We all know Rosh Hashanah as the Jewish New Year. Tradition gives the day a second, more somber identity: the Day of Judgment. And yet, curiously, the Torah refers to the first of Tishrei as neither.

Instead, it gives us an enigmatic description:

זכרון תרועה — Zikhron Teru’ah.

In our prayers, the first of those words becomes the very name of the day: יום הזכרון — Yom HaZikkaron, the Day of Remembrance.

It is an unexpected name for one of the most awesome days of the Jewish year. Of all the ways the Torah might have described the day, it chooses remembrance.

But remembrance of what? And who is doing the remembering?

A Memory That Cannot Forget

The question grows louder in Zichronot, the middle of the three great sections of the Rosh Hashanah Mussaf. Again and again we speak about God’s memory. He remembered Noach. He remembers His covenant. He remembers His creatures. And throughout the day we repeatedly ask Him to remember us:

זכרנו לחיים — Remember us for life.

But what does it mean for God to remember?

When the Torah says after the Flood:

ויזכר אלקים את נח — “God remembered Noach,” it obviously cannot mean that Noach had somehow slipped God’s mind.

The first day’s Torah reading carries the same mystery.

Of Sarah we read: וה׳ פקד את שרה — “Hashem remembered Sarah.”

Elsewhere the Torah says of Rachel:

ויזכר אלקים את רחל — “God remembered Rachel.”

But neither woman could have been forgotten. The Rosh Hashanah prayers themselves explicitly reject such a possibility:

אין שכחה לפני כסא כבודך — There is no forgetting before the throne of Your glory.

So what are we asking for? If God already remembers everything, what could it possibly mean to ask God to remember us?

The Life We Cannot Keep

To understand Divine memory, we first have to think about our own.

We imagine ourselves as possessing a life stretching backward through decades. But how much of that life do we actually possess?

Think about the past year. Thousands of hours were lived. Thousands of conversations, thoughts, worries, pleasures, disappointments and encounters. At the moment each occurred, it was completely real. It filled our consciousness.

Where is it now? Almost all of it is gone. A few images remain. A handful of conversations. Certain faces and moments. Even those grow dimmer with time.

Yesterday was once as immediate as this moment. Soon this moment will disappear as well. Eventually we ourselves will disappear from the memories of others.

The overwhelming majority of our own lives has already vanished from us. We cannot hold on even to ourselves, let alone ensure that others will remember us.

This is the root of the almost universal human desire to be remembered.

Kings built monuments. We place names on buildings. We speak of leaving a legacy. We hope our children will carry something of us forward.

Beneath all of it lies a very human plea: Do not let me disappear.

Because in a profound sense, to be forgotten is a kind of death. And to be remembered is somehow to remain alive.

This may be part of the humility Rosh Hashanah demands of us. We stand before God and confront the fragility of our existence. I cannot guarantee tomorrow. More unsettling still, I cannot even preserve yesterday. I possess only scattered fragments of the life I call my own.

What, then, remains of a human life? Zichronot gives a powerful answer:

אתה זוכר מעשה עולם ופוקד כל יצורי קדם… אין שכחה לפני כסא כבודך.

You remember the deeds of the world and attend to all creatures from antiquity… there is no forgetting before the........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)