Yom Ha-Zikaron Reflections.2020

Yom Ha-Zikaron Reflections

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 28, 2020

Today is the hardest day of the year for me.

I thought Yom Ha-Shoah was, and it still is in some ways.

But not like Yom Ha-Zikaron, Remembrance Day for the Fallen Soldiers of Israel and those felled by acts of terror.

The Shoah—the Holocaust—was about all of us—my parents and their parents and families, the entire Jewish People, even about all humanity. The Shoah is about the depth and desperation of human suffering, as it is also about the human potential for cruelty, the descent into hell, the purposeful turning to evil, turning a blind eye and deaf ear. Two sides of the coin of suffering: Those who suffered, and those who inflicted the pain. And we are all—the entire world—survivors, the whole shattered into pieces still waiting to be redeemed.

Yom Ha-Shoah is about the entire universe, about God, and about humanity.

But Yom Ha-Zikaron is a private, personal pain. It’s about me, and about my brothers and sisters. It’s about my homeland, and the children I grew up with, and the spirits of those who never made it past the bullet that pierced their heart. It’s about the guilt of my sitting here, in front of a window overlooking the beautiful Front Range, snow-covered mountains, and a blue sky dotted with clouds, and birds flying about their business—while my heart breaks inside me and the tears flow freely. Because I wasn’t there with them and for them; because I am here and they are not.

I know I shouldn’t feel guilty. But I don’t know how to feel anything else right now, except for intense sadness. There’s no room for anything else, no comforting, no consolation, no words of release and compassion.

People tell me that they—the fallen—would have wanted me to live, because they couldn’t; that I should laugh and love and be joyful, because they can’t. But I can’t. Not today.

I know I have dedicated my life to memory and preserving all that is good from turning into chaos. The ceremonies, the candles, the sirens, the flags at half-staff—these have transformed the grief within me into something holy. Yet it is grief nonetheless, and on this day, I walk through the door into that dark and sad room and see nothing but shades and shadows:

The children who grew up without parents, the families whose dinner tables are missing a plate; the voices booming their greetings, “I’m home!” that echo only inside our minds—these are all I see and hear right now, all that is conjured before my eyes even as I look up to the mountains, seeking my help.

And the bereaved parents. The furrowed faces with eyes no longer tearing, screams of hurt, of disbelief, of unbearable pain, no longer exploding uncontrollably, now only looking with silent longing at the faded beret; at the black and white photographs that capture an endless moment and smiling eyes that have never dimmed; fingers that caress the thorn that once was stained with a drop of blood. They look at me, startled, but see someone else. They look right through me without recognition.

But I am here.

Don’t ask of me any words of consolation today. I have none. Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, said God. But I, I have no words. I choke on my silence as the pain climbs up to my head and gathers between my eyes.  

I know that 10 thousand miles away, in my homeland of Israel, ceremonies have begun in celebration of Yom Ha-Atzma’ut, Israel’s Independence Day. I am being urged to unite in the joy of freedom and independence, while my darkness here still reigns supreme.

And Aaron was silent. I will stay silent and offer no words of comfort or even of prayer. I will sing no song of halleluyah or praise. When the time comes, I’ll step out into the light and listen the songs of joyful victory.

Because we are here, despite all, we are here.

In sadness, in pain, in grief, in hurt, in guilt. With the light so far, so far away yet.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

The "I" In Israel: Independence Day 2020

The “I” In Israel

Yom Ha-Atzma’ut 2020

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

For the Jewish People, without a doubt, the two most important—even cataclysmic—events of the last 100 years would have to be the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel.

Each has its own lengthy story. Like waves in the ocean, we only see the crests, while the actual beginning of the wave, the trough, is barely perceptible. The Shoah—or, as much of the world knows it, the Holocaust—is the culmination of two thousand years of destruction and persecution. And so is the story of Israel. Though our history as a people begins more than three thousand years ago with our first appearance in the land that now bears our name, a new volume began with the destruction of ancient Israel (then known as Judea) by the Romans in the first century of the Common Era.

