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Yom Kippur Morning —The Myths of Jewish Death
Omer Articles Posted on October 09, 2008 | Categories: High Holy Day Sermons
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Yom Kippur Morning —The Myths of Jewish Death
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A few years ago I received a letter from a friend from a High School named
Heidi that I’d like to share with you.

Mark, I have a question for you. Last January I was with my Orthodox
relatives at my grandma’s house and trying to explain to my 4-year old
where Popo (my grandpa) was. Well, my orthodox relatives proceeded to
tell Nickie about heaven. I was floored as was my mom. I had never learned
that Jews believe in Heaven. I had always been taught that once we die,
that is it. That’s what I thought was one of the biggest differences between
Judaism and Christianity.

I have since done some research. I have talked to many others who thought
as I did. One of my friends learned from her rabbi that the reason for this is
that in our parent’s day, Rabbis did not discuss theology—it was sort of a
hush hush topic—and so they just did not deal with what happened after
death. So our generation just did not learn about this.

This has had a huge effect on me. I’ve had to talk to everyone in my life
who I had always talked to about how Jews go nowhere when they die. My
husband has also had a hard time with this as he has heard me talk about
this for years. Can you help me with this?
I’ll try. In my experience, Heidi is not alone in having this question. When I
served as an AOL “Ask a Rabbi” it was probably the most frequent question
I was asked. In a few minutes I will specifically address the question about
the Jewish views of death and the afterlife, but this idea that Judaism has
no belief in the afterlife is just one of many misconceptions or myths that
we have surrounding the Jewish approach to death, dying, and the beyond.
Today, on this day of Yizkor, rather than give a traditional “sermon” I’d like
to explore a few of these Jewish death myths, legends, and bubbemeizes.

Let’s start with an easy one. Myth #1. You can’t be buried in a Jewish
cemetery if you have tattoos. Sorry Moms and Dads, the idea that if you
have a tattoo you can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery is pure myth.
Idolaters can’t be buried in cemeteries, and in ancient times, tattoos were
often a sign of idolatry, but today we make no such assumptions. Tattoing is
still against Jewish law, but it won’t keep you out of the cemetery. Jews
with tattoos can be buried in Jewish cemeteries, even Orthodox ones.
That’s myth #1. The rest will take much longer to explain.

Myth #2. The purpose of a Jewish funeral is to make sure the

deceased is honored and praised. I know it sounds like there is nothing
wrong with that statement. The problem is that the way people do that
these days often interferes with the real purpose of a Jewish funeral, which
is to bury the deceased quickly so we can comfort the mourners at the
Shiva house. The Jewish funeral is designed to be short and sweet. In the
Rabbi’s Manual, the funeral service itself is incredibly short. You open with a
Psalm or two (because these are considered the traditional Jewish source of
comfort), and then, after the eulogy. there is the El Malei Rachamim, the
Memorial Prayer. At the cemetery there is a seven fold blessing recited with
the seven traditional stops of the casket, HaTzur, a prayer about God being
our rock, which is recited as the casket is covered, and the Kaddish,
recited after the grave is covered. That’s it. Very few words are spoken as
part of a simple, dignified process.

I am very fortunate that I do relatively few funerals here in Oakland. In my

previous pulpit, in Cranston, Rhode Island, I did over 100 funerals in three
years. I can tell you from experience that the most important work occurs
not during, but after, the funeral. Still, some time between when I started
as a rabbi 13 years ago and today, the funeral has turned from an affair of
comfort to, well, an affair. Please forgive me if I sound crass here, but some
of the funerals are becoming what I can only call self-indulgent, almost
Bar-Mitzvah like in their production. Sometimes it is the wishes of the
family, and other times it is the deceased who plans and orchestrates the
production him or herself.

