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Sermons Archive 2024 Rabbi Elana

Yom Kippur Sermon 5785
Layered Memory and Layered Grief
Rabbi Elana Dellal at the LJS.

Shana Tova. As we gather on this Yom Kippur, we find ourselves at a
crossroads of memory and reflection. Jonathan Safran Foer once wrote in
his book everything is illuminated.:

"JEWS HAVE SIX SENSES Touch, taste, sight, smell, hearing … memory.
For Jews memory is no less primary than the prick of a pin, or its silver
glimmer, or the taste of the blood it pulls from the finger. The Jew is pricked
by a pin and remembers other pins. It is only by tracing the pinprick back to
other pinpricks – when his mother tried to fix his sleeve while his arm was
still in it, when his grandfather's fingers fell asleep from stroking his
great-grandfather's damp forehead, when Abraham tested the knife point to
be sure Isaac would feel no pain – that the Jew is able to know why it hurts.
When a Jew encounters a pin, he asks: What does it remember like?"

These words resonate deeply as we stand here today, looking back on a
year filled with challenges, losses, and profound changes. They remind us
that for us, as Jews, memory is not just a recollection of past events, but a
living, breathing part of our present experience.

Today, we explore the layers of our memories and the complex tapestry of
our grief. We often think of memory as a simple snapshot frozen in time,
but it's far more intricate than that. Our memories are not just records of the
past; they are the lens through which we interpret our present and envision
our future.

This layered experience of joy and sorrow, of celebration intertwined with
grief, was brought into sharp focus for me on a warm summer evening in
Regents Park. The day had begun with a morning at the synagogue for
Rimon, not just in prayer, but in the joyous company of our community's
children, watching them learn and grow together—a poignant reminder of
the freedom we cherish to practice, pray, and nurture our future
generations. As the day transitioned, I found myself watching an outdoor
production of "Fiddler on the Roof" with my own children, acutely aware
that my ancestors family's story mirrors that of Anatevka in many ways. As
the joyous wedding scene unfolded, with the community singing the
poignant "Sunrise, Sunset," I felt swept up in the celebration, reflecting on
the passage of time and the bittersweet nature of change—not just in the
play, but in my own life as a parent.

But then, suddenly, this moment of joy was shattered by the violent pogrom
scene. In an instant, I saw how quickly celebration can turn to mourning,
how the weight of history and the fragility of life are ever-present, even in
our happiest moments. My mind couldn't help but draw a connection to the
tragic events at the Nova music festival on October 7th. The fictional
pogrom on stage and the all-too-real attack at Nova became superimposed
in my mind, the pain of our ancestors—my own family's history—and the
fresh wounds of our community blending together in a complex tapestry of
emotion.

This experience led me to reflect deeply on the nature of our collective and
individual grief. In my studies of grief this past year, I've come across the
concept of a grief map. It's a powerful tool that helps us navigate the
complex terrain of loss. Imagine, if you will, a landscape with hills and
valleys, rivers and forests. Each represents different aspects of our grief
journey – the peaks of intense emotion, the valleys of numbness, the
flowing rivers of tears, and the forests where we might feel lost or find
unexpected beauty.

But here's something crucial to understand: our grief map isn't just a single
landscape. It's more like an atlas, with multiple maps overlaid on each
other. Each loss, each sorrow we carry creates its own topography. At any
given moment, we might find ourselves at different points on these various
maps.

Picture this: on the map of one grief, we might be scaling a mountain of
anger, our emotions raw and intense. Yet simultaneously, on the map of
another loss, we could be in a peaceful valley of acceptance. Our journey
through grief is not linear or uniform; it's a complex interplay of our various
experiences of loss.

What's more, these maps aren't isolated from each other. They intersect
and influence one another, like rivers flowing between different lands. A
moment of healing in one area might unexpectedly ease the pain in
another. Conversely, a fresh loss might reopen wounds we thought had
healed, leading us back to difficult terrain we thought we'd left behind.

This interconnected nature of our grief journeys echoes our Jewish
experience of memory. Just as we are pricked by a pin and remember other
pins, one grief can trigger or transform how we experience another. It's a
profound reminder of the layered nature of our emotional lives.

