Mortality
Shlomo Brody
Shlomo Brody is the executive director of Ematai, an organization dedicated to helping Jews navigate their healthcare journey with Jewish wisdom. He is the author of Ethics of Our Fighters: A Jewish View on War and Morality.
Credit: Kurt Hoffman
I.
Seven million people worldwide have died from COVID-19. That’s a shocking number to contemplate, especially because this cause of death was unknown only four years ago. Just as we were recuperating from this trauma, Hamas attacked Israel, killing the greatest number of Jews in one day since the Holocaust. It’s important to remember what these shocking events force us to confront: our mortality. Humans die. And not just any humans. Our parents, our siblings, our rabbis, our children, our neighbors, our friends, ourselves. We are mortal.
Before COVID, we had grown accustomed to an ever-expanding life expectancy and death as an event belonging to the elderly, who died in sterile hospital wards. Suddenly we were wondering and worrying if an invisible virus would enter our lungs and bring about our sudden demise. It was a reminder that death can happen, at any moment, to any one of us. The plague found a way to get to all of us. “For death has climbed through our windows, Has entered our fortresses, To cut off babes from the streets, Young men from the squares” (Jer. 9:20). As our prophets teach, even when we feel young, strong, and impenetrable, the Angel of Death can find us. Perhaps we errantly thought that this message only applied in the pre-modern era when life expectancies were much shorter. The pandemic, and now 10/7 and the ensuing war, force all of us to recognize the frailty of life.
As individuals and as a society, we confronted dilemmas we did not like facing, even before the pandemic. Many of these are questions of health policy: Who has priority for accessing life-saving interventions, like ventilators and vaccines? Who should be making decisions regarding end-of-life care? These timely dilemmas were compounded by a more timeless question: What does life mean when it is so fleeting?
Judaism has well-known mechanisms to handle what happens after a person dies. We have chevrai kadisha (burial societies); funeral homes and burial rituals; customs like the shiva and shloshim mourning periods; and communal groups offering bereavement support. Less developed are our techniques to confront our transience, i.e., the knowledge that life is fleeting and how that impacts the way we live our lives. There’s a good reason for this. Mourning follows a definitive moment—death —and therefore allows for a planned process. Mortality, in contrast, is a state of being, not a moment. We might die today, but experience tells us that’s not likely. Death is unpredictable. Why prepare for the unexpected when you can’t really plan for it anyway?
Yet Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) teaches us that a healthy conception of mortality is critical to living more meaningful lives: “Do not overdo wickedness, and don’t be a fool, for you may die before your time” (7:17). We don’t know when we’ll die, but we do know that a life of vice (i.e., wickedness and foolishness) will blemish the only thing that we can truly control: our good name. This is our only true legacy. As Kohelet further teaches, “A good name is better than fragrant oil” (7:1). The Sages explained why: High-quality oils (i.e., material goods) are luxuries bought by the rich that are greatly valued but only bring temporary joy. These pleasures and any of their remnants are fleeting. A good name, in contrast, can be acquired by the rich and poor alike and stays with us in both life and death. A virtuous life, as such, is the better investment that can be attained by all (Ecclesiastes Rabba 7:1). In this vein, Kohelet adds, “Wise men are drawn to a house of mourning, and fools to a house of merrymaking” (7:2). The shiva house is where we gain perspective on life.
The challenge, however, lies in finding rituals that can help us internalize and act upon the lessons of mortality learned in a house of mourning. We know how to mourn, but have forgotten how to confront mortality.
II.
Rabbis generally don’t like it when people walk out of synagogue services. They want them to stay from the first blessings until the very end of Adon Olam. Yet four times a year, we invite people to leave smack in the middle of services during Yizkor, the memorial prayer for loved ones recited on Yom Kippur and the three major festivals. In most Ashkenazic synagogues (Sephardim never adopted the Yizkor prayer), attendees who have never been required to sit shiva (i.e., have never lost a parent, sibling, child or spouse) walk out before the memorial prayers are recited. I can’t think of any other time in which we encourage some people to leave the synagogue in the middle of a service!
