Audio Shiur: Parshat Emor - The Sanctity of Yom Hazikaron

Audio Shiur:
Parshat Emor - The Sanctity of Yom Hazikaron

With the rawness of Yom Hazikaron, when we honor and remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice for the State of Israel, in our minds, we search for the source of strength within the brave soldiers willing to risk and give their lives for the Jewish people. We read of the great courage of Gadi Ezra, who fell in "Chomat Magen" in 2002, and the beautiful letter he wrote to his beloved before his death. His strength must spur us to bring holiness to the world.

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Yom Ha'atzmaut in Israel vs. in the Diaspora

Even though I'm no longer an actively practicing pulpit rabbi, I remain connected to many of my rabbinic friends, and somewhat active in the rabbinic community. To that end, I receive (and sometimes participate) in a rabbinic email list, which discusses fascinating topics, issues and challenges pertinent to rabbis of all stripes.
Each year, as Yom Ha'atzmaut approaches, the rabbis begin a series of discussions about the religious observances of the day, including whether and how to recite Hallel, tachanun, and the suspension of the mourning practices of Sefirat Ha'omer. I recently wrote a response not to any particular email, but to the entire genre, as it highlighted a substantial gulf between the observance of these holidays here, and the way that we observed them in the States. Then, my good friend Rabbi David Brofsky sent a moving response, which I am also sharing. (Note: While the email list is private, I have removed any reference to members of the group, and only share my own and Rabbi Brofsky's words with his permission.)

Inevitably, it seems, each year the same discussions arise in some form. Do we recite hallel, when, with a brachah or without? Did the Rav recite hallel? What's the position of the Chief Rabbinate? I know that the questions come from a desire to adhere precisely to the letter of the law, but feel that sometimes they overshadow the true nature of the day. Instead of focusing on the nisim and yad hashem, we occupy ourselves with whether to say hallel with our without a brachah, and which rabbanim advocate what (which is sometimes also code for "is or is not a big enough Zionist").

[A certain rabbi] asked about what actually takes place here. In my religious yishuv Yom Ha'atzmaut is treated as a fully religious holiday. People came to shul on YH eve dressed by and large in white shirts (which is pretty much like Shabbat), we recited a tefillah chagigit
(without hallel), and on YH morning the shul recited Hallel with a brachah. More to the point, the davening itself had a celebratory tone - in the way that people prayed. It wasn't a rushed, weekday morning davening, but more like the relaxed davening of a minor holiday. This might have much to do with the fact that no one had to get to work. To be honest, I find myself
in an unusual situation, in that personally I don't recite the brachah, following the practice that has become accepted in the United States (as communicated from Rav Soloveitchik). But I haven't communicated this to my children, and they recited a normal hallel with a brachah - which is the accepted, universal practice here in Israel in the community where I live.
I see no reason to confuse them.

Personally, I long for a time when these discussions take a backseat to the univserval acceptance on Yom Ha'atzmaut as a religious event; when our communities will see it as such, and spend more time thanking God for the State of Israel and the sovreignity of the Jewish people in our Homeland, than allowing the nuance of ritual, as important as it may be, to distract us.

 ***********************************************************************

Rabbi David Brofsky

I would like to add a few thoughts to R. Spolter's email, which focussed on the content and experience of Yom HaAtzmaur, from the perspective of one, like R. Spolter, who lives in Israel.
To be honest, when I lived in America, I found great difficulty connecting to the religious side of Yom HaAtzmaut. Yes, my "Zionism" was solid, as was my firm belief that the establishment of the state of Israel and its continual existence is a miraculous event- the largest event to affect the Jewish people in almost two thousand years, and obviously one must give thanks to HKB"H. However, the feeling was somewhat dry, and often, I felt that Yom HaAtzmaut events were "hijacked" by who I perceived as "nationalists"- who did not necessarily emphasize the religious aspect of the say (or at least I thought then).