I have been coached by videographers on placement and voice modulation

so we could make sure to get the best possible funeral on video. Just after I
arrived here in Oakland, I attended a funeral lasting over two hours even
before we got to the cemetery, which featured 12 speakers, two songs
played on CD, a poem, and an 11 year old girl belting out “Somewhere Out
There,” the hit song sung by Feivel Mousekowitz in the film An American
Tail.

I also find myself repeatedly turning down requests for open microphone
funerals. It’s not always a popular stand to take, because people want to
express their love for the deceased. Shouldn’t they be allowed to? Well,
just, imagine there’s a 7 or 8 year old child there, which even if there isn’t,
is often the person we become when a loved one, especially a parent, dies.
Is it good for them, for us, to listen to 20 people reciting the same things
while we’re dealing with the pain fresh from the death and anxiety of the
burial that’s about to occur? Most of us can’t even take it in. It is more
meaningful, I would suggest, even for posterity’s sake, to express those
thoughts to the mourner individually, at the Shiva, or even in a letter,
which they can then cherish forever.

The eulogy in Judaism is called the Hesped, traditionally recited by either

the rabbi or a dear friend of the family. Specifically not chosen to speak,
according to tradition, were the immediate family members, called the
seven mourning relatives (a term I will be using a lot today), the father,
mother, sister, brother, son, daughter, or spouse. They were not meant to
speak because their mourning was considered too deep to be able to do so.
Times change, and speaking out loud, in public, about our loved ones can
be a very important part of the grieving process for some. So if a family
member wants to speak I encourage that today. But given the tradition and
psychological value of having a short funeral, I ask all families to restrict the
speakers to no more than three.

I have to tell you that all of this is very difficult to bring up when actually
planning a funeral with a family. I am in the difficult position of holding to a
standard and tradition in which I believe when all I really want to do is
reach out and give them, you, a sympathetic hug. That is, in part, why I am
speaking about this painful subject, in such a large gathering, today.

For those who are interested in the psychological value of the Jewish
funeral mourning customs, Dr. Warren Gould and I will be offering a joint
workshop on Jewish mourning customs in December where we will explore
these issues in depth. For now, think Marc Antony’s famous speech in
Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, that the task was not to praise Caesar, but to
him. The purpose of a Jewish funeral is not to praise, but comfort.

That is, if we bury at all, which brings us to myth #3. Myth #3. Cremation
is becoming a more viable Jewish option since it is better for the
environment. Most Jews are aware that it is against Orthodox Jewish law
to cremate. It is also against Conservative Jewish law, and just about every
Reform Rabbi I know is equally uncomfortable officiating at a cremation.
There are several reasons for this. One has to do with the Holocaust. Given
that so many Jews were deliberately cremated by Hitler in the Shoah, how
can we willingly choose cremation today?

A hint of what’s coming later in the Jewish views of the afterlife, a second
reason the Jewish tradition frowns upon cremation has to do with a physical
resurrection of the dead. The idea is that after the Messiah comes, those
who merit life in the next world will literally rise from the grave in their
bodies to begin this “world-to-come,” a sort of heaven on earth. To do that,
the body has to be intact, or at least almost intact. Orthodox amputees
actually save their body parts for later burial with the rest of their body.

The third and, probably, most basic reason for the Jewish tradition of burial
rather than cremation is general respect for the Jewish body. It is why the
body is washed, called Tahara, by a Chevra Kaddisha, a burial society. It
is why there is always someone there to watch over the body, called
Shmira, between death and burial. It is why a person is traditionally buried
in a shroud and the plainest wooden casket, and why, in Israel, there is no
casket at all. The person is buried directly into the ground in their shroud.
The idea is for the body to dispose into the earth quickly, conforming with
the Psalm where it says from dust we were created, and to dust we shall
return. There is a problem in that in California, the law requires a cement
liner over the casket, thus interfering with this natural process of dust to
dust, adding further complication to the decision-making process. Still, the
burial process is clear, and though painful, has both a beauty and a dignity
to it.

