Collective Memory - Kol Nidre 5785

The melody that we heard just a bit ago for Kol Nidrei, that we all know so well, is described in the world of Jewish liturgical music as a “MiSinai Melody,” a tune that goes all the way back to Sinai. Not literally of course. MiSinai tunes trace back to between the 11th and 15th centuries in the Rhineland, the heart of medieval Ashkenaz. These melodies, which appear throughout the High Holiday liturgy, became codified in the Ashkenazi tradition and are tightly woven into the way we conduct services on these Yamim Noraim. They speak to our hearts and are embedded in our souls. When we call them MiSinai, we are saying that they are as much a piece of who we are as the experience of standing at Sinai. They are part of our collective memory.

Collective memory is the term we use to describe how groups remember their past and assimilate it into their shared identity. It is the communal pool of memories, knowledge, and information that forms the backbone of a social, cultural, or religious group’s understanding of who they are. 

As Jews, collective memory is our thing.

Our most basic collective memory is having left Egypt. We instill the idea that we were enslaved in Egypt and rescued by God’s strong hand and outstretched arm every chance we get. It’s written into our daily prayers. All of our major festivals - not just the one on which we reenact it extensively - have a connection to the Exodus from Egypt. We sing songs about it and read our children stories about it. A significant part of being Jewish is being able to say, “I was enslaved and now I am free.”

We often hear the idea that all Jewish souls were present at the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. Each and every one of us, somewhere deep down inside, knows what it is to stand before God and enter into a relationship with Torah. 

There’s the experience of living in exile, following the destruction of the second Temple in the year 70. For nearly 2,000  years – until this very moment – we outside of Israel refer to where we live as the Diaspora, even though most of us have never made our home anywhere else. 

The piece of us that fears wearing our Judaism too outwardly remembers the Spanish Inquisition and the expulsion from Spain more than 500 years ago. The Chmielnicki pogroms of 17th century Ukraine and the ghettos and death camps of Nazi Europe in the 20th century are also parts of who we are, whether we know victims and survivors from our families or as students of history. 

The founding of the State of Israel in 1948 is another, more recent, piece of our collective memory. I personally never knew a world without an internationally recognized Jewish homeland. Still, I feel the power of that moment in my kishkes every time I watch a recording of the UN partition plan vote or hear Ben Gurion read Megillat HaAtzmaut, the Declaration of Independence. 

Collective memory generally becomes embroidered into a group’s identity in a number of specific ways. It is passed down through storytelling, through ceremonies, rituals, festivals and holidays. Looking back at the list of Jewish collective memories I just shared, we can see how these ways of transmitting collective memory are very much operative in Jewish culture and practice. Collective memory is also imparted through art and literature, the ways we envision and talk about important events of our past. Particularly for traumatic past events, monuments and commemorations are an essential part of ensuring that collective memory gets passed to the next generation. It’s why we build Holocaust memorials, record survivor testimony, and hold Yom HaShoah ceremonies. 

We are currently living through what will very clearly be the next chapter in our book of Jewish collective memory: the attacks of October 7, 2023 and their aftermath. Over the past year, we have grappled with how to respond, what to feel, what to do. Just about a week after October 7, researchers from the USC Shoah Foundation arrived in Israel to interview survivors and eyewitnesses. They have recorded 400 testimonies to date. Religious leaders have written prayers of hope and prayers of mourning. We sing Acheinu during services and at community events. We leave empty places at our Shabbat and holiday tables. The names, faces, and stories of the hostages have been published and shared, printed on posters and discussed in television interviews. All of this begins to transform October 7 from a terrible date in our history to a piece in the fabric of our collective memory. 

It seems obvious that the events of October 7 and what has followed will remain as a permanent part of our Jewish identity, of how we see our past refracted through ourselves. And it should be equally obvious that we don’t know exactly what that will ultimately look like. Part of that is because we’re still living through it. Collective memory is about looking back, but we’re not yet on the other side of whatever this is and whatever it will become.

