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D'var Torah: THE RIGHTEOUS IN DEATH ARE CALLED
LIVING*
by Rabbi Moshe ben Asher, Ph.D.
In parsha Vayechi we read, "And Jacob lived in the land of Egypt 17 years.
. . . And the days of Israel drew near [for him] to die; and he called his
son Joseph and said to him: . . . bury me not, I pray you, in Egypt." So
Jacob asked Joseph to swear that he would not bury him in Egypt. He wanted
to be buried with his ancestors in the cave at Machpelah.
Rabbeinu Bachya teaches that Jacob did not want to be buried in Egypt
because he feared the Egyptians would deify him after death. If this was
Jacob's concern, it suggests that he was interested in more than his own
future in olam habah. He was also interested in how his spirit would be
treated after his death, and the effect that treatment would have in olam
hazeh, for those who remained after him.
Why should Jacob want to be buried in the Holy Land?
The Akeidat Yitzhak teaches that the place of burial was believed to
facilitate the ascent of one's spiritual qualities. From Rabbeinu Bachya
we learn that the preference for burial in the Holy Land was because, "the
nature of the land helps those buried there to obtain atonement for their
sins." And according to Rashi, those buried outside of the Holy Land would
only be resurrected "after the agony of rolling through cavities (in the
earth until they reach Israel, finally to be resurrected there)."
These traditional beliefs raise more questions than answers. What does it
mean to be resurrected? What are we to make of the idea of atonement after
death? And how are we to understand facilitating the ascent of one
spiritual qualities after death?
Taking a cue from Jacob's concern about being deified after death, we may
ask: Who is to be served by these beliefs--the dead or the living? For
example, one of our traditional practices is gathering shomrim to remain
with a deceased person until the time of burial. The job of a shomer is to
sit with the deceased and read psalms. My experience in asking people to
be shomrim is that they feel honored and privileged. Several have told me
afterwards that the experience was surprisingly meaningful for them.
Needless to say, they didn't regard themselves as protecting the deceased
from ghosts and goblins. They saw the experience as a two-fold opportunity
for themselves: to meditate on the life of the deceased, meditation that
was potentiated by the presence of the deceased; and to do a mitzvah that
helped to relieve some of the pain and suffering of the surviving mourners
and others who loved the deceased. Shomrim often learn that it's a comfort
to
those who are grieving to know that the deceased is not "alone" in the
cold room where the body is prepared for burial, but instead is
"accompanied" by a friend or loved one who is reading psalms.
But if it's true that our tradition's practices for dealing with death are
designed to affirm life, how are we to make sense out of resurrection and
spiritual ascent after death?
Resurrection is the belief that the dead will be revived in their bodies
and live again on earth. The tradition, however, has had a long-standing
series of disputes about how much the dead know of the world they leave
behind. There is a wide range of rabbinic opinion on the condition of the
soul after death. Not surprisingly, the normative understanding is that
"none but God can have a conception of the matter" (i.e., "Eye has not
seen, O God, beside You"--Isaiah 64:3).
It reminds me of what a rabbi told me when I was about 18 and asked what
we Jews believe happens to us after death. He answered that the same God
who created life and maintains the creation in motion, also governs that
which follows this life, which is not for us to understand.
Possibly, however, we can understand resurrection in two ways. Just as
every molecule of matter on this planet, including those that comprise our
bodies, was once part of a distant star, we too will live again in the
future in ways that are not for us to comprehend in this incarnation. And
in ways that elude the limitations of scientific method, our spirit--long
after we're gone--can animate and uplift life.
Which raises the question, what can be meant by the ascent of one's
spiritual qualities after death? If we believe, as many modern Jews do,
that the dead have no consciousness, the ascent of the spirit after death
must refer to the effect of one's spiritual qualities on the living--the
spirit is raised up in the consciousness of the living. So burial
practices and locations can make a difference for the living.
