Finding a Way to Mourn, One Year Later

Rosh Hashanah Day 2, 5785

The Talmud tells us a story. Following the destruction of the Second Temple, the number of Jews who wanted to be ascetics, to refrain from eating meat and drinking wine as a sign of mourning for the Temple, grew exponentially. Rabbi Yehoshua went to visit one of these communities and hear their arguments. He asked them “Why do you refrain from meat and wine?” They answered him “shall we eat meat, which was offered up on the altar, the altar that no longer exists? Shall we drink wine, which was offered up on the altar, the altar that no longer exists?” Rabbi Yehoshua replied “If that is true, we should no longer eat bread, which was also offered up on the altar that no longer exists.” They answered him “You are correct. But we should live off of produce then.” He replied back “But the first fruit offerings, also made upon the altar, are no more!” They responded “We will then only eat produce that was no brought upon the altar.” He asked them “What about water, since the water libation, offered up on the altar, is no longer?” After that, they were silent. He said to them “My children, to not mourn for the Temple would be impossible. But to mourn excessively is also impossible.”

In three days is October 7th. Do you remember where you were when you found out what happened on October 7th? I was here, at synagogue, getting ready for Shemini Atzeret services. Congregants started walking in and talking about a terrorist attack on Israel. I had not been on my phone, do not use electricity on Holidays, so I had no way of verifying the information. And I admit, that my first reaction was skepticism. A terrorist attack, sure I could believe that, that was sad and tragic and happened far too often, but hundreds dead? A thousand? There must have been a mix-up. Someone must have seen something and let their imagination run away with them. But as the day grew on, the sense of dread became stronger. There was no mix-up. It was the worst day for civilians in Israeli history, the largest attack on Jewish civilians since the Holocaust. By that evening, on Simchat Torah, the air was somber. No one really wanted to celebrate. We barely got a minyan, 30 minutes past our start time. There was a sense of surrealism in the air. And a sense that everything had changed.

Why did Hamas commit that crime? Why plan and engage in the events of October 7th? And we are adults here, let us not just say “because they are antisemites and hate us.” There are, sadly, plenty of people in the world who are antisemites who have not, yet, killed a single Jew. Terrorist attacks are enacted not just because of hate, are not just random lashings out, but are used to accomplish a goal. What was Hamas’ goal on October 7th? There were political goals, surely. Experts continue to debate whether Hamas believed it could actually invade all of Israel at the time (in my view, unlikely), or whether Hamas was hoping to take hostages to use in a prisoner exchange, or whether Hamas was attempting to bait Israel into a long-protracted war in Gaza. For what it is worth, I believe that that third goal was their political aim. But, as with all terrorist attacks, there was also a psychological goal. It is right there in the name. Terror. Fear. A profound sense of unease, of not feeling safe, of worrying about the future. It was an attempt to turn our moments of profound joy into moments of intense sorrow.

The timing was not coincidental. In Israel, it was Simchat Torah, one of the happiest days of the year, a day of celebrating with the Torah, of dancing, of song. Over the course of a brutal day, it was turned into a day of sadness and mourning. And that was of course the aim. To make Jews feel afraid on their happiest day. To force Jews to think twice about congregating, about celebrating, to make it so that we would constantly have to look over our shoulder, afraid on our holiest days that something terrible could happen at any time. That is the strategic point of terrorist attacks.

I could tell you, at this point, that not to celebrate, to spend Simchat Torah mourning, would be to give Hamas exactly what they wanted. Indeed, that is what I said last Simchat Torah to justify our dancing and singing. But that would not be entirely fair, or even realistic. There is no way we can simply go about October 7th, go about Simchat Torah this year in full swing of joy and song. Not when the tragedy is so fresh in our minds. Not when the war in Gaza is still ongoing. Not when there are still hostages kept prisoners in dark tunnels. True, Hamas wants us to mourn and rent our garments, but we cannot, for our own psychological needs, refuse to mourn to avoid giving them a victory. To not mourn would be impossible.

But at the same time, we must remember what Rabbi Yehoshua said after the destruction of the Temple. To mourn too much would be impossible. We could spend, and have spent, generations mourning the destruction of the Temple. But if we made it the totality of our Jewish existence, we would be letting the Romans win. We would never be able to thrive. So we eat meat and drink wine, we celebrate our holidays, we build homes, we get married. But on Tisha B’av we fast, and on our holidays in one paragraph in Musaf we mentioned that we lost the Temple because of our sins, we leave a small corner of our homes unfinished in memory of the destruction of the Temple, we break a glass at our weddings. We can never forget the Temple. But we also cannot let the memory of the Temple be all that Judaism is.