Moreover, we don’t quite know what meaning to make of October 7 with the specter and experience of rising antisemitism that has accompanied it. In 2013 the Anti-Defamation League recorded 751 antisemitic incidents in the United States. In 2023 they counted 8,873, an increase of more than 1,000 percent. And most of the massive bump in 2023 took place in the months following October 7. Whereas we once felt that we were safe, an essential part of the societies in which we live, we are now discovering how close to the surface ancient stereotypes and prejudices have remained. To write October 7 into our collective memory, we need to understand its significance. We know it was a horrifying pogrom against the people of the State of Israel. Is it also the beginning of the end of feeling secure as a global Jewish community?

We experienced pain, uncertainty, and a sense of impotence following October 7. We don’t yet know how to think about or talk about the significance of October 7 in a way that is truly collective, in a way that makes room for all of the diverse voices that comprise our community. This is another  important piece of why we’re not yet ready to let October 7 become part of our collective memory. Over Rosh Hashanah, I explained that I’d be talking about some difficult conversations we’ve been having and need to have as a community. This is one of them. 

We, like Jews around the world, were emotionally eviscerated by the events of October 7. In those first moments of confusion and grief, we were stripped down to our most primary feelings, among them fear, anger, and contempt. We simply couldn’t hear each other, couldn’t open our hearts to each other’s experiences. When we heard opinions that didn’t gel with our own, we resorted to those primary emotions, blaming each other and drawing lines in the sand about what values did and didn’t belong in our community. Let me be clear - this wasn’t something that only happened at Chevrei Tzedek, but it regrettably was a part of our community’s experience of those first few weeks this past fall after it all started. 
Let me be clear about something else: Believing that I knew the best path forward and that I, as spiritual leader of our congregation, had the responsibility to guide us in the right direction, I sought to cut off debate and quiet the voices of dissent when they became too acrimonious. I did so in order to make more room for the voices advocating for what I believed we should do. I spoke more than I listened. And while I don’t regret the choices we made -- particularly about how to celebrate Shabbat with Rabbi Deborah Sacks Mintz and how to define whom we can partner with as a community -- I know that the outcome was hurtful to many. Some members chose to leave our shul over what they saw as a breach with values they hold dear. Others felt censored, unable to share their real opinions for fear of not passing an unspoken litmus test. Still others felt misunderstood, judged by those they otherwise called friends. 

The term collective memory gives the impression that we, the collective, are all the same, that we all experience things in the same way, that we all have the same opinion about what to do in response to what we’ve experienced. As we well know, this is simply not true. Being part of our collective, part of the variegated and diverse tapestry that is the Jewish community, we know that we, like everyone else in the world (but maybe a little bit more so…), each have our own perspectives and points of view. Our sense of unity as a collective comes from shared identity, not from uniformity. We experience the same events in our own unique ways. This, of course, also holds true for how each of us is experiencing this moment in history. 

There are as many responses to October 7 as there are people in this room -- and definitely so many more than that. I’ll name a few here, drawing on conversations I’ve had with members of our community as well as friends, family, and colleagues over the past year. 

• We may never get over the shock of the brazen attacks and the seemingly indiscriminate violence of what took place. Those red-haired babies…
  
• We are constantly worried about, but also proud of, our children and family members serving in the IDF.
  
• We are devastated for Gaza, for the tremendous loss of life, for the ways in which some of Israel’s leaders seem to have less-than-pure motives.
  
• We are fearful for the future of Israeli-Palestinian relations and for the possibility of a lasting peace that feels like it is slipping away.
  
• We are angry at how the war seems to be overshadowing the ongoing plight of the hostages, and we are worried that no one on either side really wants or is willing to make a deal for their freedom.
  
• We are saddened that members of the younger generation, even in our own families, don’t value and support Israel as we raised them to do.
  
• We feel betrayed by social and political causes and groups that we’ve always aligned with, which now feel unfriendly and even unsafe.
  
• We feel lonely and bereft that our Jewish communal spaces do not seem to tolerate concern for Palestinians. 
  
• We long for the days when being a Progressive Zionist felt possible, and for the Israel of our dreams.
  

So many varied and even contradictory perspectives -- it’s no wonder that we haven’t yet figured out how to talk to each other about October 7 or Israel overall. And in the wake of the discord and hurt that resulted from our previous attempts to have these conversations, many of us have stopped trying to talk to each other about October 7 and Israel overall. 

