On this solemn day, we devote ourselves to the sacred memory of the martyrs of the Holocaust and recall one of the darkest, most horrific chapters in Jewish history.
The Holocaust challenges the core of Jewish faith and theology. It confronts us with questions that have no definitive answers, neither within religious belief nor within nationalist or Zionist ideology. Any attempt to justify, or provide theological or political “answers” to the Holocaust diminishes its horror and undermines its incomprehensible tragedy. It risks trivializing an era of unimaginable suffering and moral collapse.
Yet, the Torah, the divine truth we uphold, does not ignore pain, nor does it erase events that are difficult to reconcile with our faith. Judaism does not demand that we whitewash history or deny our anguish. On the contrary, our tradition confronts even the most painful truths.
A STRIKING example of this courage appears in the Talmud, Tractate Yoma 69b:
“Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi said: Why were they called the ‘Men of the Great Assembly’? Because they restored the crown [of God’s praises] to its former glory. Moses called God ‘the great, mighty, and awesome God’ [Deuteronomy 10:17]. Then came the prophet Jeremiah [who witnessed the destruction of the Temple], and he said: ‘Foreigners are desecrating the Sanctuary – where is His awesomeness?’ And so he refrained from using the word ‘awesome’ [in his prayer: ‘The great God, the mighty Lord of Hosts, is His name’ (Jeremiah 32:18)].
Then came Daniel [who lived in exile], and said: ‘Foreigners dominate His children – where is His might?’ So he refrained from saying ‘mighty’ [in his prayer: ‘The great and awesome God’ (Daniel 9:4)]. Then came the Men of the Great Assembly and said: On the contrary! God’s might is precisely in His restraint. He conquers His own wrath and gives wicked people time [to repent]. And God’s awesomeness is precisely this: that despite everything, the Jewish people survive among the nations, [like a lone sheep among seventy wolves].
But how could Jeremiah and Daniel uproot a phrase established by Moses?
Rabbi Elazar said: Because they knew God is truth – they could not lie in their prayers.”
Rashi, the medieval commentator, adds: “That He is truth: He aligns with truth and despises falsehood.”
In other words, God does not require advocates or defenders. He does not ask that we pretend everything is good when it clearly is not. Jeremiah and Daniel, standing in the face of destruction and exile, could not bring themselves to describe God as “mighty” or “awesome.” Their lived reality contradicted those descriptors. And they knew that God would accept their words – because He honors truth and despises falsehood.
This raises a powerful theological question: What about the Men of the Great Assembly, who later restored those divine attributes in prayer? Were they, Heaven forbid, trying to cover up God’s actions or reframe history through idealism?
The Maharsha, a renowned 16th-century Talmudic commentator, addresses this: “The Men of the Great Assembly lived at the end of the Babylonian exile. During that time, they saw salvation and miracles, such as the rescue from Haman’s decree in the Purim story. They saw that God’s patience with the wicked was not weakness but a form of divine strength. They saw that Israel’s survival among hostile nations was not luck, but evidence of divine awe.
“Therefore, they could truthfully say that God is still ‘mighty and awesome.’ They were not contradicting Jeremiah and Daniel, who spoke their truth in a different era. Each generation must speak truthfully from its experience, recognizing the hand of God where it is seen and acknowledging its absence when it is hidden.”
This teaching contains a profound theological insight: Religious language and faith should be anchored in the truth of the moment. Faith must be alive, dynamic, and honest – not formulaic or forced. Neither Jeremiah, nor Daniel, nor the Men of the Great Assembly lied. Each reflected God’s presence or hiddenness through the lens of their own generation.
Now, more than eighty years have passed since the Holocaust. Fewer and fewer survivors remain to tell their stories. The struggle of the Jewish people for survival continues in every generation. It often feels as if the memory of the Holocaust fades, overshadowed by the rapid pace of history or ignored in a world that still misunderstands or denies it.
We must confront that darkness
On this Holocaust Remembrance Day, we must confront that darkness – not just to remember the horror, but to draw essential moral and spiritual lessons from it:
1. Faith must be built on truth, not on apologetics.
Avodat Hashem, our service of God, must be grounded in truth. Faith is complex. It develops over time, through questioning, doubt, and wrestling with the world. But it is not a shield against reality. Judaism does not promise that everything will be understood. There are times, like in the Holocaust, when God’s presence is obscured, and divine justice feels absent.
Still, even in the darkness, we can cling to the words of the prophet Micah: “Though I sit in darkness, the Lord is my light” (Micah 7:8).
We may not understand, but we do not abandon the search for meaning.
2. Do not place blind faith in humanity.
Rav Yehuda Amital wrote in the introduction to his essay “Though Bitter and Harsh to Me”: “Can one still believe in humanity after what the German nation and its collaborators did? To believe in mankind after that is impossible. We have seen how low human beings can sink. Fortunate are we, whose faith lies in God.”
This message rings even louder today. After the savage terror attack of October 7, 2023, and the shocking global support that followed – not only from the murderers but from those who cheered them on – we were reminded just how fragile the moral compass of humanity can be. Many failed to distinguish between good and evil. We witnessed once again the depths of human cruelty.
3. The Holocaust reveals our shared destiny – and our shared responsibility.
The Holocaust did not discriminate. Its victims came from all segments of Jewish society – across political, religious, economic, and cultural lines. In the camps and ghettos, all differences disappeared. What remained was the shared fate of a people.
From this, we learn that our future must be built on unity and mutual responsibility. The Holocaust gave us not only tragedy but also a mission: to build a renewed Jewish homeland, and a moral society that embraces diversity, chooses togetherness – and remembers that we are one people, with one destiny.
In that spirit, we must recommit every day to living lives of meaning: lives of connection; of truth, action, and values.
Let us remember; let us not forget. And let us choose, again and again, to live lives that sanctify memory – with integrity, with compassion, and with purpose.
The writer is the rabbi of the Kehilat Nitzanim synagogue in Jerusalem.