Rosh Hashanah Sermon: Memory, Uncertainty and Unexpected blessings
It was so hot that his hand kept sliding out of hers. She tightened the grip, but struggled not to stumble. She was staggering forwards, but towards what? There were no paths, no towns to head towards, and even if she did, who would take in a foreign woman and her child? All she could see was the vast emptiness of wilderness, stretching in all directions. No shelter, and no water. But she felt no thirst, at least not yet. For the only feeling swirling around inside her, threatening to engulf her, was fear. The stomach curling fear of not knowing what comes next, of having no certainty of what the future might bring.
Only yesterday she was doing her usual chores in the camp, and now this! Cast out, banished from safety, left to die in the wilderness, just because Sara thought Ishmael might threaten the position of her son.
“And so she wandered and staggered about in the wilderness”
(Gen 21. 14).
She recognised the feeling, that sense of control slipping away, from the time when she was first given to Sarah. Wrenched from her Egyptian home and family, to this forsaken barrenness. She had slowly adapted, learnt their funny language and strange customs, until one day she realised she didn’t dream of home anymore. She had found a purpose, and with the birth of Ishmael, she remembered how to laugh again. She used to make up stories for him, of all the things they would do, adventures they would go on, spinning stories while looking up at the stars in the soft velvet sky above them. Life had become steady, familiar and predictable.
And now this. Her boy, half dead, unable to go on. Her knees buckled, and she staggered, until they both slumped to the ground.
And then “she burst into tears” (Gen 21.16).
Much later, Ishmael would tell the story of how almost by a miracle, his mother had finally found a well, and then a tribe. Whenever he asked her about that terrifying time, she would just shrug her shoulders and say that she didn’t want to remember it. She never went into the wilderness on her own again, preferring always the shelter of the camp.
Hagar’s journey must have been a transformative experience, it is unlikely she would have seen the world with the same eyes after the experience she went through in the wilderness.
We too have been in a metaphorical wilderness, in a place where it is difficult to find a sense of safety. We have been lucky to have our homes to protect us, as we were not cast out. Rather, we have been cast in.
Lockdown was the experience of uncertainty: with what each new day would bring, by how much the number of deaths would rise, should we wear a mask, is it even safe to stand in a supermarket queue, when would our children return to learning, how were grandparents in care homes really faring, were we given the real facts by our government and which source of news could you trust?
The unpredictability of life is scary and can induce anxiety. It makes us question what our upcoming year, or even just the autumn, will look like. And yet what this virus has shown us is that trying to plan or predict the future can be futile. Lockdown and the ongoing pandemic are teaching us all a lesson in living with unpredictability. And not all of it is bad.
One new form of socialising that has arisen is the sharing of lockdown experiences. Whenever we meet someone we have not been in close contact with, it has become courteous to ask ‘how was lockdown for you?’ and we reminisce together. That time has already been translated into anecdotes and an acceptable collection of feelings. And despite only coming out of lockdown approx two months ago, I have found that I am already glossing over much of the experience, pushing difficult memories to the back of my mind. And I think we all do that, for some memories are too painful until something or someone forces us to remember them.
Rememberings and forgettings
Rosh Hashanah is meant to be one of those ‘somethings’ that makes us take stock. In the guiding Talmudic text about Rosh Hashana, it says:
“And recite before Me on Rosh HaShana verses that speak of malchuyot (sovereignty), of Zichronot (remembrances), and of Shofarot. Sovereignty, so that you may acknowledge Me as Ruler over you. Remembrance, so that your remembrance may rise up favourably before Me. And by what means shall this be done. By means of the shofar”.
(Talmud Bavli, Rosh Hashanah 16a:15)
Malchuyot
Our Rosh HaShanah list begins with a difficult subject for modern Jews; malchuyot - sovereignty. It’s a theme found throughout our liturgy, and is a stumbling block for most people when engaging with the high holiday prayers.
Traditionally it means seeing God as the creator and ruler of the universe, recognising a higher power beyond ourselves; however, if we do not believe or trust in ‘the Divine’ as ‘the Great Accountant’, who tirelessly notes down our transgressions as well as our positive actions - how can we understand this key theme?
Malchuyot, I think, is about realising that we do not have sovereignty over our lives, that we are not ‘in control’, and that we cannot know what will happen. For many Jews today malchuyot might refer to the realisation that uncertainty is the only thing that we can predict; the principle reminding us that we are not in charge.
For millennia trust would commonly have been placed in a heavenly sovereignty, but for recent generations this trust and certainty has more likely been placed in earthly leaders (whether we liked them or not), and yet in the past couple of years even that certainty has for many become broken.
Zichronot
The second theme the ancient rabbis highlighted for Rosh Hashana is zichronot - memory and remembering. It is a vital part of the methods through which we engage with teshuva, the process of forgiveness and return; the raison d’etre of the high holy days.
