J
udaism is a religion
of memory. The
verb zachor appears no
fewer than 169 times in the
Hebrew Bible. “Remember that
you were strangers in Egypt;”
“Remember the
days of old;”
“Remember
the seventh
day to keep it
holy.
” Memory,
for Jews, is
a religious
obligation. This
is particularly so at this time of
the year.
We call it the “Three Weeks”
leading up to the saddest day in
the Jewish calendar, Tisha b’
Av,
the anniversary of the destruc-
tion of the two Temples, the
first by Nebuchadnezzar, King
of Babylon in 586 BCE, the sec-
ond by Titus of Rome in 70 C.E.
Jews never forgot those trag-
edies. To this day, at every wed-
ding we break a glass in their
memory. During the Three
Weeks, we have no celebrations.
On Tisha b’
Av itself, we spend
the day fasting and sitting on
the floor or low stools like
mourners, reading the Book of
Lamentations. It is a day of pro-
found collective grief.
Two and a half thousand
years is a long time to remem-
ber. Often, I am asked — usu-
ally in connection with the
Holocaust — is it really right to
remember? Should there not be
a limit on grief? Are not most
of the ethnic conflicts in the
world fueled by memories of
perceived injustices long ago?
Would not the world be more
peaceable if once in a while we
forgot? My answer is both yes
and no, for it depends on how
we remember.
Though the two are often
confused, memory is differ-
ent from history. History is
someone else’s story. It’s about
events that occurred long ago
to someone else. Memory is my
story. It’s about where I come
from and of what narrative I
am a part. History answers the
question, “What happened?”
Memory answers the question,
“Who, then, am I?” It is about
identity and the connection
between the generations.
In the case of collective mem-
ory, it all depends on how we
tell the story. We don’t remem-
ber for the sake of revenge.
“Do not hate the Egyptians,
”
said Moshe, “for you were
strangers in their land.
” To
be free, you have to let go of
hate. Remember the past, says
Moshe, but do not be held cap-
tive by it. Turn it into a blessing,
not a curse; a source of hope,
not humiliation.
To this day, the Holocaust
survivors I know spend their
time sharing their memories
with young people, not for the
sake of revenge, but its opposite:
to teach tolerance and the value
of life. Mindful of the lessons of
Genesis, we too try to remem-
ber for the future and for life.
In today’s fast-moving
culture, we undervalue acts of
remembering. Computer mem-
ories have grown, while ours
have become foreshortened.
Our children no longer mem-
orize chunks of poetry. Their
knowledge of history is often all
too vague. Our sense of space
has expanded. Our sense of
time has shrunk.
That cannot be right. One of
the greatest gifts we can give to
our children is the knowledge
of where we have come from,
the things for which we fought
and why. None of the things
we value — freedom, human
dignity, justice — were achieved
without a struggle. None can
be sustained without conscious
vigilance. A society without
memory is like a journey with-
out a map. It’s all too easy to get
lost.
I, for one, cherish the rich-
ness of knowing that my life is a
chapter in a book begun by my
ancestors long ago, to which I
will add my contribution before
handing it on to my children.
Life has meaning when it is part
of a story, and the larger the
story, the more our imaginative
horizons grow. Besides, things
remembered do not die. That’s
as close as we get to immortali-
ty on earth.
WE ARE THE PEOPLE
THAT BUILD
The great Prophets of doom
were also the supreme Prophets
of hope. For example, let us
look at Isaiah, whose words we
say on Shabbat Chazon imme-
diately prior to Tisha b’
Av. He
delivers a devastating critique
of Jerusalem: “
As you spread
Remember The Past, But Do
Not Be Held Captive By It
Rabbi Lord
Jonathan
Sacks
SPIRIT
A WORD OF TORAH
34 | AUGUST 8 • 2024