On Death

Yizkor, 5758

Rabbi Melanie Aron

It is becoming more difficult to read the Kaddish list each week at services. This year 31 members of our congregation lost a parent. Since last Rosh Hashanah, in almost every class in our religious school, a child has had to cope with the death of a grandparent. We have also suffered the losses of younger people, husbands and wives, parents of children, sons and daughters, friends of long standing, who died before their time.

Death is a reality that most of us try not to think about. How many of us, sitting here this afternoon, normally very responsible people, don't have wills?

It's not surprising that we don't like to think about death - and you know what, it's not something unique to us either. After all, Moses, as great as he was, had the same problem as we do. Even he, who had spoken to God peh el peh, as close as any human being could come, could not accept his own death with equanimity. The Midrash tells us that Moses pleaded to be allowed to stay alive, even as an animal, or a bird. He battled with the malach hamavet- the angel of death, and tried to trick God into letting him live. In the end, the angel was unable to succeed against him, and God was forced to take Moses himself- with a kiss.

We don't like to think about death, and yet our tradition teaches us that we should. In fact, our tradition gives us an entire day to meditate on the issue of death- and that day, of course, is today.

Yom Kippur is in many ways a rehearsal for death. We go without food or water, as someone who is in the final stages of dying. Traditionally, Jews were instructed to wear a white kittel, the garment in which they were to be buried. On Yom Kippur, we are to act almost like disembodied souls, enjoying no earthy pleasures- neither bathing, nor anointing ourselves, not engaging in sexual activity, or even wearing leather shoes. If it is so unpleasant, even painful, to think about death, why does our tradition require it of us?

Perhaps the words of the prayerbook can guide us- "for all things which seem foolish in the light of death, are really foolish in themselves." When we contemplate death in a serious manner, we are able to see life in a new way.

Sometimes this happens to us because of a situation in which we find ourselves. The doctor raises an issue about a test result and we spend a few days living with frightening uncertainty about the future course of our lives. Sometimes a very good friend is terminally ill, and we come close enough to consider how we might want to spend our last months on earth. We make vows to ourselves, we will spend more time with our children, we will try and choose a healthier way to live, we will stop sweating the small stuff.

When we visit with people who are dying and their families we find that they see life in a different way. Time has a very different rhythm. A day may contain many weeks, and a week disappear in a flash. Our words take on a special rhythm too, and need to be truer and more to the heart. Often, in confrontation with death, different things emerge as significant in our lives. Many people feel a need to connect more closely to their families, to speak words that they were previously unable to say.

Sometimes people feel it is important to complete an aspect of their life's work, or to see it handed over successfully, particularly if it effects other people. Others turn from their work completely, seeing it as the promoter of priorities that were not really theirs.

Years ago when I was on the east coast, I was friendly with an older rabbi who had suffered a heart attack. When he had recovered and returned to Temple life, he said that he treasured every moment. He noticed the sunshine in the Temple parking lot, he cherished the glimpse of the nursery school children as they passed his office on their way to the playground. Each time he was able to walk up to the bimah, he thanked God for the restoration of his life and his health. He said that he had walked through the shadow of the valley of death, and it made every moment of life more precious.

I remember speaking with him again, seven or eight months after he was back at work. He was a little bit tired, and a little bit peeved. The board was being difficult, he was swamped with work and wasn't sure he would be able to leave the office the next afternoon to see his grandson's school play. It was hard to hold on to the attitude with which he had returned from the hospital, an attitude of constant wonderment at the beauty of everyday things and gratitude for all the blessings of the world.

We human creatures cannot really hold onto thoughts about death, nor the lessons death can teach us. Yet how much richer our lives would be were we able to remember for a longer periods the truths we learn at such a high price. Jewish ritual comes sometimes to remind us of death, not in a morbid way, but in a way that will allow us to appreciate our lives and use them best.

Milton Steinberg, an outstanding Reform Rabbi whose life was cut short prematurely, lived and preached with the knowledge of the ephemeral nature of his own life. He wrote: "We cannot know what the quantity of our lives will be- and so we must deepen the quality."

Living in the shadow of the valley of death, means remembering that we are to repent and become reconciled one day before our death. We cannot leave for tomorrow the kind word we wish to say. We cannot put off for a more convenient time, the difficult conversation we need to have with our parents, nor can we say, tomorrow I'll have time for the kids.

Living in the shadow of the valley of death means remembering that time is the greatest treasure that we have.

It means internalizing the words that many say, and few act upon, that few people go to their grave wishing they had spent more time in the office. It means having faith in the existence of untapped reservoirs of strength which will enable us to endure and sometimes to display great courage and grace and beauty in the face of unbearable challenge.

Finally, I'd like to conclude with a bit of Israeli geography. Outside the walls of Jerusalem, is the valley of gei hinnom, where in ancient times the Canaanites made human sacrifices to the fertility gods, often sacrificing young children as attested to by the archeological remains. Perhaps that is why it became known in later tradition, as gehennom or hell.

But the geography of Jerusalem requires that we learn something about gehennom and spiritual elevation. Remember, on Rosh Hashanah, I mentioned our group of ten going to pray at the Kotel. In order to ascend to the City of David, we had no choice but to descend first into the valley of gei hinnom.We had to climb down into the shadows before we could go up into the sunlight. That particular morning, we even had to ignore the advice we were given by some off duty Israeli soldiers, who told us we could not get there from here, while I knew in my heart that we could . That is the other lesson that Judaism teaches us, you can get there from here. From Gei Hinnom to the City of David, from darkness to light, from sadness and loss, to renewal and a new reason for living.