This a text version of my introductory remarks to Yizkor on Shemini Atzeret 5777 –
Just a few weeks ago I was looking through some old files hoping for High Holy Day sermon inspiration when I cam across a text I at first did not recognize. It was 16 pages long, in a larger font, and when I began to read through it I realized what it was – a text of the last Yizkor sermon Rabbi Mark Loeb ever gave. Some of you may remember the occasion – it was on YK afternoon, 9 years ago, and it was the first time we had combined our afternoon yizkor services. We had advertised that Rabbi Loeb would be giving that afternoon’s sermon, hoping to draw a large crowd, and we were not disappointed. The Berman Rubin Sanctuary was packed, standing room only, with more than 1500 people who had come not only to recite their yizkor prayers on our tradition’s most sacred day, but also to hear their beloved Rabbi give perhaps his last major sermon.
As you may expect, Rabbi Loeb did not disappoint. I remember the powerful emotion in the room that afternoon, but to be honest I did not remember much of what Rabbi Loeb said, which simply proves my experience that most sermons are not remembered. I knew he had approached the talk as a ‘last lecture’ – an idea that comes from the world of academia, where a retiring professor will give a final talk in which he hopes to summarize his life’s work. And he had listed out a number of specific points about Judaism and Jewish life that he felt were the keys to finding meaning in our tradition. And I also remember he had concluded the sermon with a classic Hasidic tale, the point of which is to be true to yourself.
I have a feeling the text of his sermon fell into my hands that very day, בעצם היום הזה the tradition would say, when he left it on the pulpit he had so powerfully graced for more than 30 years. He was not one for saving sermons, and when he did take them he casually tossed them into the trash can in his office after services. But that day I saw the text lying there, took it, and slipped it into my own files, thinking that one day it would be insightful, a historical artifact for the congregation, a testament to Rabbi Loeb’s thinking and teaching.
Since I have rediscovered it, I have read through the text a number of times during this holiday season. It is almost as if Rabbi Loeb’s booming voice is coming back across the void, his be-robed figure swaying slightly as he leaned into the words of his message, his organized mind and elegant tongue laying out his sense of what it means to be Jew. What was most striking to me about his remarks as I read and reread them was how often he spoke of love. His love of Baltimore, his adopted home town, and most importantly his love of Beth El, our community and our congregants. And of course his deep love of the tradition he had served and wrestled with for all those long years.
When things settle down after the holidays I will have the entire text of Rabbi Loeb’s sermon published on our FB page. But today, as we come together near the conclusion of our holiday season, as we gather to recite our yizkor prayers, 9 years after Rabbi Loeb spoke those words from this pulpit, and just a few days after we marked his 7th yartzeit, there is one section of his text I would like to share with you. This is the 7th of the 12 messages of Judaism that he spoke about that day, and I am quoting directly:
“I love Judaism because it has taught the world the idea of a covenantal love relationship between God and humankind, the ideal expression of a love that at times may falter but will never end. Such a paradigm of love is meant to inform our view of the sanctity of human relationships, reminding us that it is our religious duty to try never to give up on one another, whether it be our children, our brothers, our sisters, our husbands, our wives, our parents or our friends. We must never treat each other as objects, but, as Martin Buber taught, as sacred others. Things are replaceable but people, even those we find difficult to abide at a given moment, are not.”
And it seems to me those few words capture the idea of what yizkor is all about. First that we have not given up, that through the pain of loss, through grief, through guilt and sadness, and whatever other emotions we struggle with today, we have not given up. And secondly, that the people we stand to say yizkor for today can never be replaced. Their presence continues to be a part of our lives, their values and morals guideposts to our characters, to how we live and who we are. It is a brave thing to stand to say yizkor – to once again stare into the face of loss, knowing that our grief will feel fresh and raw, but determined to fulfill our obligations and to do our very best to move forward, carrying our losses while at the very same time living our lives with a renewed sense of gratitude and faith.
Towards the end of Rabbi Loeb’s remarks on that day he said this, and again I quote directly: “I would never have had the opportunities and experiences that have enriched my life so much if it hadn’t been for you… and as my service to Beth El comes to a close this spring, (I know) that a part of you will always live in me. I hope the converse is true.”
As we rise together to say our yizkor prayers we acknowledge how very true that statement is, for our friends, our family members, for all those we call to mind today – may their memories always be for a blessing –