September 14, 2007 - Yiskor - (Yiskor 5768 )

As you probably already know, Ziva and I recently bought a small condo in Dillon. On our evening walks, we have come to notice that the denizens of the mountain have a way of calling your attention both to the beauty of the vistas and to the people who have made a difference in their lives.

On a stone bench that is set along the walking path not far from a place that overlooks Lake Dillon there is a phrase, a line, an epitaph etched into its rock. It says something to this effect: “Oh no! Here is another sunrise which again finds me without you, my friend.”

I saw that line and thought instantly of Yizkor. How poignantly those words capture the message of this moment. The beginning “Oh no” registers the shock and the pain of the author’s and our loss, and how much we ache and yearn not to have to face another day without our loved ones. His capturing of his longing stung my eyes immediately as I filled in with the word “missing”—for once our loved ones and friends have crossed over that boundary which separates the living from the dead, there are no more opportunities to interact, to have dialogue, to share experiences: to enjoy sunrises and sunsets together.

As we observe this service of remembrance, this is the most difficult thing that we have to---or are attempting to--come to terms with: that our loved ones are beyond our reach and that though we may speak our sorrow and even shout out our grief and contend with our remorse, it is us and not them who will still be here at the close of this service. We continue on…but in relation to them, it can only be with and in our memories. They are, indeed, beyond reach.

This is the reason that nearly every Yizkor sermon I have ever read or written ends in a gentle admonition to make something good from our losses. If all that comes from the cherished relationship that is now broken is suffering and pain, then it leaves us broken and, in a very real way, makes it as though it might have better that the relationship had never been.

But that cannot be so. For what has enabled us to share so deep a love and such tender emotions cannot have been for nothing and should not be a lasting negative in our lives. We memorialize those whom we grieve with acts of Tikkun Olam, and therein pay tribute to our dear ones. It is for this reason, for example, that mothers and fathers of children killed by drunk drivers have made such inroads…such wonderful and needed changes… in the laws concerning alcohol use and driving. It is for this reason that some hospitals and universities carry the names that they do. It is for this reason that funds have been established in the fight to find cures for so many of the devastating diseases which have ravaged lives and relationships throughout the ages and in our own day. It is for this reason that many beneficial scholarships and programs have been established. It is for this reason, that art work has been funded, and music and dance venues have received significant support.

When people rise from their mourning practices, they often channel their despair or anger…and their energies into healthy, constructive projects and causes. This is as it should be…because in and by these ways do they preserve everything that was good about their lost loved ones. It is the way to proclaim that their relationship was wonderful and that they are attempting to capture some of that wonder and make it evident for everyone else on earth to see and appreciate just how dear and precious it was.

Channeling energies is not the only way we preserve the memories and honor our dead. Just as we can make marks on the outer world, so, too, can we resolve to become better people, ourselves. For, in truth, our loved ones would not want us to become embittered, lashing out at the world in anger because of our loss. Death can teach us many valuable lessons about how we relate to our loves…in showing us that have only so much time to live and to do good in this world, and to build our own good names. It can also teach us compassion and patience for others who, like ourselves, have suffered or may someday suffer what we have. If our relationships meant something significant, then we should both be able to and want to translate it into other aspects of our lives.

Yizkor at its core can be transformative. It can bring us to resolutions that are wholesome and constructive. We promise these things to honor the memories of those whom we loved.

But Yizkor also comes to help us both to remember our dear ones and also to put closure to our grief. There come times when we see the world through more realistic eyes, and realize that grief can be beneficial when we channel it into doing mitzvot; but it can be destructive as well.

When we are done, we should try to emulate people like King David. For, while his son was sick, David wept, and fasted, and prayed. But after the child had passed away, he arose, changed his clothes, refreshed himself, and went about his way. His courtiers questioned why he so quickly returned to himself and his routine. David then acknowledged reality in a very simple statement, bringing closure to his grief and to his questioners. He asked: Can I bring him back again? I shall (one day) go to him, but he will never come back to me. (II Samuel 12: 23)

There comes a time when we must set aside our grief and return to life. How we do this reflects greatly on those we mourn. Therein do we say, may their names be for a blessing…and it is upon us, as we reflect at this time of Remembrance…of Yizkor…to make it so.