by Rabbi Peter S. Knobel
Yom Kippur - Yiskor 5761 - October 9, 2000

More than half the day has past. We have engaged intensively in prayer and reflection. Yet for many of us this is the moment for which we wait—for many of us this is the moment which we dread. Sweet and tender memories compete with our deep sense of loss. Our reminiscences engender important questions about who we are and what we have become. We are consumed with our own mortality and our quest for immortality. Jewish tradition teaches that we are body and soul . The body is the temporary house of the soul which existed before we were born and which will continue to exist after our death. But even more than this, tradition envisions a day when body and soul will be reunited. Is this pious hope? Is it mere legend? Or does it tap into some hidden mysterious truth? The intimations of immortality are fleeting and ambiguous but nonetheless they are persistent. From time immemorial we humans have yearned for and created visions of life after death. Our literature is full of wondrous and terrifying descriptions of the next life. Ultimately the door on eternity is locked to our mortal sight. Theology may proclaim and faith may confirm it, but only in the fullness of time shall we know for sure.

Having said this, I am left with the mystery of the human soul. It cannot be discovered in the laboratory. The following story, which is found in Rachel Remen’s book Kitchen Table Wisdom, defies clear explanation.

FOR THE LAST ten years of his life, Tim’s father had Alzheimer’s disease. Despite the devoted care of Tim’s mother, he had slowly deteriorated until he had become a sort of walking vegetable. He was unable to speak and was fed, clothed, and cared for as if he were a very young child. As Tim and his brother grew older, they would stay with their father for brief periods of time while their mother took care of the needs of the household. One Sunday, while she was out doing the shopping, the boys, then fifteen and seventeen, watched football as their father sat nearby in a chair. Suddenly, he slumped forward and fell to the floor. Both sons realized immediately that something was terribly wrong. His color was grey and his breath uneven and rasping. Frightened, Tim’s older brother told him to call 911. Before he could respond, a voice he had not heard in ten years, a voice he could barely remember, interrupted. "Don’t call 911, son. Tell your mother that I love her, Tell her that I am all right." And Tim’s father died. Tim, a cardiologist, looked around the room at the group of doctors mesmerized by this story. "Because he died unexpectedly at home, the law required that we have an autopsy," he told us quietly. "My father’s brain was almost entirely destroyed by this disease. For many years, I have asked myself, ‘Who spoke?’ I have never found even the slightest help from any medical textbook. I am no closer to knowing this now than I was then, but carrying this question with me reminds me of something important, something I do not want to forget. Much of life can never be explained but only witnessed.

It is the mystery which intrigues me. This service is about crossing the abyss that separates the living from the dead. Can the dead still speak to us? I believe they can. No I do not believe in ghosts but I do believe that somehow soul can touch soul. So in the silence which is coming soon, let us listen with our soul’s ear and let us see with our soul’s eye. Let us cross the chasm between today and yesterday and be re-united briefly. The glorious smells of a mother or grandmother’s kitchen—A wisp or perfume or aftershave—Opera on the radio, the voice of Milton Cross—the off key lullaby or ring-around-the-rosy. The gentle touch which wiped away the tear. The bear hug and the sloppy kiss. Drift back in time and honor those for whom you mourn.

Memories are not only warm and comforting. Some are deeply troubling. It is not too late to forgive or ask forgiveness. Here in this place at this moment it may yet by possible. The magic of this day is past and present become one. Linear time loses its hold upon us. Fleeting is this hour. Soon we must return from these sweet and tumultuous reveries. Let’s make ourselves a promise. Today we tell our spouses and partners that we love them. Today we assure our parents of our devotion. Today we will embrace our children and grandchildren. Today we make a promise to know that this finite life passes swiftly and therefore we must mark the rush of time with acts of kindness. The rabbis tell us "Repent one day before your death." Since that day is not known than let us make every day one of turning and returning.