After living in Israel for almost two decades, I must relate the following: 
1. Yom Ha-Zikaron: There is no day similar to Yom Ha-Zikaron in the secular or religious calendar. Chazal were aware that despite the intensity of the aveilus of Tisha BeAv, Aveilus Yeshana (old mourning) is important to commemorate, and we should all merit feeling it in the depths of our soul, but it is still Aveilus Yeshana. We all know, however, that the intensity of a shiva house in which a young woman and children have lost their husband/father is far more intense than Tisha BeAv. That is Aveilus Chadasha. (New mourning) Yom HaZikaron is Aveilus Chadasha. One listens to the radio, watches the television, attends ceremonies in military ceremonies- and simply spends the day crying. If one has not personally known a soldier that was killed, or a civilian killed in a terror attack, then one is certainly connected in another way; one remembers the incident, mourns those who have lost their lives, cries for the widows and children left behind. There is nothing like it. Halavay our feelings on Tisha BeAv should be so intense; halavay the nation should mourn on our religious days of mourning as they do on Yom HaZikaron.

2. Yom HaAtzmaut: R. Spolter noted the festive mood during davening. In many religious communities, tefillot yom haatzmaut, especially hallel, are the most heartfelt of the year. For me, this reminds me of R Hai Gaon's understanding of hallel on leil ha-seder: shira. It is praise which is not imposed, like the regalim, or even lke Chanukka, which the Chasam Sofer
suggests may even be mi-deoraisa! - but rather which comes from the feelings and experiences of the kehilla. Imagine if we really felt that we were saved by the hand of God on Chanukka, or that if the salvation of Purim was still felt! Imagine if we really felt as if we had just left Egypt and were marching towards the land of Israel! Here, the niflaot Hashem (wonders of God) are apparent to all. The feeling of what was, what could have been, what could be (which we all try to feel during the tzomos and chagim during the year- as that is partially their purpose!) is felt by all. (Incidentally, one who experiences Yom HaAtzmaut in such a manner cannot fathom how one can omit tachanun on Tu B'shvat or pesach sheini, but say it
on Yom Ha'atzmaut. Similarly, one cannot understand the objection to suspending nihugei aveilus for the day- just as shiva is set aside for a regel.)

It is possible that the commemoration of Yom HaAtzmaut in chutz la'aretz should be different- as the expectation that one so intensely feel gratitude to HKB"H may not be reasonable. In addition, culturally, the American equivalents, Memorial Day and July 4, are, to the best of my
memory, days of shopping family get-togethers (also noble activities...). But I feel that rabbinic leadership outside of Israel should at least understand what these days are to a religious-zionist Israeli, and hopefully, as R. Spolter suggested, the discussion of how to make Yom
HaAtzmaut a more intensely/religiously felt holiday should take a greater role in these yearly discussions.

Unity

We've all seen the photos of stopped traffic as the sirens wail here in Israel. This morning I realized that the pictures don't really do it justice. Usually I'm alone at work at 11am. And last night, we were ready for the siren, waiting attentively at a Yom Hazikaron program in the yishuv.
But this morning, somehow, even though I knew the siren was coming, it caught me by surprise.
I was sitting at a second-floor balcony at the bank - which was quite busy this morning, when the siren sounded at precisely 11:00am. Everything just stopped. Everyone stood up, and we all bowed our heads, left to our thoughts, prayers and emotions. I actually found the shift from movement and activity to frozen silence jarring. Think about it: have you ever seen a group of people, simply standing silently at attention, not moving, not speaking? Everything just stopped, and I marveled at the quietness; the stillness of the busy bank as the siren blared outside.
As we all stood in silence. I looked down at the scene below. I saw a group of Ethiopians; two elderly chareidim, who had been meeting with a bank official at one of the desks: young Sabras and immigrants of all stripes and ages.
Over the week between Yom Hashoah and Yom Haatzmaut, for two minutes, the entire country really does stand still. Standing at the bank, I felt a sense of oneness with all of these people who I don't know; a sense of shared sacrifice and a feeling of the shared burden that we all appreciate. And I thought of the families of those who we remember on this day.
Why do we unite only for sadness? Why is it so difficult to stand together on other days of the year? Who knows.
But these silent moments give me strength. Because as much as we argue, they remind us all that if we ever need it, we will stand together as one.

Yom Hazikaron 5771 - Reciting a Blessing on the Bad

Today, the State of Israel pauses to collectively remember the over 22,800 men, women and children whose lives were lost defending, protecting and living in the State of Israel. As my son told me last night at the community program in our Yishuv, "It's very different here than it is in America." Indeed it is.
I was invited last Friday to speak on Israeli radio (Kol Yisrael, Reshet Moreshet. Click here, and then scroll down to פרפראות לתורה. Then click on the radio button. It should be up for about another week.To be honest, I was quite nervous, mostly about speaking in Hebrew, but thankfully, everything went pretty well.) I'd like to share with you one of the thoughts I mentioned on last week's parshah in memory of the souls of those who died on our behalf.