As Zvi Ron has documented, the first record of this custom appears in a work published in 1815 by Rabbi Baruch Brandies.[1] Brandies writes that he was asked whether this long-standing practice violates the biblical prohibition on following superstitions.[2] Brandies couldn’t find any recorded rationale for the practice. He suggested that perhaps there was a concern that everyone in the synagogue would feel compelled to say the prayer. Fearing that people whose parents were alive would errantly say these words, it was suggested they leave the room, lest their mistaken Yizkor prayer cause the death of their parent. Such is the power of speech that even utterances made without evil intent might be fulfilled.
Other rabbis offered alternative explanations, such as that it would be inappropriate for synagogues to have some people praying while others remain silent. If you can’t pray with the congregation, then step outside. A couple of scholars speculated that children or others not reciting the prayer would talk or otherwise distract those reciting Yizkor. In a different spirit, a few contended that it is generally inappropriate to participate in a mourning ritual on a joyful festival. For those who have someone to remember, this commemorative ritual is comforting, thereby making it uplifting and appropriate for a holiday. Within this group, Yizkor makes sense on a holiday. For everyone else, however, it would be a forbidden expression of sadness.
Ultimately, a different 19th-century explanation for this practice has come to dominate Jewish lore: remaining present in a room full of orphans will invoke the “evil eye” (ayin hara). A similar explanation noted that it is common for children to be named after the deceased forefathers whose names are being recited in the Yizkor prayers. Accordingly, it is considered “opening one’s mouth to the Satan,” as the Sages put it in bBerekhot 19a, to mention the name of the deceased in the presence of their living descendant with a similar name. But, ultimately, customs that prevent us from hearing about death make it all the more difficult to talk about mortality.
In this respect, I see a connection to the widespread custom of chanting hastily and in an undertone the tokhechah, the rebuke, sections of the Torah. These verses rebuking the Israelites and foretell times of travail (Lev. 26:14-44 and Deut. 28:15-68). Reading these passages this way suggests that the words are dangerous and should be (nearly) avoided. As I was taught in school, if you talk too loudly about tragedy, it might fall upon you. In effect, it’s the ritualized version of whispering “cancer” at the dinner table to avoid engaging too openly or directly with the reality of a relative’s illness.
Avoiding the tokhechah is an especially puzzling custom, since normally, Jews assert that the Torah should be publicly taught aloud. In fact, regarding these biblical passages, in bMegillah 31b, the Talmud cites Proverbs 3:11-12 to claim that it is important to hear God’s rebuke so that one can learn from His loving guidance.
Do not reject the discipline of the LORD, my son; Do not abhor His rebuke.
For whom the Lord loves, He rebukes, As a father the son whom he favors.
Words of rebuke might be frightening, but they are done for our benefit so we can internalize their message and change our ways. Talking about tragedy has a purpose. Or, to put it another way, it’s dangerous not to talk about the possibilities of death and destruction.
As with the custom of walking out of Yizkor, here too we have a long and winding history. Some of the earliest records of this custom in the 13th century speak about people not wanting to be called up for these Torah readings for fear that a hostile Torah reader with whom one has an antagonistic relationship might wish these curses upon them.[3] Evil tidings, as it were, might come over the person in closest proximity to the reader that chants these ancient curses. Over time, it got to the point that shuls actually paid people to accept an aliyah for this Torah reading! Today, most synagogues simply give the aliyah to the Torah reader or the gabbai (sexton). If someone’s got to take one for the team, it might as well be them.
In our more scientifically-oriented society, these practices regarding Yizkor and the tokhechah are quirky and charming, if not outright amusing. They and other time-honored customs are part of our precious heritage. Yet we should worry that even in the 21st century, these practices still give the wrong message: it’s better not to talk about death. For in truth, if you look closely at other rituals and writings, one sees that Jewish sources and practices encourage people to speak openly about death and to utilize their mortality as a source for inspiration.
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III.