Despite all this, more and more Jews are opting for cremation. I have heard
everything from “I don’t want worms to devour my loved ones” to “it is
more cost efficient” to “it is better for the environment.” Well, the worms
are part of the cycle of nature, the idea that it is less expensive is certainly
true, but as far as it being more environmentally friendly, that is not so
clear. There is a growing body of research that indicates that cremation has
a significant impact on the environment and on global warming. It is
estimated that the amount of non-renewable fossil fuel needed to cremate
bodies in North America is equivalent to a car making 84 trips to the Moon
and back… each year. Cremations lead to emissions of nitrogen oxides,
carbon monoxide, sulfur dioxide, mercury, hydrogen fluoride, hydrogen
chloride, trace metals, and persistent organic pollutants (POP’s). But what
about the fact that we’re running out of land? Why devote land to the dead
when we need it for the living? While this is true, especially in urban areas,
I’d certainly prefer more space devoted for beautiful green grass and trees
at a cemetery than the construction of another strip mall with an Applebee’s
and a Walmart.

In addition, visiting a specific place, and one that is beautiful and also
contains the graves of others in a family or a community, has great
emotional and psychological value. As a community, we now have the
opportunity to consider buying land at a new Jewish cemetery about 30
minutes from here out near Martinez. It’s a beautiful, beautiful piece of
land, and though Temple Beth Abraham has never owned a cemetery, it is
worth our consideration as a community. Consideration, I should add, would
mean enough individuals purchasing plots there so we can buy a “section.”
We’ll be sending out information about that some time during the year, and
I’m sure it will be an interesting and important discussion.

But I digress. Our world has become very complicated, and customs are
intermingled. We have reached the point where people are opting for
Shomrim and Tahara, watching over the body and washing the body, and
then going ahead with cremation! To observe minor mitzvoth on the way to
violating such a major one seems wrong to me, but as I said, it’s a very
complicated world. I am not saying cremation isn’t the right choice for some
of you, but I am saying that it is not a proper Jewish choice, or at least a
choice that is consistent with Jewish law or Jewish views of the body. This
may not be a popular thing to say, and I promise to be there with you in
your time of grief no matter what you decide, but my job is to explain and
advocate for the Jewish tradition in which I so passionately and strongly
believe.

Now that we’ve dealt with death and burial, it is time to turn to the
Kaddish.

Myth #4. The Kaddish is a prayer that is recited in honor of the

dead. The Kaddish originated as a prayer which simply divided up the
service. It lets you know that one section has ended and another has
begun. In time, it developed that the last Kaddish was recited by the
mourners instead of by the person leading the service, the Shaliach
Tzibur, in order that those present could see who was in mourning and
then offer them comfort. A couple of customs grew from this that deviated
from the original intention of the Mourner’s Kaddish of comforting the
mourner. The first was that someone else could recite Kaddish on your
behalf. You often see people or organizations offering to recite Kaddish for
you if you yourself can’t make it to synagogue. While it is true that many
have adapted this custom, it flies in the face of the Kaddish’s purpose,
which was for the community to recognize who was in mourning.

A second custom you often see is where the entire congregation stands
rather than just the mourners. There are two reasons for this. The first is
that because so many died in the Holocaust with no one to recite Kaddish
for them, many believe that all of us should stand each and every time the
Mourner’s Kaddish is recited. The second reason is the idea that no one
should have to stand alone when they recite the Mourner’s Kaddish. We
are all with those who are in mourning.

When I arrived here seven plus years ago, everyone stood for the Kaddish.
With great trepidation, I asked that we change this custom so I could tell
who was in mourning or observing a Yahrtzeit and, therefore, approach
them directly to shake their hand and offer comfort. Our Holocaust
survivors, as you might expect, continued to stand for every Kaddish. I
want to reiterate that I think they/you are the greatest treasure we have in
this congregation, and I can not even imagine what it must be like to have
lost so many loved ones in one of humanity’s greatest catastrophes.
Therefore we came up with a compromise where I say something to the
effect of “I ask all those who are in mourning or observing Yahrtzeit as
well as those who would choose to do so to rise for the Kaddish at this
time.” It still makes it difficult for me to tell who is in mourning, and I would
prefer that only the mourners stand, but there is always value in
compromise.