The Mishnah in Brachot makes a surprising statement:

חיב אדם לברך על הרעה כשם שהוא מברך על הטובה, שנאמר (דברים ו) ואהבת את יי אלהיך בכל לבבך ובכל נפשך ובכל מאדך. בכל לבבך, בשני יצריך, ביצר טוב וביצר רע. ובכל נפשך, אפלו הוא נוטל את נפשך.

A man is obligated to bless [God] on the bad, just as he blesses on the good, as it is written, "And you shall love Hashem your God with all your heart and with all you soul and with all your ability." (Devarim 6) "With all your heart" - [this means] with your two inclinations - your good inclination and your evil inclination. "With all your soul" - even if He takes your life.

Explaining this unusual Mishnah, Rav Ovadia of Barenura writes,

כשמברך דיין האמת על הרעה, חייב לברך בשמחה ובלב טוב ט כשם שמברך בשמחה הטוב והמטיב על הטובה

When he blesses, "The true judge" (on the death of a loved one), he must recite the blessing with joy and a glad heart, just as he blesses with joy [the blessing of] "he who is good and bestows good] on good tidings.

Intellectually, we understand the meaning of the words of the Mishnah. We comprehend that God's actions are good whether we can understand them or not. No matter how difficult or painful, we must acknowledge our inability to comprehend that which we consider "bad", and bless God not only in situations of joy, but in the terrible times as well.
But we're not intellectual people. We're emotional people. We're human. Who in his right mind has the ability to tear kriah over the loss of a beloved family member, and recite the brachah of "Dayan Ha'emet" - that God is the true judge - with the same joy, passion and excitement as if he had just bought a new family sedan? I've presided over many funerals, and at worst the blessing is recited with indifference; at "best", reciting the blessing causes great pain and anguish. Would we expect anything different? Does the Mishanah?
At the same time, perhaps Yom Hazikaron can give us one perspective into the meaning of this cryptic Mishnah.
In Parshat Emor, we read about the commandment of Kiddush Hashem, and the obligation to sanctify God's name. The Torah tells us,

וּשְׁמַרְתֶּם, מִצְו‍ֹתַי, וַעֲשִׂיתֶם, אֹתָם:  אֲנִי, ה'. וְלֹא תְחַלְּלוּ, אֶת-שֵׁם קָדְשִׁי, וְנִקְדַּשְׁתִּי, בְּתוֹךְ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל:  אֲנִי ה', מְקַדִּשְׁכֶם. הַמּוֹצִיא אֶתְכֶם מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרַיִם, לִהְיוֹת לָכֶם לֵאלֹהִים:  אֲנִי, ה'. (ויקרא כג:לא-לג)

And you shall keep My commandments, and do them: I am the LORD. And you shall not profane My holy name; but I will be hallowed among the children of Israel: I am the LORD who hallow you. That brought you out of the land of Egypt, to be your God: I am the LORD. (Vayikra 22:31-33)

While there are a number of possible interpretations to the commandment to sanctify God's name - many of them positive and uplifting - Rashi chooses a rather sobering explanation, writing:

ממשמע שנאמר ולא תחללו, מה תלמוד לומר ונקדשתי, מסור עצמך וקדש שמי. יכול ביחיד, תלמוד לומר בתוך בני ישראל, וכשהוא מוסר עצמו, ימסור עצמו על מנת למות, שכל המוסר עצמו על מנת הנס, אין עושין לו נס  

Since it says, "and you shall not profane," what is the meaning of "and I will be hallowed"? Give yourself over and sanctify my name. I might have thought this [refers only to] an individual; for this reason the verse teaches me, "among the children of Israel". And when he gives himself over, he should give himself over to die, for anyone who gives himself over on the condition of a miracle, a miracle does not occur on his behalf.

Put succinctly, the Torah expects and demands that under certain circumstances, we must be willing and ready to sacrifice our lives for the sake of God. Indeed, during too many times of persecution and suffering, Jews sacrificed their lives rather than abandon the path of God.
This year specifically, we read this parshah on the Shabbat that fell between Yom Hashoah and Yom Hazikaron. Reading these sobering words of Rashi, I could not help but think of the millions of Jews - men, women and children - whose lives were extinguished for the simple reason that they belonged to God's holy nation. They "gave themselves over" for death, and we will eternally mourn their loss and remember their suffering.
Rashi, writing his commentary, undoubtedly thought of the thousands of Jews whose lives were snuffed out at the hands of vicious Crusaders. He thought of the Jews killed in religious persecution. But it's hard to imagine that he could even fathom the murder of Jews on the magnitude of the Holocaust.

