(Drasha given in Kinor David on the occasion of the 10th Yahrtzeit of my father, Peter Rozenberg, פנחס בן נתן נטע z”l, 18 March 2023, Shabbat VaYakhel / HaChodesh)
My father’s Yahrtzeit is always a week before the new month of Nissan, which is coming up this Thursday.
The new month of Nissan was the very first commandment that G-d gave the Jewish People, just as we were about to leave Egypt. G-d told us how to make our calendar, and that this month should be referred to as the first of the months.
Now, you might ask, was this really the first commandment, right before they left Egypt? What about Bris Mila? Wasn’t that given to Avraham?
Actually, that commandment was given to an individual, a family. The commandment about the calendar is meaningless for individuals, it requires a community, a nation. We can’t each have our own calendar – at the very minimum, we all need to agree which day Passover falls out on.
What about the commandment after that, the second one? That was to bring the Passover offering – to eat the lamb and put its blood on the doorposts, and there too, G-d says to Moshe: “speak to the entire community of Israel”. That commandment is both for each family, each household, but also, for the entire community – one of the first actions that we take to remember the Exodus from Egypt.
Shabbat is another example – this week’s Parasha, VaYakhel, starts with Moshe gathering the entire community of the Jewish People to tell them about how to keep Shabbat. We keep Shabbat as individuals, as families, and also as a community. In fact, the Ohr HaChaim points out that we learn from Moshe that we should gather together on Shabbat – as indeed, we do.
So there are commandments for individuals, for families, and for the entire community – and there’s memory of individuals, of families, and of the entire community.
A few years back, I was corresponding with a person online, not Jewish. They wrote to me that they were a little jealous of me for having a national, communal memory. Apparently, their memory is only about things that happened to them personally, a little bit of their family history, and that’s it. They don’t have any national or communal memory.
I found that to be more than a little shocking. Communal memory is such an important part of my identity, my view of the world, it is hard to imagine that people live without it; it must be so lonely and disconnected.
I am listed on the Nefesh BeNefesh web site for people making Aliya to Ra’anana, and I get occasional phone calls asking for advice. One of the points that I always make is the importance of community, especially for Olim. It’s something that we take for granted outside of Israel, but is unfortunately less prevalent here, except in Ra’anana and other places that Olim have settled and influenced. We do have community – that is, a rav and even a rabbanit, and Torah lessons, and events, and meals for people who have given birth, and kiddushes, and memorials and shivas.
This week was the 10th Yahrtzeit of my father, Peter Rozenberg, Pinchas ben Natan Nota, z”l.
When a person – especially a person who made a difference to a community – passes a way, they leave a “Chalal”, a hole, a gap in the cosmos, a gap in the sum total of G-d’s Presence in this world. When they’re gone, the gap that they leave needs to be filled, and then we each feel the need to fill it.
The gap in G-d’s Presence – which we might call “Chillul Hashem” – is filled through Kaddish. When the community answers, “Yehei Shmei Rabba” – “may His Name be blessed forever” – that fills the empty space, a little bit.
Also, each of us find ways to fill it, in our own way.
For the past ten years, I have given a Drasha in my father’s name, and each time I try to bring to life an aspect of his character – on Parashat Parah, I talked about the heart of flesh and greeting everyone with a smile; on Ki Tisa I talked about Rav Chessed – dedication to kindness, on VaYakhel about Shabbat and community, on HaChodesh about “one day at a time”.
These are my individual memories, and the Torah that flows from me, inspired by him.
But every time, each year, members of our community tell me their own recollections, their own memories, what they learned from him: how to be a grandfather, a friend, how to greet a person they meet on the street with true joy, how to show respect to each human being.
Each one fills the space that he has left, in their own way, and that in turn, lifts each of us up.
This way, an individual that helped create a community, even when they’re gone, their influence continues to be felt, through the community itself, through community memory, memory that extends to more than just one person, and memory that extends forward through time.
May his memory be blessed