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 