And then I thought about a second, different type of Memorial Day - Israel's Yom Hazikaron. Today, we mourn the over 22,800 Jews whose lives have been taken either in terrorist attacks, or fighting to protect and defend the State and people of Israel. One is too many - and certainly 22,800. But while the fallen soldiers of Israel also "gave themselves over" for death, never expecting a miracle for salvation, their sacrifice differs fundamentally from the Kiddush Hashem of the Holocaust. They died fighting. They perished protecting the first Jewish homeland in over two millennium. Their sacrifice has ensured the safety and security of the Jewish people. I doubt Rashi imagines this sort of Kiddush Hashem either.
And while we spend this solemn day marking these families' sacrifice on behalf of the entire Jewish nation, we offer them a sense of solace as well. They can recite "dayan ha'emet" on their loss, knowing that their sacrifice contributed to the continued growth and prosperity of Am Yisrael.
For that, we can and must give thanks to God.

Parents on Yom Hazikaron

It's been an emotionally challenging day - and I don't even know anyone who died, at least not personally.
Last night, we attended the local Yom Hazikaron commemoration. All the things that you'd expect: yizkor, candle lighting, a choir. This morning we heard the siren. This afternoon we met the Klausner family at Latrun, where guards stood by the memorial for the fallen soldiers from the tank corps.
Then, the Klausners told us that their shul was going on a tiyyul - at least that's what they called it, and did we want to join? Sure. We traveled to a yishuv called Gimzu, where we climbed to the top of the hill from which the view was fantastic. You could see Modiin to the west and Tel Aviv to the northeast, and atop the hill sat a small gazebo-like structure. It had a few picnic tables and some great breeze, and was called "Mitzpeh Yehonatan V'hashnayim" - "the lookout of Yehonatan and the Two".
Soon David Einhorn came into the hut, and he began to speak. He spoke briefly about the history of Gamzu and the hill overlooking it upon which we were standing, and the two Israeli soldiers who fell when Israeli forces captured the hill in 1948. (That's why it was called "Mitzpeh Hashnayim" - the lookout of the "two".) Then he began speaking about his son Yehonatan Einhorn, who gave his life during a battle with Hizballah during the Second Lebanon War. I won't share all the details, but you can learn more about Yehonatan here. He told a the very moving story of his son's bravery, poise and leadership, both in the battle that took his life and at other times. He spoke lovingly, proudly of his son. But it was clear that these talks, and he's obviously told the stories many, many times, serve as a form of therapy, a healing of sorts. They renamed the hilltop after his son's death, for it had been a favorite place of his during his childhood.
During his talk he said something startling. The night after his son's death, before the burial, he and his wife sat on their porch. And he suddenly turned to his wife and said to her, "You know, I've made a decision. Our children just lost their brother. They cannot also lose their father. I will not allow myself to fall into a pit of despair." And he didn't.
At that moment, I realized that there's an entire group of heroes who we don't always recognize on Yom Hazikoron. On this day we remember the soldiers and their sacrifice. But we forget about the poise and stature of the parents who sent their sons to battle. We forget their suffering, and the sacrifices they made on our behalf.
This year, the prospect of parenting a soldier somehow seems closer. I don't view the prospect of sending my sons to the army with dread. It's a privilege that generations of Jews dreamed about. But this year, I felt a greater sense of appreciation for the sacrifice that the parents of our soldiers make.
Their strength gives me strength.
May Yehonatan Einhorn's memory be blessed. יהי זכרו ברוך.

