I have always found the custom, in Ashkenazi circles, of reciting Yizkor on the Jewish holidays to be somewhat jarring. After all, the festivals are meant to be occasions of joy and celebration, filled with song, community, and gratitude. Yizkor, by contrast, is a solemn memorial prayer—an intimate moment of remembrance for departed parents and loved ones. Why, then, would such a somber prayer be inserted into the liturgy of our most festive days?
To understand this, we must return to its origins. The earliest known form of a Yizkor-type prayer appears in the Machzor Vitry, compiled around 1100 CE in northern France. It was likely composed in the wake of the Crusades, as a way for Jewish communities to honor their martyrs and preserve their memory. Its initial inclusion in the Yom Kippur service made perfect sense: the day is already steeped in the imagery of God’s “Sefer Zikaron”—the “Book of Remembrance”—in which we are inscribed and sealed for life. As we seek divine forgiveness and purification, it is only natural that we should also remember and pray for the souls of those who have passed on.
Over time, the deep human need to honor and assist the departed led to the expansion of Yizkor to other occasions—specifically, the festivals of Passover, Shavuot, and Shemini Atzeret. But here the question arises more sharply: why include such a mournful prayer on days that are meant to be festive?
Two explanations have been offered. One draws on ancient Temple practice. In biblical times, Jews would bring offerings to Jerusalem on the pilgrimage festivals. After the destruction of the Temple, those offerings were replaced by prayer and acts of charity. Since Yizkor includes a pledge to give charity in memory of the deceased, the festivals—times of communal gathering before God—were deemed especially appropriate for its recitation. Another explanation is simply practical: the holidays were the moments when the entire community assembled for worship. These gatherings naturally became occasions for shared remembrance and collective prayer for those no longer present.
Still, the inclusion of Yizkor on the holidays inevitably tempers the joy we are meant to feel. On most festivals this tension may seem manageable—but there is one day on which it feels particularly dissonant: Simchat Torah.
In the Diaspora, Yizkor is recited on Shemini Atzeret, the day preceding Simchat Torah. But in Israel, where the two are celebrated as one, the Yizkor prayer falls on the very day devoted to unbridled rejoicing over the Torah. How can a holiday defined by joy—by dancing, song, and celebration—include a prayer so suffused with grief and loss?
In most years, there are no good answers to this question. This year, however, it makes profound sense.
As we watch with bated-breath the long-awaited return of our hostages after two years of unimaginable anguish in Hamas’ tunnels, and after our ceaseless prayers and tireless efforts on their behalf, we are overwhelmed with excitement, exuberance and joy the likes of which we have not known in years. If Simchat Torah 2023 marked the darkest tragedy in modern Jewish history—the bloodiest day for our people since the Holocaust—and Simchat Torah 2024 was overshadowed by war and by the agony of captivity, then Simchat Torah 2025 stands to be a time of unbridled joy and celebration, as the festival was always meant to be.
And yet, even amid the joy and celebration, the memory of loss cannot—and should not—fade. The end of the war and the release of the hostages will inevitably call to mind the horrors of that fateful day two years ago, the lives cut short, and the families forever broken.
Thus, as we dance with the Torah and our fellow Jews, and give thanks for life restored, we will also pause to recite Yizkor—to remember, in sadness and sanctity, those who will not be returning. In that convergence of joy and grief, of gratitude and mourning, lies something deeply authentic to the Jewish spirit.
So while the recitation of the Yizkor prayer on Simchat Torah might ordinarily seem incongruous—perhaps even bizarre—this year it feels profoundly meaningful and appropriate.
Chag Sameach.
