Calling

Rabbi Neil Sandler

Senior Rabbi. Ahavath Achim Synagogue, Atlanta, GA

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April 06, 2010

The Act of Remembering and its Power

“Guess what, Neil?”

“What, Dad?”

“You’re a Kohen?”

“A what, Dad?”

“A Kohen, Neil.”

“Oh, I’m a Kohen…what does that mean, Dad?”

“It means that you, just like me and your grandfather and his father before him and his father before him and…well, you know what I mean, are a descendant of Aaron, the High Priest, Moses’ brother. Our ancestors used to be the spiritual leaders of the Israelites back in the desert as the people moved toward the Land of Israel and then in the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.”

Truth be told, I don’t ever recall my father sitting down and having a conversation with me like the one I have just described. But we may have had it…

I say that because I, like thousands of other Jews, are, according to our family tradition, Kohanim, descendants of the ancient Israelite priests. How do we know that? Because, at some point, our fathers (through whom such lineage is determined) told us so. Is it factually true that we are the descendants of our people’s earliest spiritual leaders? Notwithstanding recent studies which indicate that many people who believe themselves to be part of this priestly group, in fact, share a scientifically–and significantly genetic commonality, the factual truth of our status matters little to us. We are Kohanim, descendants of Aaron, the High Priest, because our fathers told us so, and we believe that tradition to be so powerful that we share it with our children too…and hope that they, too, will pass it on to their children.

Passing on our stories from one generation to the next is most important in the Jewish community. Doing so, of course, begins with an act of remembrance. Why do Jews remember? The answers are many and varied. Judaism fosters the awareness of a people, bound together by a common experience and fate. The act of “remembering” a collective experience, whether historical in nature and/or actually experienced by the individual, nurtures group identity. For example, did the giving of the Law at Mt. Sinai occur as described in the Book of Exodus? I don’t know. As a statement of fact, I know that I was not present. Yet, my tradition tells me that I stood at Sinai amidst more than 600,000 Israelites. As a mythic truth, I feel its power every time we read this story in the Torah as part of our annual liturgical cycle of reading the Five Books of Moses. As Jews read this foundational narrative of our people and other similarly powerful bible narratives as part of our weekly Sabbath Morning service throughout the year, our children are also present in the synagogue. In that manner, we share the story with them.

Personal testimony, a less formal means than the weekly Torah Reading, is a powerful way to tell the story to the next generation of Jews. Historians can share information about the Holocaust that fills our heads. But the stories of Holocaust survivors, in all their sometimes gruesome and always heroic detail, penetrate our hearts.

But what happens when, as will soon be the case, there are no more personal witnesses to tell the story? How will Jews tell the story of the Holocaust to succeeding generations? How will something of the power of that time in my people’s history remain intact as succeeding generations of Jews become progressively more removed from the occurrence of the Holocaust’s horrors? The answer, the key to how Jews share their foundational stories with their children and their children’s children, lies in looking, first, at the Jewish liturgical experience and, second, at how some Jewish holidays annually serve to “tell the story.”

Our sharing of the Exodus of the Israelites from Egypt is a story whose power we nurture and share with subsequent generations in both manners. First, we have incorporated recollection of the Exodus into our daily worship and, second, we have sculpted an originally non-Israelite holiday into a Jewish holiday that literally “tells the story.”

Each day, the observant Jew chants prayers that recognize God to be the One who redeemed the people Israel from Egypt. He/she recites the words that Moses and the Israelites chanted at the Red Sea immediately after (according to the Bible) God split the Sea so that the Israelites could pass through it and then caused the waters to drown the Egyptians who had pursued them. Each Sabbath evening, as the Jew chants the Kiddush Sanctification prayer over a cup of wine, he/she recognizes that this day is a “remembrance of the Exodus from Egypt.” Again, the regular and frequent offering of specific liturgy “tells the story.”

For many Jews who may not offer this liturgy so regularly, the calendar offers a holiday and particular observance where we do quite literally “tell the story”: Passover. Each year, in numbers that dwarf the observance of any other single Jewish ritual, Jews celebrate a Seder, a ritual meal at the beginning of Passover. At that meal, we utilize a book called the Haggadah, literally “The Telling,” to share the story of the Israelites’ plight in Egypt and God’s redemptive acts of the Exodus. Each year we tell the same story to our children and our grandchildren. We never tire of telling the story because it is one that speaks to our eternal obligation to free any people or anyone who is not truly free.

Jews pass on their stories to subsequent generations primarily in the three ways I have described:

1. Regular retelling and study of Torah narratives in the synagogue service;
2. Themes in daily worship; and
3. Home ritual.

I should also note the common denominator found in all three practices: communal experience. So, for example, individual study and meditation, while important in the individual Jew’s life, have not become significant ways to share our narrative throughout the ages. Narrative, a people’s (not just the Jewish people’s) foundational/central stories, is nurtured through the generations as the community and family hear it, perhaps wrestle with it and even, as on Passover, re-experience it. In this manner, Jews and other faith groups gain their calling to perpetuate their traditions.

In the Jewish community, this “calling,” rooted in sharing the story, may compel action. “Zachor,” the Hebrew word for “Remember,” is a command that captures this sacred obligation. For example, the Torah’s statement in the Book of Exodus, “Remember what Amalek did to you…,” a story about the Israelites’ first enemy when they departed Egyptian bondage, has become an archetypal story concerning enemies that threaten the Jewish people. “Remember the Holocaust” has become a searing obligation not just to remember its victims but also to act in ways to assure that the Jewish people will never again become victims. Together, “Remember Amalek” and “Remember the Holocaust” motivate Jews to do whatever they must do to assure that we will never again suffer the effects of powerlessness. By annually reading the story of Amalek in our Sabbath worship service and by commemorating Holocaust Memorial Day each year, we share this part of “the Jewish story” with our children on a regular basis.

How may the ways Jews share their stories with their children and subsequent generations, as I have described them, relate to those who observe other faith traditions? I leave that application to the reader. But as one of the world’s oldest continuing faith traditions, clearly Judaism reflects the absolute necessity of any faith tradition to find compelling ways to share its stories if it is to remain meaningful for generations to come.

We never tire of telling the story because it is one that speaks to our eternal obligation to free any people or anyone who is not truly free.