The first prayer we recite upon awakening, Modeh Ani, gives thanks for renewed life. Waking up is a daily blessing. The next prayer, colloquially known as “Elohai Neshamah,” thanks God for restoring our soul while acknowledging that God will eventually take it from us:
My God, the soul you placed within me is pure…. You breathed it into me, and You guard it while it is within me. One day you will take it from me…. As long as the soul is within me, I will thank You.
A tradition that demands that people thank God every day for being alive is a tradition comfortable with confronting mortality.
Moreover, the Talmudic sages permitted and sometimes encouraged practical planning for one’s death. Recognizing that death may come suddenly, some sages deemed it appropriate to buy one’s own death shrouds just in case they become needed on short notice The medieval scholar Rabbi Isaac ben Sheshet (d.1408) went so far as to argue that healthy people should dig their own graves. If there’s ever an act that can instill a sense of mortality, it’s surely touching the dirt around your final resting place.
Following this general trend, Rabbi Chaim Fallagi (d. 1868), the 19th century Ottoman Empire scholar, cited Hillel’s famous adage, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me,” to assert, “Praiseworthy is the person who purchases their death shrouds when they are alive and healthy.”[4] Today, this is achieved by purchasing burial plots and services in advance so that funeral arrangements won’t need to be done in haste. It’s a favor not only to yourself but also to your loved ones, who won’t be tasked with handling complex arrangements in their time of distress. As Hillel further taught, “If I am only for myself, what am I?” Advance preparation prevents much angst and heartache for your loved ones, which is a mitzvah of great importance.
In a similar vein, Rabbi Yisrael Kagan (d. 1933) also cited Hillel to encourage people to draw a financial will when they are healthy. If you want your wishes fulfilled, he argued, you need to be proactive and prepare for the unexpected. In our times, rabbinic groups and Jewish organizations, including my own, have formulated advance healthcare directives that are sensitive to the needs of the Jewish community. While we may not be able to control our own healthcare journey, we can help guide decision-making at different crossroads along the way. This includes directing, in advance, who should make decisions on your behalf in case you can’t speak for yourself. Many people will also want to clarify the rabbi they’d like to be consulted for end-of-life care decisions as well as organ donation. You might think the answers to those questions are obvious. In practice, it’s frequently not so clear. Families can become quickly divided (sometimes irreparably) while arguing these questions.
Fallagi added another argument to buying death shrouds in advance, this one more philosophical and more in the spirit of Kohelet: People who confront their mortality will avoid sin and take life more seriously. Indeed, elsewhere in Pirkei Avot, the sage Rabbi Eliezer asserts, “Repent one day before your death.” Rabbi Eliezer’s students asked him, “But does a person know the day on which he will die?” The elder sage replies, “All the more so this is a good piece of advice, and one should repent today lest he die tomorrow; and by following this advice one will spend his entire life in a state of repentance.” The time of our death is not known, but the reality of our mortality is a fact. By focusing on our mortality, as opposed to our deaths, we will repent daily and ensure our good names in life and beyond.
Unfortunately, various prayers and rituals that stress repentance during the High Holidays have led people to believe, mistakenly, that repentence is limited to something to be done before Yom Kippur, when dramatic prayers speak of “who will live and who will die.” Yet as Maimonides taught, Yom Kippur is ultimately meant as a simulation for the ultimate Day of Judgment in Heaven (Laws of Repentance 3:3). Seen in this light, the days before Yom Kippur can thus be thought of as a simulation for one’s entire life.
In fact, over the centuries, a special confessional text (vidui) developed for Jews to recite at any critical crossroads in their healthcare journey. It reads: “I acknowledge before You, Lord my God and the God of my ancestors, that my recovery and my death are in Your hands. May it be Your will to send me a complete recovery. Yet if I die, may my death be an atonement for all the errors, iniquities, and willful sins that I have erred, sinned, and transgressed before You.” It’s a beautiful text that expresses a hope for recovery alongside a desire to die in a purified state of repentance. Regretfully, in recent decades, this text has been largely marginalized out of fear that instructing someone who is ill to repent would frighten them and hasten their deaths.
