WE CAN DO GREAT THINGS

(Drasha given before Yizkor, Yom Kippur 2025/5786)

On Tuesday January 20, 1981, Ronald Reagan was inaugurated as the 40th president of the United States on the West Front of the United States Capitol in Washington, D.C. This was the first inauguration in US history to be held on the west side of the US Capitol.

Reagan’s speech that day was a masterpiece of hope and optimism. After a decade of turmoil under Nixon, Ford and Carter – Reagan offered confidence and pride to an America that had been battered from every side – economically, politically, diplomatically – and he presented an alternative that he promised would reverse the country’s fortunes. And not just the country – the world.

I want to quote one small section of his speech that day, which I think carries a message that resonates today at least as much, if not more, as it did in January 1981.

Reagan, always conscious of history, and of course of the theater and drama of each particular moment, used the location of the inauguration ceremony as the backdrop to a deeply moving story.

“This is the first time in our history…” he began, “that this ceremony has been held on this West Front of the Capitol.”

“Standing here, one faces a magnificent vista, opening up on this city’s special beauty and history. At the end of this open mall are those shrines to the giants on whose shoulders we stand.”

“Directly in front of me, the monument to a monumental man, George Washington, father of our country… Off to one side, the stately memorial to Thomas Jefferson… And then, beyond the Reflecting Pool, the dignified columns of the Lincoln Memorial…”

“Beyond those monuments to heroism is the Potomac River, and on the far shore, the sloping hills of Arlington National Cemetery – with its row upon row of simple white markers bearing Crosses or Stars-of-David. They add up to only a tiny fraction of the price that has been paid for our freedom…”

“Under one such marker lies a young man, Martin Treptow, who left his job in a small-town barbershop in 1917 to go to France…”

“There, on the western front, he was killed trying to carry a message between battalions under heavy artillery fire.”

“We are told that on his body was found a diary. On the flyleaf, under the heading, ‘My Pledge,’ he had written these words: ‘America must win this war. Therefore: I will work, I will save, I will sacrifice, I will endure, I will fight cheerfully and do my utmost, as if the issue of the whole struggle depended on me alone.’”

And then, after reading the quote from Martin Treptow’s letter, Reagan continued:

“The crisis we are facing today does not require of us the kind of sacrifice that Martin Treptow and so many thousands of others were called upon to make.”

“It does require, however, our best effort and our willingness to believe in ourselves and to believe in our capacity to perform great deeds, to believe that, together with God’s help, we can and will resolve the problems which now confront us. And after all, why shouldn’t we believe that? We are Americans…”

It was vintage Reagan. He honored the dead, but he also charged the living. He told the story of sacrifice not because he wanted to shock anyone, or make anyone feel bad, but because he wanted to mobilize them into action.

And that’s exactly why I wanted to begin with Reagan today — because we are also standing at a similar moment of memory and responsibility.

When Reagan looked out from the US Capitol he saw Arlington. But when we look out from our vantage point, as Jews in 2025, we see something different.

We see the dead of October 7th.

We see the soldiers who have died in the wars fought by Israel, and particularly the 912 soldiers, officers, and reservists who have been killed in the war over these past two years – both in Gaza and in the north.

We see Mount Herzl.

We see military cemeteries all across Israel — with row upon row of graves for young men and women who gave their lives – not in 1917 on the Western Front, but in Gaza and Lebanon, and within Israel itself, killed by terrorists who enjoy nothing more than killing a Jew, and especially a Jewish soldier.

And just as Martin Treptow left us his final words in written form, many of our IDF soldiers also left us their final words — written in letters that they tucked into their uniforms, or that they sent as WhatsApp messages at the last moment, or that they drafted in diaries and journals they knew might outlive them.

Today, I would like to share with you some of those inspiring words, written by holy soldiers who gave up their lives for the Jewish people.

On the 23rd of January 2024, in one of the worst days of the Gaza war for casualties, 21 IDF soldiers were killed and many others injured when Hamas fired rocket-propelled grenades on buildings occupied by the soldiers in a place called Maghazi, very close to the Gaza border fence at Kissufim.

The buildings were full of explosives, and the grenades set them off causing their total collapse.

Among the soldiers who died was reserve Sergeant Elkana Vizel, a 35-year-old resident of Bnei Dekalim in southern Israel. Vizel was married to Galit, and a father of four children. He worked as a teacher.

Just hours after he was killed, it emerged he had prepared a letter ahead of time, in case he was killed in action. This is what he wrote:

“If you are reading these words, something probably happened to me. First of all, in case I was captured by Hamas, I demand that no deal be made to release any terrorist in order to release me. Our overwhelming victory is more important than anything, so please—just press ahead with all the force until our victory is as overwhelming as possible.”

Incredible, right? What courage!

The letter then continued as follows:

“Maybe I fell in battle. When a soldier falls in battle it is sad. But: I ask you to be happy. Don’t be sad when you part from me. Sing a lot, hold each other’s hands, and strengthen one another.”

“We have so much to be excited and happy about—we are the generation of Jewish redemption. We are writing the most meaningful moments in the history of our people and the whole world. So please be optimistic. Keep choosing life all the time—a life of love, [a life of] hope, [a life of] purity and [a life of] optimism.”

“Look into the eyes of your loved ones and remind them that everything they experience in this life is worth it and that they have a lot to live for. Live! Don’t stop for a moment the intensities of life!”

“I was wounded in ‘Operation Protective Edge [against Hamas in 2014].’ I had the choice to stay behind, but I don’t regret for a moment returning to be a fighter. On the contrary, it’s the best decision I ever made.”