As far as others who might feel alone, of course we are greatly saddened
for those who have lost loved ones. But if everyone recites it, not only do I
have no idea who might be in mourning or observing the anniversary of the
death, in many ways it becomes just another rote prayer. It’s different, and
immeasurably sadder, when our own father, mother, sister, brother, son,
daughter, or spouse dies. So our job, as the rest of the congregation on a
particular day, is to recite the Amens, as well as the line y’hei smei rabba
m’vorach, le’olam ulalmei almaya, referring to God’s great name. These
are the very words that assure the mourner: “you are not alone; we are
with you in your time of grief.” And it allows me, and you too, to see who
might especially need comfort that day, and then shake their hands or offer
words to let them know we care about them. One of my mentor rabbis,
Rabbi Brian Fox of Sidney, Australia, had a beautiful way of putting it. He
would say “mourners and those observing Yahrtzeit please rise for
Kaddish, and if everyone else would please respond to the Kaddish
nearest you.” It is a very powerful act indeed.

On a related point, what about the Yizkor service? There are different
customs as to who attends a Yizkor service. Again, there are some who
feel like everyone should attend, because many died for whom no one can
say Yizkor, which, unlike the Kaddish, actually is a memorial for the
deceased. There are others, though, who leave if they have not yet lost one
of the seven mourning relatives. Some even believe in the superstition that
if you stay for Yizkor while you haven’t lost a father, mother, sister,
brother, son, daughter, or spouse, it is as if you might be hastening their
death. Except for the fact that I am leading the service, I can tell you that I
would choose to be outside. Rabbi Daniel Gordis, who spoke at the AIPAC
dinner this past year in Oakland, told a very moving story about this Yizkor
dynamic at his own congregation in Israel.
Danny’s grandfather, Rabbi Robert Gordis, also a prominent Conservative
Rabbi, considered leaving the service during Yizkor a pure superstition,
and used to denounce it from the bima, asking everyone to stay. Danny’s
father raised him the same way, and in deference to the grandfather, Rabbi
Robert, Danny always stayed in the synagogue during Yizkor. When Danny
moved to Israel, he decided to follow his new synagogue’s custom of
leaving during Yizkor since his seven mourning relatives were all still alive.
However, one High Holidays, he felt like he was dishonoring his father and
grandfather, so he decided to stay in. One of the founding members of this
Jerusalem synagogue, who knew Danny’s closest relatives were still alive,
“confronted” him about his change. Danny thought to himself: "Oh no,
another lecture about following a superstition." But quite the opposite
happened. The older man said to him: "When we founded this synagogue,
we were all Holocaust survivors and there was not a single person who
could go out for Yizkor, for we had all lost our parents in the Holocaust.
Then the war for Israel’s Independence came in 1948, and there was no one
who could go out for Yizkor, for so many of us had lost brothers and sisters
fighting for the State of Israel. Then came the 1967 War and the Yom
Kippur War in 1973, and there was no one who could go out for Yizkor,
since so many of us lost sons and daughters in those conflicts. But now,
look, most of the congregation goes out for Yizkor. Ha-medina ha-zot
nes. This State is a miracle." Something else to consider when thinking
about memorials, Kaddish, and Yizkor.