Or to bring it closer to home, think of the Yom Kippur War. I was not born yet during the war, the harshest one Israel had faced since its independence, and commenced at a time, like October 7th, intended to make Israelis and Jews feel fear on their holidays. And yet, from the earliest time I can remember, the Yom Kippur War was never a large factor of our Yom Kippur celebrations. As a child, I wondered why that was. Until I realized that the mourning and loss of the Yom Kippur War was commemorated on Israel’s Memorial Day, not Yom Kippur. We, as the Jewish people, were unwilling to give up one of our most sacred days. So we did not forget those who died during the Yom Kippur War, but found another space in our calendar to remember them.

We are not there yet for October 7th. The time is too soon, the pain still too fresh. We will feel it on October 7th, and on Simchat Torah. Those who lost loved ones on that day will always mark it as their Yahrtzeit. But neither we will, as the Jewish people, let what happened last year entirely consume our holiday. Simchat Torah is still our treasured time of rejoicing. So what can we do? Rabbi David Golinkin, a Masorti Rabbi in Israel and a much smarter Rabbi then me, wrote a teshuva recommending some Simchat Torah practices for this year. One of them, which greatly resonated with me, was to still do all 7 hakafot, periods of song and normally dancing with the Torah, but to have one of them be quieter, more somber, with sad songs and no dancing. I think this is a beautiful suggestion, one that I will be incorporating this year. It combines celebration and mourning, joy and sadness, our traditions of Simchat Torah with the realities of the day. We refuse to give up our hakafot. We will modify them. But we won’t abandon our holiday. We won’t let those who try to terrorize us win. To not mourn is impossible. But to mourn too much is also impossible.

You may ask, why am I giving this sermon on Rosh Hashanah? There are two reasons. The first is a matter of timing: this is the one day of the High Holidays closest to the English anniversary of October 7th, and I knew I wanted to say something. But the second is because Rosh Hashanah is, along with Yom Kippur, a holiday for introspection. A holiday for thinking about how we acted and reacted in the past year, and how we want to act in the coming year. And it is important that we be deliberate. Even in the face of horror and of tragedy, even in the face of unimaginable evil, we need to weigh how we want to act, how we want to respond, how we want to mourn, how we want to be. Rosh Hashanah gives us a gift in that it forces us to look backwards and forwards simultaneously, and be deliberate. We will commemorate those who have lost their lives. We will mourn them. And we will not let terrorists dictate to us how we mourn, how we celebrate, how we live. We will set the terms of the conversation of what it is to be a Jew remembering October 7th, not Hamas.

There is a final reason that Hamas committed its atrocities on October 7th, and it is the same reason that every terrorist group has ever committed a terror attack. It is not just to inspire fear, but to inspire hatred. Hamas hoped that, in the aftermath of its attacks, it could turn not just to the citizens of Gaza but Palestinians in the West Bank and all over the world, and say “Look. The Jews hate you now more than ever before. You will never be safe around them now. The only people you can trust anymore are us.” Because Hamas is full of hatred at innocents, they hope that they will inspire us to also hate innocents.  They hope that it will prove that hatred is the way of the universe, that it is the only way enemies can deal with each other, the only way conflicts can be resolved. Terrorists are the lowest of the low, and they always hope that their enemies will prove they are exactly like them.

In this instance, I full-heartedly refuse to give Hamas what they want. I refuse to hate wantonly. I refuse to hate Arabs, Muslims, or Palestinians. I refuse to hate anyone because of who their parents were, or where they were born, or what religion they practice. I refuse to give Hamas that victory. It is Rosh Hashanah, a time to be deliberate, and I deliberately choose this year not to hate. I owe it to all who fell on October 7th, and all who continue to fall in this war. I will not let Hamas win. I will not give in to hate.

I invite you all to join me in being deliberate in how we commemorate October 7th this year. I invite you to mourn with me, with all Jews throughout the world. To not mourn would be impossible. And I invite you to join with me in refusing to let Hamas win. In refusing to hate. Instead, this year let us put forth more love into the world. Let us love one another, regardless of religion, or ethnicity, or nationality. Let us love Judaism, and engage with it not just out of fear or mourning or loss, but excitement and energy and love. To mourn too much would also be impossible. We will not let Hamas win. We will not bring more hatred into the world, but love.

So be deliberate this year. How do we prevent ourselves from hating? By being self-aware, by saying to ourselves that we refuse to hate someone because they are Arab, or Palestinian, or Muslim, or different from us. How do we bring in more love? By going out of our way to take care of each other, by volunteering to help those in need, by choosing to do good. How do we celebrate our Judaism? By choosing a particular Jewish act to embrace, and performing it with joy. This year, let us be deliberate. In our mourning and in our celebrating. For the sake of all those who perished on October 7th, and all of those who have fallen since. We will mourn them. We will celebrate them. And by bringing in more love, we will not let Hamas win.