Elkana Vizel was a Jewish hero. What else is there to say. He was the epitome of a Jewish hero. But he wasn’t the only one. Here’s another one.

In the summer of 2014, during Operation Protective Edge, 19-year-old Shon Mondsein was fighting in the Golani Brigade. A few hours before he went back into Gaza with his unit, he called his parents and siblings. He told them how proud he was to be fighting for Israel.

Secretly, he also decided to write farewell letters to them on his phone. If he came back alive, his family wouldn’t read them. But if something happened to him, all his loved ones would discover the messages he had written for them.

Shon and 6 members of his unit died that night in an ambush in the Sajayah district of Gaza. Of course, once they got his phone, his family discovered the letters, and they are incredible.

Shon asked his family to not be afraid, but instead to be strong. He also told them how grateful he was to have had the honor of defending his country. And he told them, many many times: “ani ohev etchem” – “I love you.”

I want to read you a short extract from one of his letters:

“If something happens to me, don’t worry… I assure you that I am happy that something happened to me, and not to my brothers in arms. I love you endlessly… [and] I ask you to keep your smile; [to] be proud; and: promise me one thing: keep living your life. Don’t mourn for too long. Be strong and remember me as a fighter, as a young 19-year-old Israeli.”

A few years after the tragedy, Israeli singer Hanan Ben Ari was told about these letters and he decided to make a song of them. You can hear the song – “Layla Tov, Shon” – on YouTube. It’s probably one of the most moving songs written in Israel over the past few years, and now it is the most played song every year on Yom Hazikaron.

And there are more such letters, equally inspiring. On December 3rd, 2023, 22-year-old Major General Ben Zussman, entered a building in Gaza with his unit. They found Hamas terrorists inside and there was a firefight. Ben lost his life, along with four other soldiers.

The following week, Ben’s parents revealed he had written them a letter, to be opened only if he was killed.

“I am writing this message to you on the way to the base,” his letter began. “If you are reading this, something must have happened to me. As you know, there is probably no one happier than me right now. I had the privilege of fulfilling my dream and vocation, and you can be sure that I am looking down on you and smiling. I will probably sit next to Grandpa.”

He added at the end of the letter that if “God forbid” his family had to sit shiva for him, “make sure it is a week of friends, family and fun.”

And let me share one final letter: this one from Adi Leon, an IDF Staff Sergeant, aged 20. He was killed at the end of October 2023.

“I go out to fight this war, not certain I will return, but I believe with a full heart in what I am doing. We do not have another land, and now it is my turn to protect it and to avenge all the civilians and soldiers, the children, the elderly, and all the women who were defenseless in the face of the onslaught by Hamas.”

“This is the education that my parents gave me. In this, I believe. I hope I will be remembered.”

I have shared four letters. There are many more. All of them are pledges that are as powerful, and as stirring, as the one quoted by Ronald Reagan from Martin Treptow. But the difference is this – these are *our* pledges. They don’t come from the battlefields of France a century ago, but from the hills of Judea, from the tough frontlines of Israel at war, and from the hellhole that is Gaza.

They are written in Hebrew, in the language of our people, by soldiers who grew up singing the same songs we sing, praying the same prayers we pray, and dreaming the same dream of Jewish survival and Jewish destiny that we dream.

And their message is the same: we gave our lives so you could live yours. Do not waste them.

We are about to recite Yizkor. Yizkor matters very deeply. We are not only remembering loved ones we have lost. We are also remembering what they stood for.

Some of those we remember were Holocaust survivors.

Some of them were immigrants who arrived in America with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

Some of them were the children of those immigrants, who struggled to build a Jewish life in America when being Jewish wasn’t easy.

They sacrificed in many different ways. Maybe not with a rifle in their hands, but definitely with years of hard work, of deprivation, of being “the stranger,” of standing tall as Jews in a world that didn’t always welcome them.

And the point is this: none of them asked us to duplicate their sacrifice. Just as Reagan said in 1981 — our task is not to die, but to live.

Our parents and grandparents did the hard work, so we could build on it. And now, our soldiers are giving up their lives – so the least we can do is make sure we have a strong community here in America, and a very strong and supported State of Israel. That is the least we can do.

It is especially true for us as Jews in the shadow of October 7th.

We have been reminded, in the most horrific way, that Jewish history is not a closed book.

We have been reminded that sacrifice is not something of the past.

We have been reminded that heroism is not just found in dusty diaries, but in WhatsApp messages sent last year and in letters written this year.

Our soldiers wrote to their parents: “Be strong. Be proud. Carry on.”

Our loved ones — the ones we invoke at Yizkor — are saying the same thing.

Don’t be paralyzed by grief. Don’t let memory sit still. Take it with you. Let it shape your choices. Let it shape your commitments. And let it direct your priorities.

Reagan ended his story about Martin Treptow by saying: “Why shouldn’t we believe we can do great things? We are Americans.”

Today, in shul, on Yom Kippur, at Yizkor, we can say the same thing — but with even greater force.

Why shouldn’t we believe we can do great things? We are Jews.

We are the children of survivors. We are the inheritors of immigrants. We are the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; of Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel, and Leah.

We are connected by blood to the soldiers who wrote their last letters with such love and such pride.

Let’s make our lives worthy of their sacrifices. Let’s live Jewishly, proudly, bravely. Let’s take their pledge and write it anew in our own diaries, in our own letters, in our own choices.

We have a wonderful community. It’s growing. It’s thriving. It is a Jewish lighthouse in a sea of growing hatred and uncertainty.

Let’s make sure we stay strong, that our community stays strong, and that Israel stays strong.

We can do great things. We are Jews.

We must do great things. Because we are Jews.