Yizkor: Coming Together in Mourning

Last night at 2 a.m., my daughter Tova woke me up, tears streaming down her face. She was terrified, convinced that animals were coming to get her. I held her hand and asked where the animals were coming from. She said they were coming through the front door. Together, we walked to the front door, and I showed her it was locked. Her tears lessened, but she was still anxious. Back in her room, she said the animals were under her bed. We looked together and saw there were no animals there. Still holding my hand, she then told me they were in her drawer. We opened the drawer together and found no animals. Finally, laughing now, she said they were behind the door. We checked, still holding hands, and found nothing. I put her back to bed, kissed her goodnight, and with a לילה טוב, left her room.

Either as a result of the catchy tune or the significance of the words, a highlight of the Hagada is והיא שעמדה. We praise God who has always “stood for us” and protected us from our enemies. As Iran fired hundreds of rockets towards us just a few weeks ago, God ensured that their damage was miraculously limited. God held our hand and ensured we were not harmed.

However, I was always troubled by this paragraph. True, God stands for us and true, God will protect us. But His protection is often delayed. During the 8 hours that the Hamas animals butchered and raped while the innocent civilians waited for the IDF to rescue them, who held their hand? During the months that those who remain in captivity are still under tunnels in Gaza, who holds their hand? During the years, the holocaust survivors were stuck in concentration camps experiencing untold horrors, who held their hand? Yes, of course God will save us, God will hold our hand and protect us from our enemies but until he does, who will hold our hand?

I believe the answer lies in one of the characters we highlight in the Hagada. There are numerous stories about this character in midrashim, gemarot and the hagada. We do not know the exact timing of all these stories but perhaps two of these stories occurred in the following order:

Rabbi Akiva and his friends were walking up to Yerushalyim. Perhaps it was Erev Pesach a year after the destruction of the Second Temple. And perhaps they journeyed to Yerushalyim together because while they knew the Temple no longer existed and though they would no longer bring the Karbon Pesach, they would anyway travel to the city they would any previous year had the Temple not been destroyed. They walk up to the old city, perhaps they see the walls stained red from blood of the thousands murdered by the Romans just a short while ago. Perhaps they still see unburied corpses lying on the street. And in mourning they all tear their clothes. They continue walking up Yerushalyim until they can see the location where the Beit Hamikdash once stood, where the previous year they all stood and watched as hundreds of Kohanim rushed around while hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of Jews brought their karbon pesach, and Rabbi Akiva’s friends all break down in tears. Rabbi Akiva is different, in stark contrast to this friends, רבי עקיבא מצחק—he laughed. In the face of utter destruction, Rabbi Akiva sees the possibility for hope and a future.

There is another story regarding Rabbi Akiva and his friends, perhaps it occurred later that night. Rabbi Akiva’s friends, no longer having any reason to be in Yerushalyim were in Bnai Brak one Pesach night. Perhaps they were sitting out in the street, tears in their eyes thinking about how just one year prior they would have been sitting in Yerushalyim eating the Karbon Pesach. Suddenly, from Rabbi Akiva’s house they hear someone call out, כל דתבין ייתי ויאכל—whoever wishes should come join me in my meal, a call that the prior year could not be made. After all, the Karbon Peasch required forming groups that would eat together in advance. Rabbi Akiva’s friends hear the call and they all come into his house. The call from Rabbi Akiva makes it be known clearly to his friends, while we wait for God’s hand to hold ours, come hold my hand; let us hold each other’s hands while we wait for redemption.

This is also demonstrated by the fact that we say yizkor on chag. The Rema explains that although chag is a day of happiness we may still recall those who have died because it is a mechanism through which we could have some relief to those mourning. Imaging sitting at the seder night, looking around the table and noticing all the people that are not sitting with us as they had passed away in the previous year. Reciting Yizkor on the last day of chag allows those mourning to express their grief, cry and allow themselves to feel better. I would take it one step further. It is not simply crying alone that allows us to feel relief, it is coming to Shul and crying together as a community that allows us to feel better. It may be the reason why the minhag is to give tzeddaka to the Shul, specifically to communal needs, while we come together and hold hands so that we may provide each other comfort.

This is beautifully described in the Haftorah we read today. A Haftorah not read for בני ארץ ישראל but only for those living outside of Israel, specifically for the בני גלות. The Haftorah describes how in the end of days, the lion will hold hands with the sheep, the bear with the cow, the fox with the lamb and they will all come together and sing god’s praises. And then, after they comfort each other, by holding each other’s hands will we proudly proclaim קל ישועתי אבטח ולא אפחד—we trust in god our savior and know we have nothing to fear.