Rabbi Michael Siegel | April 20, 2025
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On this last day of Passover, we gather for Yizkor and find ourselves ending the holiday where we began: focused on the sacred exercise of memory. The Haggadah instructed us on the first night: “In every generation, each person must see themselves as if they personally had gone out of Egypt.” This central imperative of Passover – to remember and relive – takes on deeper meaning as we now turn our hearts toward those who have accompanied us on the journey of life.
As all of us know, memory, in Judaism, is not merely passive recollection. It is an active force that shapes who we are and how we face the future. The Hebrew word for remember, zachor, appears no fewer than 169 times in our Torah. It is a commandment, an obligation, a sacred duty. And yet, in this Yizkor service, memory becomes something more – it becomes our Yerushah, our inheritance of resilience.
Memory, in Jewish tradition, serves multiple purposes. First and foremost, it preserves our identity. Our collective memories of Egypt, of Sinai, of Jerusalem, have preserved us as a people throughout the centuries of dispersion. But as we are reminded on this day, memory also preserves the identities of our families, our personal memories of loved ones, their lessons, their legacies.
What I believe is so powerful about Yizkor is that we go beyond remembering those we have lost, beyond recalling facts about their lives. During Yizkor we invoke their presence. We summon their voice, their laughter, their wisdom. In the act of remembering, something of them lives on through us.
The Baal Shem Tov taught that, “remembrance is the secret of redemption.” This applies not only to our national memory but to our personal memories as well. When we remember those we have lost, we redeem something of their lives. We carry forward their unfinished work, their unfulfilled dreams, their enduring values. This is the resilience that memory offers us. Not the ability to forget our loss, but the capacity to remember in a way that nurtures life rather than diminishes it.
Here, too, there is a Jewish lesson to be learned from the words for resilience in Hebrew and English. In English the word resilience comes from the world of physics: “Re” = “back” and “Salire” = “to jump or leap.” Resilience literally means “to bounce back.”
One of the oldest Hebrew equivalents to resilience is chosen, which is a word for strength. For Jews, resilience is not to bounce back to where we once were, but rather to find the strength and courage to go forward after being impacted by loss.
I received a renewed appreciation of this term when I watched a video that was created by the Wexner Fellowship featuring an interview with Gadi Mozes. Gadi is a man who loves the land of Israel. If you want to understand the depth of connection between our people and the land, then simply listen to Gadi talk about Eretz Yisrael. In Israel, Gadi is a nationally known expert on potato farming. For years, he and his friends had a tradition of gathering on Friday’s and drinking wine. Being farmers, it dawned on them that they did not have to purchase wine, they could make their own, and so they created a winery on a place in the Gaza envelope called Nir Oz
On October 7th at the age of 79 Gadi was taken hostage and was held for 482 days. His partner was killed as were his 3 close and dear friends. Only he survived.
Speaking about his experience in captivity, Gadi found strength to face each day singing the words of Hatikvah.
Od Lo Avda Tikvateynu:
Lihiyot Am Hofshi B’artzeinu
The day before he was released, Gadi was taken to a cemetery and forced to stand before an open pit. He found himself singing those words. He saw himself as a link in the chain of Jewish destiny that lived with hope. He was released the next day where he modeled the Jewish understanding of chosen, the strength to move forward despite the horrors endured.
During the more than a year in captivity, Gadi found himself thinking about the land that he had tended so lovingly during the course of his life. He also found himself reflecting on that vineyard that he and his friends had created. It saddened him to know that the vineyard must have fallen into disrepair since he and his friends were no longer able to tend to it.
When he returned home, Gadi was delighted to discover that his friend Gideon’s son and grandson had tended the vineyard. One generation had learned the lessons of loved ones now taken from them. Tending the vineyard was an act of Yizkor. The scene of Gadi pouring wine from one of the vats and drinking it with such satisfaction was so powerful. For me, it was a picture of chosen, the strength to carry on having who embrace the Yerusha of memory.
Our tradition teaches that when we remember the righteous, their memory becomes a blessing – zecher tzaddik livracha. This phrase suggests that memory has generative power. It creates blessing in the world, and so it was that day.
Many of us remember grandparents or great-grandparents who survived hardships we can scarcely imagine. What sustained them was not merely physical strength but the type of chosen that Gadi spoke of, the strength to go forward. What lessons do we embody from those we have loved and lost? What vineyard are we tending in the realm of memory and action?
When we gather for Yizkor, we are watering those seeds, just as Gadi did drinking the wine that came from the grapes that were harvested from the vineyards that he and his friends planted. In Israel, organizations like Natal speak of post-traumatic growth not post-traumatic strength. That is chosen. We, too, are nurturing the garden of memory that our ancestors planted for us.
And now we do the same for future generations. The way we remember those we have lost will shape the generations to come in their appreciation of the Yerusha of resilience. When they see us honor our grief while choosing life, when they witness us drawing strength from memory rather than being paralyzed by it, we teach them that resilience is their inheritance too.
I am reminded of the words of Elie Wiesel, “I marvel at the resilience of the Jewish people. Their best characteristic is their desire to remember. No other people has such an obsession with memory.”
The Passover story teaches us that freedom is not merely the absence of slavery, but the presence of purpose. In the same way, resilience is not merely the absence of grief but offers us a path forward. It is our chosen, our strength, and it is our Yerusha.
As we leave this sacred space today, may we carry with us not only the memory of those we have lost, but also our Yerusha, our inheritance of resilience they have bequeathed to us.
And may their memory be a blessing, now and always. Amen.