Learning to talk to each other across our differences is integral to making sense of the past year. Learning to talk to each other across our differences is also integral to healing and to emerging from this past year buoyed by the presence of our community. Speaking about our obligation to remain united despite our differences, New York Times columnist Bret Stephens recently wrote: “To be a Jew obliges us to many things, particularly our duty to be our brother’s, and sister’s, keeper. That means never to forsake one another, much less to join in the vilification of our own people.” So we need to have the hard conversations, and we need to learn to do it better than we have been. 

Fortunately, we don’t need to figure this out on our own. There are people who study this stuff and organizations dedicated to teaching folks to create constructive dialogue around our potentially contentious differences. This is sacred work, and I’m hopeful that we will be able to engage in this kind of dialogue as a community at multiple points over the course of this next year and beyond, both about our perspectives on Israel and about other important issues facing our community. 

In thinking about this topic and beginning to prepare for the kinds of conversations I hope we will have, I have been reading books, scouring websites, talking with colleagues, and consulting experts in the area of creating dialogue across differences. Based on what I’ve learned, I want to share with us some of my key takeaways, so that we can all begin this journey on the same page.

Strong disagreement raises strong feelings. When learning how to have these kinds of conversations, it’s helpful to acknowledge the ways in which strong disagreement can push us out of our comfort zone and into our panic zone, engaging our fight/flight/freeze response. For constructive dialogue to work, we need to become attuned to when we’re heading toward panic and we need to redirect ourselves away from that place. 

It’s important to plan ahead. To help us walk calmly through difficult conversations, we should first talk about how we want to talk about things, articulating our hopes for our conversation as well as what worries us about discussing a topic about which there is so much disagreement. We can and should set norms for our conversation, agreeing to listen without interrupting, and to keep the conversation just between the people having it. 

We must remember why we’re doing this. Having conversations about high-conflict topics can put us on the defensive, or worse, on the offensive. To keep us on the right track for when (not if) this happens, we can start with a collaborative goal, shifting our focus from winning a debate to understanding another’s point of view. Our collaborative goal might be “I want to maintain a good relationship with this person.” Or, “I want to understand this person and have them understand me.” 

Get curious! Particularly when we hear something that we disagree with, we respond by asking questions to help us understand the other person’s perspective. Questions must be non-judgmental and we must truly be open to hearing the answers. The best kinds of questions to ask are ones that invite the other person to tell their story. What personal experiences have informed their way of thinking? How does their opinion support their most cherished values? Once we allow others to feel heard, they’re much more likely to hear us out in return. When we share our stories with each other, rather than triggering panic, we can inspire and experience empathy. We may never come to agree with one other, but that’s not the point. Having difficult conversations is about fostering respect for diverse viewpoints, knowing each other more deeply, and nurturing the fullness of our community. 

October 7 and the current war will eventually become part of our collective memory. How these events become woven into our collective memory will be our legacy as people living through this time. Learning to hear each other’s stories, to acknowledge and even welcome different perspectives, even ones with which we disagree or that cause us pain, learning to have the difficult conversations is of utmost importance. We can help shape how people 50 years from now will be talking about October 7. We can repair how members of the Jewish community talk with each other about Israel. We can learn to understand one another and honor how each of our stories and perspectives contributes to the multifaceted whole of our people. 

As hard as it is to think about such things, much less contemplate talking about them with each other, this moment of Kol Nidrei is the perfect time to start considering how we will have these conversations. Tonight is a night of unlimited potential. We come to Yom Kippur having begun to think about the changes we want to make in our lives. Tonight we begin to find the fortitude, the will within ourselves, to enact those changes so that they last. In the coming weeks and months, we will be planning opportunities for our congregation to engage in dialogue about some issues that have in the past divided us. We will be working together to develop the skills to do so in a way that is constructive and honors the diversity of our community. I hope that you will join in, sharing your voice and opening yourself up to hear the voices of others.

As the maḥzor reads, כי הנה כחומר ביד היוצר, we are like clay in the hands of the sculptor. We can reshape ourselves, strengthening our ability to listen to and engage with each other. We can reshape our community, transforming our response to this current moment into what future generations will remember and hold in their hearts. It’s a big job, and tonight is just the beginning. 

כתיבה וחתימה טובה - May we, families, our community, and the Jewish people be blessed with a year of life, peace, and growing together.

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