Yet as Rabbi Profs. Shimon Glick and Alan Jotkowitz have argued, patients are usually aware of the acute nature of their illness and can handle the truth when delivered sensitively to them. To withhold discussion of the “last confession” is to deny them a critical tool for their spiritual preparations for death. Some patients, moreover, may find solace from the ability to confess and repent while finding meaning from an opportunity for reconciliation. Jewish ritual has provided an important spiritual and emotional tool for the critically ill patient. Why should we deny it to them?
In short, in contrast to the misimpression given by the customs regarding Yizkor and the tokhechah, our tradition has important resources and guidance for confronting mortality. We want to arrange for our affairs to be in order, to mend relationships, and to live meaningfully until the very end in accordance with our values. Those are goals that we can and must talk about.
IV.
How can the community help achieve individuals fulfill these goals? Primarily, the community’s job is to provide resources that will allow our members to live rich and meaningful Jewish lives. This includes educational efforts to rectify any misimpression about taking about death. In other aspects of confronting mortality, however, the community plays a critical role in addressing action items that are easily neglected. For our purposes, I’ll focus on two:
1) Advance Financial Planning
Fallagi and Kagan were concerned with advance burial and estate planning. Their sagacious advice remains compelling, but we need to add to their list. Modern financial and healthcare systems have become significantly more complex. Only 50 percent of Americans aged 25-64 own life insurance policies. Furthermore, many of these policies have insufficient plans to support Jewish families, especially those who have day school and summer camp tuitions compounded by out-of-pocket healthcare expenses. Financial burdens deepen personal tragedy.
An individual’s lack of adequate life insurance becomes a communal challenge when Jewish day schools (rightly) aim to relieve the tuition burden facing a family that has suffered an untimely loss. One Jewish day school board member recently confided to me that after a spate of sudden deaths of breadwinners in his community, the local schools had a 7-digit budget line just to assist these orphaned families. His synagogue rabbi invited me to speak in his community with a specific agenda: promoting the importance of purchasing life insurance. In the end, we are organizing a community fair with booths and speakers to promote advance healthcare and financial planning. Other activists are trying to organize bulk purchases of life insurance plans to make them more affordable. These are examples of how the community can help its members and its collective welfare.
2) End-of-Life Care and Public Policy
Decisions regarding medical care don’t take place in a vacuum. They are shaped by the context of their local healthcare system. The options available are dictated by the policies set by local legislators and regulators which sometimes go under the communal radar. To take a recent example, many patients suffering from chronic pain are now unable to get proper medications. As the New York Times recently reported, they are the unintended victims of the national crackdown on opioid prescribing. This has had profound repercussions for our access to legitimate pain medication, including some cases of people choosing suicide as their last resort for relief.
Beyond palliative care, it’s important to focus on policies relating to aging and end-of-life care such as assisted-living facilities and home hospice. These are crucial services for the baby-boomer generation which depend on government support. Unfortunately, we see a number of disturbing phenomena in the fields of eldercare: critical employee shortages, multiple insurance fraud scandals, skyrocketing costs, and increased cultural degradation of the value of spending money on this age group. In the background, moreover, are repeated calls to expand physician-assisted suicide, which is already legal in ten American states. These complex factors require further discussion, but here’s the general point: our access to critical services is vulnerable to policy discussions already underway. We might not like talking about nursing homes and palliative care. But if we want to have certain services available when we need them, we need to engage in these discussions now.
The Jewish tradition, as I’ve argued, does not fear confronting mortality and the dilemmas that come along with it. We need to do this for ourselves and for our community. And if not now, when?
Endnotes
[1] Zvi Ron, “Walking Out for Yizkor,” Zutot 14 (2017), 32-48.
[2] Leshon hakhamim vol. 1 (Prague: 1815), 91b–92a.
[4] R. Isaac of Vienna, Or Zarua 1:114. On this custom, see Hayim Talbi, Ve-Zot Ha-Torah (Mossad Harav Kook, 2017), 482-520.
[5] Ruah Haim, Yoreh De’ah 342:2, citing Ethics of our Fathers 1:14.