Yom Hazikaron 5769 - Remembering the Chatual Family

Yad Binyamin is a wonderful mixing bowl: Israelis (mostly) and Anglos; but even more significantly, Yad Binyamin brought in many residents of Gush Katif after the Disengagement (i.e. expulsion). I'll write more about this mix and the benefits that it brings to all of us in another post. That's not my point today.
At last night's Yom Hazikaron ceremony, the organizers dedicated part of the program to those people from the Gush (Katif - we just call it "The Gush", which many Americans confuse for Gush Etzion) who were murdered in terrorist attacks. Watching the names scroll up the screen, I found myself wishing that every name was the last one, and that there would be no more names of murdered women, men, children. Of course the number of killed stayed the same - but each name rising up that screen brings another pang of pain; another family destroyed.
Then I saw a set of names that I recognized. The Chatual family. You may not remember, but Tali Chatuel, together with her four daughters, was murdered in cold blood five years ago - right around this time of year. I remember the devastation we felt even in Michigan; the sadness and anguish and pain.
And I also remembered that I spoke about Tali and her children in shul that Shabbat - which was Parshat Emor. I would like to share that drashah with you, as I think it still carries a powerful message for each of us. You can download the drashah here.
May we elevate the memories of Tali, 34, Hila, aged 11, Hadar, 9, Roni, 7, and Meirav, 2 - through the ways we improve ourselves in their memories.

Reflections on Yom Hazikaron

Tonight begins Yom Hazikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day for fallen soldiers and others killed in our ongoing struggle for survival. This time of year brings a whirlwind of emotion; the roller coaster ride of the emotional descent to Yom Hazikaron – and the sudden climb to the heights of Yom Ha’atzmaut.

This past Shabbat, the Beit Knesset Mercazi of Yad Binyamin (my shul) hosted Rav Ya’akov Meidan, Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Har Etzion (also known as the Gush). In his afternoon shiur, Rav Meidan spoke about the way we should approach Yom Hazikaron and Yom Ha’atzmaut.
In reality, Yom Hazikaron really borrows its name from another Jewish holiday – Rosh Hashanah. As we know, zichronot – memories – play a major role on Rosh Hashanah. During our tefilah, we refer to the day specifically as yom hazikaron. We relate to God as the zocher kol hanishkachot – He who remembers all that is forgotten. We ask Him to specifically remember us “for good, and not for bad.” What then is the connection between the real “Day of Remembrance” and the modern Yom Hazikaron?
Rav Meidan suggested a natural, inherent connection between the two days. The highlight of the davening for many people on Rosh Hashanah is U’netaneh Tokef – specifically the harshest part of the poem: מי יחיה ומי ימות – “who shall live and who shall die.” As we listen to the chazzan chant that haunting tune, our minds turn to those who we lost during the past year. And we wonder: who won’t be with us when we gather again next year? מי יחיה ומי ימות? This was an especially pressing thought for me during the high holidays as the rabbi of a shul. I knew who was sick and suffering. I presided over all of the funerals during the past year. I inevitably would wonder: who will we bury this year? Who won’t be sitting in our ranks next Rosh Hashanah? Morbid? Sure. But how do you stop those thoughts?
That emotion – that dread; the fear of the unknown; the wonder of who else will join the fraternity of tragedy, Rav Meidan said, is precisely what occupies the thoughts of most Israelis as they mark Yom Hazikaron each year. As we commemorate the loss of sons, fathers, brothers, sisters, children, and parents, we also wonder about the future. On Israeli television on Yom Hazikaron, one of the channels simply scrolls a list of the fallen throughout the twenty-four hours of the day. This year we added another 122 names to the list. It scrolls slightly faster this year than it did last year. How many more names will we have to add to the list for Yom Hazikaron 5770? מי יחיה ומי ימות? It’s a chilling, frightening question.
On a more personal note, I find myself feeling very much like an Oleh – an immigrant – this year. I don’t really have a strong sense of what I’m supposed to do tonight and tomorrow. Sure, I’ll go to the memorial service in Yad Binyamin. But when I come home from work early on Tuesday (work ends across the country after a half-day), while most Israelis visit various military cemeteries to remember friends or family members, can I exercise? Is that disrespectful?
In Israel, Yom Hazikaron is personal. It’s not like Memorial Day in America – which is more about sales and bargains than honoring the military, which itself seems more distant and unconnected to daily life. Here, where everyone served in the IDF, it’s about your uncle or cousin who died in a war; your neighbor or the member of your shul killed in a bombing; or the guy who lived on your block who didn’t come home from miluim.
Never having served in the army, I don’t feel that strong connection. I don’t have a friend or fellow officer I personally know of who made the ultimate sacrifice for the country. Thankfully, I don’t have a member of my immediate family in that category either. To be honest, I’d really like things to stay that way. Sure, it’s a natural emotion – but is that selfish? On one hand, I’m rather glad to be unable to really appreciate the gravity of Yom Hazikaron. But that gladness brings with it a twinge of guilt.
Is it right to be happy to not know the pain of Yom Hazikaron?