Exiled from our land, our people never lost the hope of return. Through the centuries, many did return, but by and large the Land remained desolate. Jewish life—impoverished, dependent on contributions from communities in the Diaspora—centered in the Four Holy Cities of Jerusalem, Tiberias, Hebron and Safed.

For two thousand years, Zionism remained a spiritual vision and dream.

It was in the mid-1800’s, with the awakening of nationalism in Europe, along with the parallel rise of racial anti-Semitism, that Zionism took new life as a political movement.

Some would say that the creation of the State of Israel is the result of the Shoah. They are wrong; it isn’t. Though the events are interwoven—as are all strands of Jewish history—the Shoah merely proved the crucial need for a Jewish state. Israel was created to be a place where Jews could live in freedom and security, free to define and express their identity without fear of bigotry and persecution. Through the many wars Israel has fought, Jews have defended our right to live in our own homeland. Though Diaspora Jews do not always understand or agree with all domestic or foreign policies of Israel’s government (nor do many Israeli Jews, as proven by the recent political impasse and recurrent elections there), the very existence of the State of Israel has given Jews everywhere new impetus and renewed energy.

Israel has redefined the way we Jews see ourselves.

In the 72 years since the declaration of Israel’s independence, Israel has proven its worth to us and to the rest of the world a hundred-fold. Its cultural, agricultural, scientific, medical and hi-tech innovations have authenticated the Prophetic vision of “a light unto the nations.” Created to provide a haven for our people, safe-harbor to the persecuted millions of Russian Jews, Jews from Arab lands, Jews from every part of the world, the State of Israel has given new life to, and instilled new pride in, the eternal principle that Am Yisrael Chai—the People of Israel lives.

If there can be any consolation for the immense tragedy of the Shoah, it is in the fact that the State of Israel today is alive and thriving.

But Israel doesn’t live only for the sake of our people and history. Israel provides inspiration and global philanthropic aid to all peoples in need. Its institutions teach self-empowerment to women (including women from Gaza, the Palestinian Authority and countries such as Egypt, Sudan, Pakistan, Syria and Jordan). It teaches innovative agricultural methods, water conservation and soil preservation to underdeveloped nations in Africa. It is building an infrastructure of solar power all over the world. And it does all that and more while constantly shielding its citizens from countries and organizations that threaten its very existence on a daily basis, fending off acts of terror, and defending itself on the social media, on college and university campuses, and in international courts of law.

It’s important that, especially in these unprecedented times, we realize how important and relevant Israel is to our existence as American Jews. Despite the health challenges, despite the social, economic and political disruption that COVID-19 has caused in our lives, we must not lose sight of the larger perspective. We represent the latest and most recent chapter in Jewish history. We play an essential role in stories that have been unfolding for thousands of years.

Today, more than ever, our fate is in our own hands. And much of that is due to the existence of the modern State of Israel.

As we approach Israel’s Day of Independence, we need to bow our head in sorrow and gratitude for the many sacrifices that our people have had to make to reach this day. Since 1860, when Jewish settlers first began building new neighborhoods outside the secure walls of the ancient city of Jerusalem, close to 25,000 men, women and children have fallen in defense of our right to live in our own homeland.

Freedom and security are not a given, and they should never be taken for granted. We must never forget that.

“Never Again” isn’t merely a slogan.

“Never Again” is a verb.

“Never Again” is a call to action in defense of Israel and the entire Jewish People. It’s a reminder that we can never rest or hide.

Am Yisrael Chai—the People of Israel lives, and it is us.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

Working Miracles: Passover 2020

Working Miracles: Passover 2020

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In less than one week’s time we will be celebrating Passover.

