on being angry? More than 50 years have passed since the nightmare was lifted. Many things, good and less good have since happened to those who survived it. They learned to build on ruins. Family life was re-created. Children were born, friendships struck. They learned to have faith in their surroundings, even in their fellow men and women. Gratitude has replaced bitterness in their hearts.”

Tonight begins the Day of Atonement—the day of our deepest consideration of who we are and how we want to live. We think about our past—and our future…

You may know the story of Honi the Circle Maker…

One day, Honi the Circle Maker was walking on the road and saw a man planting a carob tree. Honi asked the man, “How long will it take for this tree to bear fruit?”

The man replied, “Seventy years.”

Honi then asked the man, “And do you think you will live another seventy years and eat the fruit of this tree?”

The man answered, “Perhaps not. However, when I was born into this world, I found many carob trees planted for me. Just as the generations before planted trees for me, I am planting trees for future generations so they will be able to eat the fruit of these trees.”

Bacharta b’chaim lmaan tichiey ata v’zarecha…I have set before you blessing and curse, life and death… Make your choices l’maan—for the SAKE OF—the future.

One of the most beautiful passages in ALL of rabbinic literature comes from Avot d’Rabbi Natan (31b). It is also about planting. It instructs us: if you are planting a tree and the Messiah arrives, finish planting and then go out to greet the Messiah. If you are planting a tree and the Messiah arrives, finish planting and then go out to greet the Messiah. You can imagine if this commentary had been written by a bubbie instead of a rabbi, this might have said: finish planting…then go wash your hands and greet the Messiah like a mensch.

Despite the shmutz on the gardener, the lesson is a profound one: We Jews always dream about what the world could be. That vision guides us. Even the Messiah’s arrival can wait a few minutes… Nothing is more important than planting for the future.

If there is a legacy that we have inherited from the Shoah, it is this: We must remember what happened to our people—and always, always build a better future. From the depths of darkness, those who could, created light.

They are our role models--the survivors who witnessed the Shoah and rebuilt. For them—and for all of the people who didn’t survive—their memories live through our actions. As the last of the Holocaust survivors die, we must guarantee that their memories will not. Our people’s painful history must help guide us as WE face today’s challenges. Indeed, we have inherited a precious legacy.

Elie Weisel concluded his acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize with these words:

This is what I say to the young Jewish boy wondering what I have done with his years. It is in his name that I speak to you and that I express to you my deepest gratitude. No one is as capable of gratitude as one who has emerged from the kingdom of night. We know that every moment is a moment of grace, every hour an offering; not to share them would mean to betray them. Our lives no longer belong to us alone.

G’mar chatimah tovah—may we all be inscribed in the Book of Life.