Brené Brown, renowned for her work on vulnerability and human
connection, offers a profound insight into grief. She writes, "Grief requires
us to reorient ourselves to every part of our physical, emotional, and social
worlds." This reorientation touches every aspect of our lives, explaining
why our experiences of loss—be it of a loved one, a job, or a dream—can
feel so disorienting. By recognizing grief's all-encompassing nature, we can
begin to understand its impact. If we can name our grief and acknowledge
how it's reshaping our world, we might navigate this reorientation with more
compassion, gradually finding new ways to engage with life after loss.

Think about your own grief maps for a moment. Where do you find yourself
today? Are you scaling a mountain of anger on one map, while wading
through a river of sorrow on another? Or perhaps you're in a meadow of
memories on yet another, filled with both bitter and sweet recollections.
Recognizing where we are on each of these maps can be the first step in
navigating this complex terrain.

This has been a difficult year for many of us. The situation in the Middle
East weighs heavily on our hearts. The images and stories we've seen and
heard have shaken us to our core. But for many of us, it's not the only loss
we've faced. As we approach the Yizkor service, I want to encourage you
to honor and hold your feelings of grief around the events since October
7th, but also to give yourselves permission to feel the rest of it.

Was there loss in the form of bereavement? A cherished family member or
friend who is no longer with us? Or perhaps it was the loss of a job, a
sense of security, or a relationship that defined a significant part of your
life? Each of these losses deserves acknowledgment, each deserves
space in our hearts and in our community. Each is a pin that pricks us,
reminding us of other losses, other pains.

I'd like you to take a moment now. Consider a loss you've experienced this
year, it doesn’t need to be the most significant one if that feels too
challenging. If you were to paint this loss in an abstract way, what would it
look like? What colors would you use? Would they be dark and somber, or
surprisingly vibrant? What would the brushstrokes be like? Quick and
angry? Slow and deliberate? Or perhaps a mixture of both?

My exploration of grief theory this year has taught me something profound,
something that I believe is crucial for us to understand as we navigate our
individual and collective losses. Let me take a minute to share with you
some of the most prevailing grief theories and how the understanding of
grief has changed in the last few decades.

Many of you may be familiar with the groundbreaking work of Elisabeth
Kübler-Ross, who in 1969 introduced the "Five Stages of Grief" model:
denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. This model,
originally developed to describe the experiences of terminally ill patients,
has been widely influential in helping many to understand the complex
emotions that accompany loss. However, it's important to note that
Kübler-Ross later emphasized that these stages are not linear and that not
everyone experiences all of them.

David Kessler, who worked closely with Kübler-Ross, later proposed a sixth
stage: finding meaning. In his book "Finding Meaning: The Sixth Stage of
Grief," Kessler argues that discovering meaning can transform grief into a
more peaceful and hopeful experience. This might involve honoring the
deceased, appreciating the time we had with them, or recognizing how our
loss has changed us for the better. Kessler's work reminds us that even in
our deepest pain, there is potential for growth and transformation.

Another important development in grief theory is the Continuing Bonds
theory, proposed by Dennis Klass, Phyllis Silverman, and Steven Nickman
in 1996. This theory challenges the earlier notion that successful grieving
requires "letting go" or "moving on" from the deceased. Instead, it suggests
that maintaining bonds with the deceased is a normal and often healthy
part of successful grieving.

The Continuing Bonds theory proposes that we don't resolve grief by
severing our ties with the deceased, but by finding new ways to continue
our relationships with them. This might involve talking to our loved ones
who have passed, keeping their memory alive through stories, or making
decisions based on what we believe they would have wanted. It's about
integrating the memory and legacy of the deceased into our ongoing lives.

This perspective aligns beautifully with our Jewish traditions. There was a
time, not so long ago, when too strong a connection to those who have
departed was viewed as unhealthy or as a sign of unresolved grief. The
prevailing wisdom was that we needed to "move on," to "let go."

This shift in understanding is particularly relevant to us as Jews. Our
tradition has always emphasized the importance of memory, of honoring
those who came before us.

Consider how we light a yahrzeit candle on the anniversary of a loved one's
passing, or the way we recite Kaddish, not just during shiva, but throughout
the year of mourning and beyond. These practices aren't about "letting go"
but about transforming our relationship with those we've lost. When we
gather for yizkor services, we're not just remembering—we're actively
continuing our bond with those who have passed. Even the custom of
placing stones on graves during visits is a tangible way of saying, "I was
here, I remember you, our connection endures." These rituals provide a
framework for us to honor our loved ones, to keep their memory alive, and
to allow our relationships with them to evolve over time, embodying the
essence of continuing bonds in our grief journey. These practices aren't
about clinging to the past; they're about weaving the threads of our history
into the fabric of our present and future. They're about tracing the pinpricks
back, understanding the depth and complexity of our experiences.