Not too long ago a congregant called me seeking advice about whether or
not to disinter and rebury her husband. She had learned that the plot
adjoining her husband's, which they had purchased for her, had
inadvertently been deeded to another party, so that she and her husband
would not be buried together. She was distraught knowing that after she
died she would not be buried with her husband. She imagined the pain her
children would suffer when visiting their father's grave in a section of
the cemetery occupied by members of the family who had treated them with
unkindness and disrespect.
It is precisely because the traditional reasons given for Jacob's desire
to be buried in Eretz Yisrael are at first blush mostly incomprehensible
to the modern mind that makes these verses important. To the extent that
we can no longer make sense of Torah, we increasingly rationalize our
indifference to it. To the extent that we're indifferent to Torah, its
vision and values cease, as a practical matter, to guide our day-to-day
lives. To the extent that we become alienated from Torah wisdom in our
day-to-day lives, our children and their children become increasingly
vulnerable to the poisoned and perverted values of the larger
materialistic society and culture. And to the extent that materialism
becomes the hallmark of our children's lives, the likelihood of them
finding long-lasting happiness and fulfillment declines--as it has for us.
Our belief that "after-life" is an oxymoron is a reflection of how our
society and culture glorify death in life. We see that those who, instead,
glorify life, they live on in spirit after their deaths for those they
leave behind. They are not simply models in the behavioral sense, that is,
individuals we can learn from by observing them. They are often our
inspiration, imbuing us with courage, vision, and commitment. But we live
in a society in which death has become a profitable commodity. I'm not
referring to the funeral industry, but the many conglomerate media empires
that grow fat on music videos, computer games, and films that are
saturated with and glorify deadly violence.
We are the unwitting beneficiaries of ancient Jewish practices. In the
ancient world, the perspective on death was different. Instead of imbuing
life with death, they imbued death with life. Death was treated in such a
way that, long after one had died, the effect of the treatment was to
affirm life. In our world we rationalize practices in life and death in
which only our own happiness and comfort, or that of our children, need be
considered. Ancient culture inculcated a sense of responsibility for the
well-being of generations in the far-distant future--making us and our
children the beneficiaries. Jacob didn't need to be buried in Eretz
Yisrael for himself, but to ensure what he regarded as the sacred destiny
of his progeny, Am Yisrael.
How important, potentially, is a burial site? Of course, it depends on how
an individual lives his or her life. If we have no spiritual legacy, then
it doesn't much matter where or how we're buried--which may partly explain
the popularity of cremation. But consider: The cave of Machpelah up to
modern times has been a place of pilgrimage for Jews, Christians, and
Muslims. Isaac and Ishmail came together to bury Abraham there. Yaakov and
Eisav met there to bury Yitzhak. Notwithstanding the current conflict in
the region, the spirits of those buried there have demonstrated remarkable
peacemaking powers for millennia.
The Talmud (Berachoth 18a-b) relates that Rabbi Hiyya and Rabbi Jonathan
were once walking about in a cemetery, and the blue fringe of Rabbi
Jonathan was trailing on the ground. Rabbi Hiyya said: "Lift it up, so
that they [the dead] should not say: 'Tomorrow they are coming to join us
and now they are insulting us!'" Rabbi Jonathan replied: "Do they know so
much? Is it not written, 'But the dead know nothing at all'?"
(Ecclesiastes 9:5) Rabbi Hiyya answered: ". . . These are the righteous
who in their death are called living, as it says: 'Benaiah the son of
Jehoiada, the son of a living man from Kabzeel, who had done mighty deeds,
he struck down two commanders of Moab; he went down and also killed a lion
in the middle of a well on a snowy day.' (II Sam 23:20) 'The son of a
living man': are all other people then the sons of dead men? Rather 'the
son of a living man' means that even in his death he was called living. .
. . 'But the dead know nothing': These are the wicked who in their
lifetime are called dead, as it says. 'And you, defiled and wicked one,
prince of Israel, whose day has come. . . .'(Ezekiel 21:30)"
* Devar Torah given on December 21, 2002 at Temple Beth El of Manhattan
Beach, Brooklyn, New York.
© 2003 Moshe ben Asher
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