Finally, let us return to Heidi’s original question about the Jewish views of
the afterlife. Myth #5. Judaism says that after you die, you die. Yes,
this is one valid Jewish belief, but despite what Heidi, myself, and most
others in our generation were taught, it is really not the mainstream Jewish
belief. The truth is that Jewish views of the afterlife are all over the map,
but if I were to summarize what became the dominant rabbinic view it
would go something like this. Essentially, after we die, the soul lives on.
Where? Some say in limbo, some say in other life forms, or my favorite,
Gilgul, the Kabbalistic idea of the transmigration of souls. It’s sort of a “soul
bar” where all souls, those not yet born, those who have died, and the souls
of the living when dreaming, all commune in this mystical abode. At some
point, the Messiah, the anointed one, will come, and after a great tumult,
redeem this world, ushering in the ha’olam haba, literally, the world-
to-come. This world-to-come is a sort of heaven on earth, where all those
who have merited it, both Jewish and non-Jewish, will get to live. At that
time, the souls will rejoin their previously dead bodies, and the bodies will
physically resurrect themselves and inhabit this world-to-come.

What will the world be like? Well, here the sages diverge in several different
directions. Some say it will be just like this world, only there will be
complete peace and no inclination to do evil. Others say there will be a
gigantic banquet where we will eat the mythical creatures, Behemoth of
the Land, Leviathan of the Sea, and Ziz of the Sky. Rav, in Berachot 17a,
says that there is no eating, no drinking, no procreation, no commerce, no
envy, no hatred, no rivalry; the righteous sit with crowns on their heads and
enjoy the radiance of the Shechina, God’s presence.

All this seems obscure, but I can assure you, it is mainstream rabbinic,
Talmudic thought. And it’s in our prayerbook, three times a day, in the
second paragraph of the Amidah. You just might not know what you’re
saying. Ata gibor le’olam Adonai michayei metim ata rav l’hoshia,
your power is eternal, Adonai, for you resurrect the dead. Umekayem
emunato lishenei afar, you keep faith with those who sleep in the dust.
Baruch Ata Adonai michayei hametim, Praised are You, Adonai, who
gives life to the dead.

As a Jew, you are not required to believe any of this and you can still be
considered a “good” Jew. But allow me to conclude with a parable which,
though seemingly far fetched, may just open your mind a little bit on this
issue. It was written by an Orthodox Rabbi named Tuckachinsky and
appears in Norman Lamm’s book The Jewish Way in Death and Mourning.

Imagine twins growing peacefully in the warmth of the womb. Their mouths
 are closed, and they are being fed via the navel. Their lives are serene. The
whole world, to these brothers, is the interior of the womb. Who could
conceive anything larger, better, more comfortable? They begin to wonder:
"We are getting lower and lower. Surely if it continues, we will exit one day.
What will happen after we exit?"
Now the first infant is a believer. He is heir to a religious tradition which
tells him that there will be a "new life" after this warm existence of the
womb. A strange belief, seemingly without foundation, but one to which he
holds fast. The second infant is a thorough-going skeptic. Mere stories do
not deceive him. He believes only in that which can be demonstrated.
Says the faithful brother: "After our 'death' here, there will be a great new
world. We will eat through the mouth. We will see great distances, and we
will hear through the ears on the sides of our heads. Why, our feet will be
straightened, and our heads up and free.”
"Nonsense," replies the skeptic. “You're straining your imagination again.
There is no foundation for this belief. You are looking for something to calm
your fear of 'death.' There is no world to come! After we die there is
nothingness, a black void. This may not be a comforting thought, but it is
logical.”
Suddenly the water inside the womb bursts. The womb convulses.
Upheaval. Then a mysterious pounding. faster, faster, lower. The believing
brother exits. The second brother shrieks, startled by the "accident"
befallen his brother. “Why did he fall into the abyss. Why?”
Meanwhile, as his skeptic brother mourns, his "dead" brother has been born
into the "new" world. The upheaval is really the crying sound of a healthy
baby along with a chorus of mazel tovs sounded by the waiting family
thanking God for the birth of a son.

Even as we talked about death today and remember those who have died in
Yizkor, I wish you all a gamar chatima tova, may we be sealed in the
book of life in the coming year, 5769.

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