Let's return to Fiddler on the Roof for a moment. In the opening of the
second act, we see the same newlyweds whose marriage had been
violently interrupted. But now, they're embracing their new sewing machine,
a symbol of hope and continuity even in the face of upheaval. This scene
resonates deeply with our own experiences of finding hope amidst sorrow.

As we watched, my sons were tapped on the shoulder by a friend they had
met at LJY Netzer's Kadimah. Their excitement at this mini-reunion felt
symbolic—a reminder of the connections that persist and the community
that sustains us, even in unexpected places.

This is resilience—our ability to celebrate life, to maintain our traditions,
and to find hope, even as we carry the memories of past sorrows. Like the
fiddler balancing precariously on the roof, we too balance joy and sorrow,
memory and hope, individual experience and communal history. Our
freedom to gather, to learn, to remember—these are the threads that bind
us together, allowing us to face our grief collectively and find strength in our
shared experiences.

Our narrative can shift from one of loss to one of affirmation and
continuation, from isolation to connection.

Even in our darkest moments, there is the potential for light. The webs of
painful memories and grief are often followed by threads of comfort and
hope, even if they're hard to see at first.

Now, I invite you to revisit that mental painting of your grief. The one you
created earlier. Look at it closely in your mind's eye. Can you find a spot,
perhaps in a corner, or maybe right in the center, where you can add a
lighter, warmer color? Even the smallest detail representing some warmth
or comfort?

Perhaps it's the power of their legacy – the values and lessons they left
behind that continue to guide you. Or maybe it's the wisdom gained from a
job loss, teaching you resilience and adaptability. It could be the strength
you've found within yourself, strength you didn't know you had until you
were tested by loss – whether that loss was a loved one, a relationship, or
a dream you had to let go.

For some, it might be a time you reached out to someone who has died
and felt their presence, or a gentle smile that comes unbidden when you
remember a shared joke or a moment of tenderness, or the bittersweet
nostalgia of revisiting a place that holds memories of a relationship that has
ended.

Adding this warmth to our grief painting doesn't diminish the loss. It doesn't
make the pain go away, whether that pain comes from death, divorce,
career setbacks, or shattered trust. But it reminds us that our memories,
our grief, our healing – they're all part of the same canvas. They coexist,
creating a complex, beautiful, and deeply human picture.

Each brushstroke – whether it represents a tear shed, a lesson learned, or
a moment of unexpected joy – contributes to the rich tapestry of our lives.
As we move through this Yom Kippur, let us remember that our grief, like
our memories, is layered. It's complex. It's personal. But it's also shared. In
this sacred space, we hold each other's pain, we honor each other's
memories, and we find strength in our community.

When we recite Yizkor shortly, I encourage you to embrace the complexity
of your emotions. Feel the sadness, yes, but also allow yourself to feel the
love, the gratitude, the connection that transcends physical presence. Let
the names and faces of those we've lost wash over you, not as only wave
of sorrow, but also as a testament to the richness of the lives we've shared
and the legacies we carry forward.

Healing means integrating our losses into the ongoing story of our lives,
finding ways to carry our loved ones with us as we move forward. It means
allowing joy and sorrow to coexist, recognizing that our capacity to feel
deeply in both directions is what makes us human.

As we stand here today, fasting and reflecting, let us also look forward. May
this year bring healing to our layered grief. May we find the courage to
name our pain, the strength to carry it, and the wisdom to recognize the
moments of light that shine through even the darkest times.

And above all, may we always remember that in this community, in this
family, we never grieve alone. Your pain is seen. Your memories are
honored. Your journey is respected. Together, we will navigate the complex
landscape of loss and emerge, not unchanged, but unbroken, carrying the
warmth of memory and the strength of community with us.

G'mar Chatima Tova. May you be sealed in the Book of Life for a year of
healing, growth, and peace.
 
Rabbi Elana Dellal.
 
Wed, 30 April 2025 2 Iyar 5785