Comments regarding the sermons...email Rabbi Karp.
Click here. Rabbi Karp's Sermons ... YOM KIPPUR YIZKOR 2004 It has been four years since my sister Jayne passed away. As many of you may remember, cancer claimed her on Yom Kippur day. I was notified of her passing literally moments before stepping onto this pulpit to conduct our Afternoon service. It has been four years since the last member of my childhood household left me. First my mother, then my father, then my brother-in-law, Norman, and finally, Jayne. I am still haunted by that moment in Jayne’s home, after her funeral, when I and Norman’s sister, Ann, and Ann’s husband, Bill, were looking at the photo of Norman & Jayne’s wedding dinner, only to realize that of all those loved ones gathered around that table, only the three of us remained. It has been four years and since that day I have never been the same. Rarely does a day go by when something does not trigger memories of my parents, or my sister and her husband. Rarely does a day go by when I do not find myself wishing that they were here to share in some special moment. Rarely does a day go by when I do not find myself lamenting that my parents never had the pleasure of knowing Helene. How they would have fawned over her! She would have been their princess who could do no wrong. And how thrilled Jayne & Norman would have been to witness what close friends Helene has become with their own granddaughter, my niece, Rebecca. There was a time when memories were practically synonymous with tears. I’d be driving in my car and a song would come on the radio - a song from my youth - and the next thing I knew, I was crying. A certain phrase was uttered, a certain situation arose, and memories flooded in, and along with them, tears. For oh so long, it seemed as though my wounds would never heal; they remained open and raw. But time, indeed, is a gentle healer. As the Psalmist taught, “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.”[1] I found, and hopefully we all have found or will find, that no matter how deep our wounds, with the passage of time, our hearts, our souls, will heal. They will never be whole, as if no wound was suffered - there will always be a scar marking our loss - but they will heal. It is one of the miracles of creation. Where once was pain, eventually we find warmth and love and joy. Where once were tears, eventually we find smiles and laughter, and even comfort. Like fine wine, the memories of those now gone only improve with age. With each passing year, our memories do not fade but grow more vivid and luscious. With each passing year, we dramatically grow in our appreciation of what our loved ones meant to us; how much they loved us and how much we loved them. The time does come, whether we believe it or not, when those memories no longer stab at us with the pain of our loss, but rather nurture us and fulfill us with the radiance of a love that can never die. We find ourselves yearning to remember and eager to share with others - especially with those we love the most - those precious memories. With every passing year, I find myself sharing more and more with the Cantor and our children, especially with Helene, memories of my family. For so many years, so much remained unspoken, a subject taboo. In fact, it wasn’t until my healing had brought me to the point that I could speak of them without hurting that I realized how absent from our family’s vocabulary were such terms as Grandpa Sam and Grandma Helene, Aunt Jayne and Uncle Norman. Nor did I realize how much the Cantor and Shira were taking their lead from me. Rarely did they speak of my parents, my sister, and her husband, as if they had no memory of them. But once I started speaking, they spoke as well. They shared memories as vivid as mine. Indeed, once the taboo had been lifted, our memories became as a warm embrace, enfolding us in the love we all once shared, the living and the dead. Sharing our memories - and especially sharing them with Helene - has become a binding balm for our family. Our love for our dears ones now gone was, and still remains, deep and true, and an important something we shared, and continue to share in common; something which unites us. To tell the stories is to share it once more. To tell the stories is to affirm what it means to be a family. To tell the stories is to pass on the legacy. It is to keep our loved ones alive; alive beyond the span of memory. For in our family, Helene is the future and my parents, my sister, my brother-in-law, they are the past. The truly meaningful life possesses the power to touch people who did not necessarily have the privilege of knowing us face to face. If just knowing about us is enough to make a difference; if just knowing about us is enough to bring us to life in the heart of someone who by quirk of fate will remain a physical stranger, then we will have made our mark; then our life will begin to have a meaning beyond our earthly existence. And it falls upon us - we who carry the personal memories - to share them, to carry them forward into the future, to bring to life our loved ones, to bring them to life in the lives of others who never actually gazed upon their faces. If your wound is too fresh, too raw, to permit you to speak of your loved ones without a tear in your eye, a catch in your voice, a knot in your chest, then have faith. The time will come when all that pain will give way to the tender glow of remembrance. A time will come you will yearn to share their stories. A time will come when the sharing of those stories will be almost narcotic in its effect. There is a certain Divinely inspired irony that both the pain and the pleasure are measures of a love which transcends death. We anguish because we love them and miss them, and then, when the time is right, we revel in our recollection, also because we love them and miss them, and are profoundly grateful for all they gave us; those memories of joyous companionship, of love radiant and pure. May this hour dedicated to the memory of beloved departed evoke of us, not only tears, but also smiles - warm, loving smiles - and a renewed dedication to keep their stories alive, sharing them, in all their grandeur, especially with those who are so central in our lives today. AMEN [1] PSALMS 30:6. |
