September 8, 2024|ה' אלול ה' אלפים תשפ"ד Rachel Goldberg-Polin's Eulogy: The Search for Light in the Darkness By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

Last Sunday in Israel, while most children were returning to school after their summer break, full of the excitement and routines of the first day, the entire country was made aware of six hostages who would never return home. While parents might have been ordinarily posting pictures of their children heading off to their first day of school, the focus of the nation was on six adult children who were brutally murdered by Hamas—Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Eden Yerushalmi, Ori Danino, Alex Lobanov, Carmel Gat, and Almog Sarusi. These six families would never get the chance to welcome their loved ones back home.

Many of us watched the funeral for Hersh Goldberg on Sunday. The eulogy of his mother, Rachel Goldberg-Polin, is one of the most profound expressions of grief and resilience I have ever encountered. In her moment of deepest pain, she called out not only to Hersh, but to all of us, asking for light, for resilience, for hope, and for healing. Rachel said to Hersh, “I beg of you, please do what you can to have your light shine down on me, Dada, Leebie and Orly. Help shower us with healing and resilience. Help us rise again.” These words echo in my mind, because they touch on a universal yearning that we all share, especially now, especially in times of deep suffering.

Rachel’s plea for light is not merely a personal request; it is the human cry for God’s presence in the darkest of times. She pleads for Hersh’s light to shine down on their family, to guide them through this storm of grief. But what is this light? What is the light that she, and indeed all of us, are seeking now, in this time of grief for us mourning the death of six beautiful young men and women while feeling stuck in a Sophie’s choice of whether or not to make painful national concessions to secure the release of our hostages?

This light is the shechina, the divine presence. It is the feeling of closeness to God that can lift us even when we are at our lowest. Rachel’s words express a desire for that light to heal them, to carry them, and to give them the strength to rise again. And it’s a feeling that we all search for, whether we are aware of it or not. Whether in moments of loss, confusion, or even the mundane challenges of daily life, we yearn for that light of comfort and reassurance. It is the very same light that we invoke in the birkat kohanim, the priestly blessing, ”Ya'eir Hashem panav eilecha vichuneka”—”May God’s face shine upon you and be gracious to you.” We want to feel God’s light shining upon us, giving us the sense that, in the end, everything will be okay.

But here’s the challenge: we live in a world full of pain, suffering, and uncertainty. How do we find this light in the midst of all that darkness? How do we, as Rachel so beautifully expressed, rise again after our lives have been shattered? How do we laugh again, after enduring such pain?

The Torah gives us an answer in a single, powerful phrase: ”Tamim tihyeh im Hashem Elokecha”—”Be wholehearted with Hashem, your God” (Devarim 18:13). But what does it mean to be tamim, to be wholehearted? The word tamim often brings to mind images of simplicity, perhaps even naivete. We think of Yaakov Avinu, described as an ”ish tam yoshev ohalim”, a simple man dwelling in tents, not exposed to the ways of the world. Or we think of the tam at the Seder, the simple child, who asks only a basic question. Is this the model the Torah is giving us? Does being tamim mean we should avoid complexity and live with an unquestioning simplicity?

At first glance, it might seem so. The tam at the Seder asks a simple question, while the chacham (the wise child) engages in deep, intellectual analysis. Does this mean that to be tamim, we are to avoid asking difficult questions and just accept everything as it comes? Is the Torah telling us that curiosity is not a virtue? 

Rav Simshon Raphael Hirsch, in his commentary on this pasuk, offers a more nuanced understanding. He writes, ה”תמים” מבטל את עצמו לה' בגורלו ובמעשיו ודעתו נתונה רק לתפקיד המוטל עליו בכל הווה – tamim means to be entirely devoted to God in both our fate and in our actions. It means to live in the moment, to do what is required of us right now, ואשר להצלחתו ולכל עתידו - הוא משליך את יהבו על ה׳ – and then to trust in God for the future.

In other words, to be tamim does not mean to ignore the realities of life or to live in a state of blind faith. It means to focus on the present, to fulfill our responsibilities, and to place our trust in God for what comes next. It’s about recognizing the limits of our control and understanding that, after we have done all that we can, we must let go and trust that God has a plan.

We live in an age of unprecedented access to information, and in moments of uncertainty, we often find ourselves consumed with trying to figure out what the future holds. Whether it’s the Israel-Hamas war or personal crises, we search for answers, theories, and predictions to ease our anxiety. But, as Rav Hirsch teaches, being tamim means recognizing that after we have done all the research, all the planning, and all the worrying, we must still place our trust in God.

This brings us back to Rachel’s plea for Hersh’s light. In her eulogy, Rachel expresses a deep yearning for healing and resilience, for the strength to rise again. This is the essence of temimut, of being wholehearted. It is the ability to continue walking forward in life, even when the path is shrouded in darkness. It is the faith that, even though we cannot see the way ahead, God is with us, guiding us toward the light.

And this brings us to the deeper meaning of Elul. The Chassidic masters teach that Elul is the time when “ha-melech ba-sadeh” - “the King is in the field.” Rav Schneur Zalman of Liadi, the Baal HaTanya, uses this powerful metaphor to describe God’s closeness to us during this month. During the rest of the year, approaching God may feel distant, like trying to enter a royal palace. But in Elul, God is in the field, accessible to all, waiting for us to approach Him.

This is the month when we are invited to walk out into the field, to meet God face to face. It is the month when we can reconnect with that divine light, the light that Rachel seeks, the light that we all seek. But here’s the challenge: We can’t remain in our tents like Yaakov. We must go out into the field, into the messiness of life, and still strive to be tamim. We must face the struggles, the pain, the uncertainty, and still hold onto our faith.

This is not easy. Yaakov was an ish tam, a man of simple faith, because he lived a sheltered life in the tents. But God commands us to go out into the world, to face its challenges, and to still be tamim. We are asked to balance our responsibilities, our anxieties, our griefs, with a deep, unshaken faith that God is with us in the field.

As we stand less than a month from Rosh Hashanah, the Day of Judgment, we are confronted with a choice. We can choose to focus on the anxieties and uncertainties of the world—whether it’s the Israel-Hamas war or personal struggles—or we can choose to focus on our relationship with God. We can ask ourselves: Am I close to God? Do I sense that He is in the field with me? Or am I still searching for Him in the safety of the tent?

Rachel, in her grief, asked for Hersh’s light to guide them. We, too, must seek out the light in our lives, the light that comes from being tamim im Hashem Elokecha. And if we open our hearts, if we allow ourselves to truly live in the moment, to trust God with the future, then we will find that light. We will rise again. And one fine day, as Rachel so beautifully expressed, we “will hear laughter, and we will turn around and see that it’s us. And that we are okay.”

May God bless us all to find that light, to feel His presence in the field, and to rise again, whole and healed, no matter the pain we have endured.