Calendars and Memory, God and History

In spring 2008 I traveled to Kibbutz Shefayim on the coast of Israel between Herzeliya and Netanya, to attend a Jewish agency conference aimed at training hundreds of Israelis who will work in Jewish summer camps all over the world, including Camp Ramah in California where I am the Executive Director. On Yom Hashoah, some camp directors and a few young adult Israelis and I gathered for a quick Shaḥarit service before breakfast. I led the morning prayers and, as part of the repetition of the Amidah, I included a special paragraph marking Yom Hashoah composed by the Masorti (Conservative) movement. Such an inclusion in the fixed prayer is a liturgically important statement that gives the day religious significance. Since the First Temple period, few holidays—amongst them Purim, Hannukah, the minor fasts and Tisha B'Av—have been incorporated into the liturgical calendar. To add mention of Yom Hashoah to the official liturgy says that our community officially recognizes this day as a day to remember, before God, a terrible tragedy in Jewish history when we experienced God's absence in the world. (The paradox of talking to God about God's absence, all the while ignoring the possibility of God's continued absence would be funny were it not so terrifying.) Such an addition to the liturgy might go unnoticed in an American Jewish community unless the rabbi called attention to it, but in Israel, where everyone understands the words of the prayers as they are said, nobody missed the change.

After the special repetition of the Amidah, I turned around to the small minyan gathered early in the morning and asked: "Do we do Taḥanun?"

"No," someone called out, "It's Nisan."

To the uninformed observer, the irony of the exchange would be lost. My question was a fairly minute question of the laws of Jewish prayer: should I include the Taḥanun prayers, prayers of confession that typically follow the Amidah? On one level, it was a silly question. The Taḥanun prayers are canceled on a variety of days—Shabbat, Festivals, even Friday afternoons because Shabbat is at hand—the common reason seemingly because they are happy occasions. Taḥanun —otherwise known as "falling on one's face"—is omitted because it is a prayer that focuses us on our weakness and sin and ultimate dependence upon God for salvation in this world. Because the holiday of Passover takes place during the month of Nisan, Taḥanun is canceled during the entire month of Nisan because of the joy associated with the festival. The answer to my question was fairly straightforward: it is the month of Nisan and we are joyous during Nisan, so we do not include the Taḥanun prayers.

But at another level, the response I received was absurd. We omit Taḥanun because of the remnant of the joy of Pesaḥ that stays with us all month, yet, during that same month, we commemorate the Shoah and call to mind the senseless murder of six million Jews. Are we supposed to feel joy or sadness? Are we supposed to celebrate God's saving power or contemplate God's devastating absence from modern Jewish history?

What was exposed in an otherwise unremarkable liturgical moment were two competing narratives that, fleshed out more fully, are pulling at the soul of the Jewish people. On the one hand, we celebrate 60 years of the State of Israel and, on the other hand, the Jewish people continue to mourn and struggle with the significance of the Shoah and the structure of our faith in its wake. The month of Nisan and the holiday of Pesaḥ celebrate God's saving power in history. The Shoah represents the ultimate moment in Jewish history when God did not save His people. To which myth do we owe allegiance? Do we pray to God to save us or take responsibility for ourselves, even if it means leaving God behind? Do we remember our suffering and God's salvation? Or do we remember God's absence (impotence?) and the need for our own heroism?

The Orthodox...