“Memory is our past and future. To know who you are as a person, you need to have some idea of who you have been. And, for better or worse, your remembered life story is a pretty good guide to what you will do tomorrow[1]” the psychologist Charles Fernyhough writes. And we begin with a cheshbon nefesh - an accounting of the soul, a look at the memories of this past year. And yet as we all know, memories are unpredictable.
The writer Julian Barnes explains it well; "We talk about our memories, but should perhaps talk more about our forgettings, even if that is a more difficult – or logically impossible – feat.[2]" Forgettings, not just memories, are the essence of Rosh Hashanah. A time to open the gates of memory, to be asked to remember this past year, the bitter and the sweet, and from that to begin our cheshbon nefesh - our private ledger of what we did wrong but also (importantly) what we did right. We need to ensure we engage with both our memories and our ‘forgettings’.
And the shofar reminds us of that. It’s harsh notes are a challenge to open our hearts to help us recall the difficult memories, those we would rather forget.
Painful memories from this year
The memories from this year are painful. Our norms of social behaviour are altered, and we face an uncertain autumn and winter that might bring back even more restrictions.
We have lived through a time of great loss of life, where families could not be there for their loved ones in their dying moments, despite the incredible efforts of hospital and care home staff.
We worry for our parents' safety, we worry for our livelihoods, and we worry about the children, teenagers and university students whose education has been interrupted. We are anxious, but also numb and exhausted by the reality of these feelings
Trust, and most certainly confidence, has been broken on so many fronts. Some of it we can blame on those in government, those who took and continue to make flawed decisions in our eyes. Yet some of the breaches of trust can’t be pinned on anyone.
The trust that things are getting better, that we can live safely and healthily, that there is sufficient certainty about much in our lives; all this, which we might not even have been aware of, has been broken. This year has been bruising, and the marks are not fading easily.
Positive memories from this year
But we do not only have bitter memories from the past year, some we cherish and want to remember; the speed with which our streets organised themselves to help others. Wonderful moments of joy, of helping, of being touched by the thoughtfulness of another person. A slower pace to life, eating together, discovering nature and time to enjoy it. Those are the things we would like to remember.
Shofarot - Forgettings
And then there’s the situations we would rather forget from lockdown; when we judged others on how much or how little they helped others, niggling questions of whether someone broke the rules; how many did they meet up with? How far did they go? Did they really need to stock up on that much pasta or toilet rolls? Did we really need that much flour? Did they socially distance themselves? Did we?
And then there are the issues that we are already at risk of forgetting, like the incredible work of carers, who risked their lives to look after others, despite the poverty pay, the rise of children going hungry, the soul draining uncertainty of not knowing what each day would bring. They have, to an extent, already been relegated to our collective forgetfulness.
To begin our cheshbon nefesh, the accounting of our own deeds and misdeeds, we begin with memory. We start by surveying our past year, not as an objective historical exercise, but as a bundle of personal memories. What did I do right? Where did I go wrong? We can only do this work if we begin in our personal memories, and our forgettings.
So what memories do you have to remember? Which ones are painful, or shameful, or too minor? What actions and behaviours am I proud of? And of what am I less proud?
Through ‘Malchuyot’ and ‘Zichronot’ we are reminded of our lack of control, the inherent unpredictability and uncertainty of the world we inhabit. But our memories, when we search them, should also remind us of the good we have done, and the good we have received.
Blessings
A surprising outcome of uncertainty, is the idea that we can also see it as a blessing. Our Torah readings for Rosh Hashana make uncomfortable reads. But they also offer insights. Like Abraham, Hagar and Sara we’ve felt helpless and despairing in the face of the enormous and growing uncertainties over these past few years. And yet Rosh Hashanah can be a challenge and an antidote to those feelings. For certainty is the dominion of the past. The present and the future, these are wide open and often unpredictable, but with each New Year, comes New Promise. So whilst the unpredictability of the future might make us feel uneasy, it is also full of possibilities.
Dealing with uncertainty
Rosh Hashanah helps us by making us look back, in order that we can move ahead. In looking back over the year, and this year has been so difficult, we might find ourselves carrying a feeling of ‘what is the point of a day of praying and remembering like today?’ when we have little idea of what tomorrow may bring.
I see the structure of the liturgy as there to help us make sure that we take time to think about everything. Not only in a private and personal way, but also in a communal way.
In beginning with Malchuyot, our act of remembering starts from a space of first reflecting on our experiences of both power and powerlessness; readying us to remember from a place of humbleness. And then following a period of remembering what came before, the shofar drags out of us memories which we may have wanted to forget. And in this way Rosh HaShanah is opening us and readying us for the period leading up to Yom Kippur.
May we be able to engage in remembering the struggles and difficulties of the past year, the ways we have judged others and been judged ourselves, and also the challenges we’ve faced and overcome.
May we hear the shofar that calls to the memories lain hidden or discarded, so that our forgettings are given the space they need.
And may we all have the strength to accept the sense of powerlessness that comes with uncertainty, and the confidence that even in an uncertain future there will be new possibilities.
[1] https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/jan/13/our-memories-tell-our-story