The irony is inescapable, and if you’ve spent any time on the social media recently, you’ve seen the jokes about how Jews will celebrate this year, in the midst of a dreadful plague, as a reminder of how we escaped the ten plagues that were inflicted on Egypt. Or the one about guests being invited into your house by appointment, one at a time, to do a specific reading of the Haggadah and leave. Or the table set beautifully, with the Seder Plate in the center, only instead of guests we have laptops…

Yet this isn’t the first time that we’ve had to deal with extraordinary times and their implication for our holidays. In fact, the Torah (Numbers 9:1-14) specifically permits us to celebrate Passover a month late due to unforeseen circumstances such as illness or extended business travel.

Without a doubt, this will be a sadder Passover for many of us. The Seder is always an opportunity for families to come together for delicious meals and traditions that go back generations. Passover is a time to recall family stories and histories, to contemplate how fortunate we are today, a time to welcome not only the spirit of Elijah, but also the memories of loved ones at whose tables we once gathered as children or grandchildren.

But with the Corona virus still raging around the world, this year we are forced to break this tradition, whether by common sense or state law. 

This year we can add a fifth question to the famous four, the Mah Nishtana. Why is this Seder so different from all other Seders? Why are there so many empty chairs around our table this year? I am sure that as we sing this part of the Seder, all our voices will tremble in acknowledgment of this year’s gloomy reality.

Technology might help us connect virtually with our loved ones, but it just isn’t the same as being there in person.

So what answer do we give our children this year, when they ask the Four Questions? Perhaps, from deep wells of collective memory, recollections will arise of even darker times. But will that be dayenu—enough—for today’s children, who have never known want or deprivation?

Yet what better opportunity than this, to understand better the teaching of the Haggadah? We are told that in each generation, we should all see ourselves as though we ourselves had been redeemed from Egypt. How, this year, can we fail to feel the dread, the fear and anxiety that our ancestors must have felt? Our children will remember this night, of this I have no doubt. But they also need to remember the vital lessons of Passover: compassion for the disenfranchised, the alienated and excluded; empathy for those who are confined by sickness and hopelessness; gratitude for the sacrifices made by doctors, nurses and caretakers; and most importantly, the real meaning of freedom.

Freedom is not chaos. Freedom is the ability to make choices. Every day we make dozens of choices. Some are silly and even frivolous—what clothes to wear, what to eat for lunch (and how lucky that THESE are our choices…).  But there are also some choices that require more thought and reflection. Some even that might make a huge difference in our life: To stay at an unsatisfying job; to leave a broken or abusive home; to give a relationship a try, even if it means overcoming our fear of rejection.

Only weeks after their redemption, the Israelites learn an important lesson: God didn’t release them from bondage to carouse in luxury. Along with freedom comes a heavy responsibility. In Exodus 19:6, God tells them, “You will be for me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” Judaism defines holiness as the requirement to help the needy, to free the slaves, to feed the hungry and heal the sick. To me, this is the entire purpose of our existence as a People.

In this light, the Exodus from Egypt is nothing but a huge lesson.

For millennia, people looked to the miracle of the Exodus as a symbol of God’s power to intervene in history. Sadly, Jewish history has put this vision to the test many times. 

And God’s answer to all our questions?

I empowered you to do it yourselves! I showed you how to do it! I gave you a road map; I endowed you with imagination and the ability to reason and create. What else do you want?

This is what we should tell our children this year when they ask Mah Nishtana, why is this Seder so different from all other Seders.

I would tell them that the story of Passover is like the boxtop of a huge jigsaw puzzle. On all other years we get to look at the picture of the way things happened back then. Now we learn how they must be from here on. Then it was God. Today it’s up to each of us to put the pieces together. 

We free ourselves when we free others. We free ourselves when we rid the world of bigotry, ignorance and oppression. We don’t have to wait for miracles: We are the miracle workers!

We won’t forget this year’s Pesach. Not for as long as we and our children live. But we must also never forget its lessons. And next year, with God’s help, may we all celebrate a new age, a world and time rid of sickness, fear and anxiety.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman