Remarks from Rabbi Delphine Horvilleur

Remarks from Rabbi Delphine Horvilleur (2.27.26)

Shabbat shalom…

There is an old French song some of you may know. It says: “NON JE N’AI RIEN OUBLIÉ… RIEN OUBLIÉ.” The song repeats again and again : “No, I DID NOT FORGET A THING,” and it’s full of nostalgia.

And those words could well be the soundtrack of the sermon I am about to deliver … because it is all about nostalgia. The nostalgia I have been feeling these past few days in New York.

I am so thrilled to be back here after so many years: Thank you for having rolled out this white carpet of snow to welcome me.

And coming back here fills me with great emotion—and especially returning to this sanctuary…

It brings me back to a very particular moment of my life: The scene takes place right here in 2008. I am not yet a rabbi but only weeks away from becoming one. And one Friday night, during service, the rabbinic team around me, opens the ark to offer a blessing, at the threshold of my rabbinate. Among those angels is Angela, my friend and mentor, and that moment is forever engraved in my memory.

It was exactly 18 years ago. Eighteen is a key number in Jewish tradition : not only the time it takes to become an adult, but also the very famous gematria of the word chai, life.

And it won’t be a scoop for anyone: in 18 years, the world has changed. We have changed. So many elements of OUR LIVES have changed that we would never have imagined…Or more precisely, no one had enough imagination to conceive what would unfold.

So tonight, I remember….And because there is no coincidence, we enter a Shabbat that has a special name in the Jewish calendar. It is called shabbat Zachor—REMEMBER—and it is always the Shabbat that precedes the festival of Purim.

But let me go back 18 years ago…

At that time, antisemitism was on the rise in France. We were before the attacks in Toulouse, and well before those at the Hyper Cacher, but the situation was difficult. And in New York, I kept hearing the same sentence. Every time I was asked to speak about antisemitism, I would hear those words: “Oh, it could never happen here, in America!”

Eighteen years later, it is obvious that the phenomenon has developed everywhere, and that wherever we are, we must confront the growth of this ancient hatred.

When I lived in the United States, I was often struck by the gap between the American and the European narratives of our Jewish identities.

I grew up in a world shaped by suspicion—fear and mistrust inherited from past generations. It often meant strengthening the walls of our synagogues and homes, hoping to protect ourselves.

When I arrived in the United States, I discovered your Judaism, built upon a very different story—the promise that security would be granted here in any circumstance. American Judaism was not about building solid walls, but opening windows and doors—in a powerful alliance and full trust in the outside world.

Dear friends, it seems to me that these past years have changed us, European and American Jews.

For my part, in the past years, as a French rabbi, I have done everything I could to build openings, windows and doors—dialogue with the other, build trust in the possibility to fight our loneliness.

And it seems to me that in recent history, American Jews had to think differently about protection—and security.

It is as if, we had suddenly moved closer to each other… from opposite directions. Desperately in need of each other’s experience.

Walls and doors…It is striking because that in a few days, that is exactly what we will speak about. At Purim, in the Book of Esther, the entire plot unfolds between the walls and the gates of the King’s palace.

Esther is inside, behind walls; and Mordechai stands at the gate. Throughout the story, there is constant tension between the open and the closed, threat and security. Should we trust the other, or be suspicious ? Purim doesn’t give an answer, but it teaches us something much more subtle: a philosophy of Jewish memory…given by ONE VERSE that will be read tomorrow in synagogues.

On Shabbat Zachor, we read this:

Zachor et asher asah lecha Amalek
Remember what Amalek did to you…Do not forget what we have endured. the sufferings of our people, the traumas of our past…

But the verse continues as follows. Timche et zecher Amalek, lo tishkach—Blot out the memory of Amalek; do not forget.

You see: it is written at the same time “remember… AND forget”.

The philosophy of Jewish memory lies in this PARADOX—to remember and to forget at the same time. Which can be understood this way: do not forget what happened, but make sure that what happened does not prevent you from being HAY, fully alive. Remember but do not be paralyzed by memory.

And that is exactly where we find ourselves today, between the European and American Jewish experience: learning to protect our children… but making sure that are still doors through which they will build strong alliances in our societies.

Eighteen years ago, in this very place, a door opened for me—for which I will forever remain grateful: the gate of the sacred ark of Central Synagogue, opened by my beloved colleague Angela Buchdahl…who beyond the blessing of my ordination, gave me the blessing of friendship and sisterhood.

“NON JE N’AI RIEN OUBLIÉ”… May we together, again and again—remember to support each other on this difficult journey. May we never forget that on both sides of the ocean, and together, we can be both nostalgic and hopeful…