CHAPTER ONE: THE QUESTION

Stating the problem

Congregation Emanu-El, a Conservative synagogue in Victoria has a Hevra Kadisha   (burial society), which was started eighteen years ago by our former rabbi.[1] The Conservative movement is often considered the centrist denomination in Judaism. The principles of the Conservative Movement have been outlined in a relatively recent publication, Emet ve – Emunah (1988). The Movement is committed to balancing the findings of modern historical scholarship with the Jewish legal tradition, halakhah. Halakhah is from a root meaning ‘to go’, the way a Jew should walk in life. Halakhah is based on biblical and rabbinical laws detailed in Talmud. The very wording Hevra Kadisha implies the holiness of the work of this society. Hevra means society and Kadisha is related to the word for holiness, kadosh. Taharah, ritual washing and purification of body before burial is a mitzvah, a ritual commandment. Halakhah is comprised of the mitzvot (plural) and is the law by which Jews are commanded by God. Included within this corpus of law are the ritual laws the members of the Hevra Kadisha perform. At present, Congregation Emanu-El does not have a formalized training program to train new members or a program to provide supplemental training for existing members regarding death and burial rituals.  We rely primarily on the expertise of individual lay members of the Hevra Kadisha to provide support if we encounter difficulties during a taharah.

My question is how can rabbis, lay leaders, and other members of the Hevra Kadisha best be supported to learn about and improve their practice of taharah? What training programs and resource materials are the most effective vehicles to provide information that is sound according to halakhah yet are also understandable and reasonably accessible to laity? How can the resources of the Conservative Movement be used to help meet the needs of Hevra Kadisha members, particularly those in small communities? 

My hope is that this project/journey will begin to reflect the profound wisdom of these rituals. As I describe the origins of these customs, the pathway, the halakhah, will emerge. Today many Jews have stepped off this pathway. However, my sense is that the rituals of birth and death, of brit milah (ritual circumcision) and taharah, continue to hold highly significant value for many Jews, their role almost an access road, an invitation to return to the comfort of ritual. Through these rituals tradition is shared, community is created.

My introduction to the Hevra Kadisha

Over the past ten years, I have sat at the bedside of several very dear elderly friends on their journey to death. I have needed to be present with them, to be as I called it, a “midwife” to their dying. In particular, after my dear friend Goldie, z”l, died, I needed to continue that midwifery even after her death. Thus, I was given my first practical introduction to our Hevra Kadisha.  Washing Goldie’s limbs, brushing her hair, tying the linen cap around the face I loved so dearly, and then finally lifting her into her coffin gave me a visceral understanding of the necessity of this mitzvah. I felt the power of the taharah in my bones. As we sat shomer (“guarding” the body) [2], as we carried her to her grave, as I continue to visit and place a stone on her matzevah (headstone), I became, and continue to be profoundly aware of the need to preserve Jewish burial traditions.

The richness of Jewish ritual practice and traditions are now central to who I am. In my observance, I return to these rituals daily, weekly, annually. These death rituals in particular have become my tzur, my rock, and a foundation upon which I continue to build this observance. The stone I may place on a matzevah is a symbol of this foundation. These rituals, this rock are memory, permanence and fortitude.

I began to sense that working with the Hevra Kadisha might also be the foundation of my life’s work. However, as a lay person I knew I needed to increase my learning about these mitzvot to provide leadership that was more solidly grounded in Jewish tradition. I knew I wanted to keep learning about the rituals of death, dying and mourning, and thereby support their continuation. I knew I wanted to work within Jewish community, both local and beyond, to address our communal obligation to learn more about these rituals.

The mitzvah of taharah is often called hesed shel emet, a phrase that speaks to the loving-kindness that the living bring to the care of the dead. Ideally all the mitzvot are to be observed with sincerity and thoughtfulness, as is demonstrated by the following story.

Unlike other distinguished rabbis, Rabbi Israel Salanter would often pour a very small quantity of water over his hands for the ritual washing before meals, even though the Talmud advises that as much water as possible should be used. Those who witnessed Rabbi Israel’s conduct were astonished that he should be content with the minimum requirement of the law. ‘Yes’, said Rabbi Israel, ‘I know that it is a mitzvah to use a good deal of water, but have you noticed that the poor servant girl has to bring in the water from the well outside in the bitter cold? I am not anxious to perform special acts of piety at the expense of the poor girl’s toil’” (Jacobs, 1984, p.32).

The participants in this study have not just performed a mitzvah, but have also understood the concept of hesed, of loving-kindness, that Rabbi Salanter demonstrates in this story. The focus of this thesis is how they, and how other Jews are keeping these traditions alive.  I hope this project will shed some light on some of the difficulties and some of the joys they have encountered. I think there is need for further surveys of Hevra Kadisha practices and needs in these communities. Such surveys will lead to better understanding of the problems encountered and hopefully lead to the actual development of practical resources.  We require resources that speak specifically to those needs. We need concrete information, explanations, diagrams, translations, and transliterations. We need training, we need access to texts, and we need access to rabbis. It is my hope that this thesis will, in a small way, create a template for individuals and communities to work together to share information and resources.

When we are advised to “think globally and act locally”, many of us may feel our perception of reality shift (Wheatley, 1994, p.24). What does it mean to think globally? Not only do we act within the local system we know and that knows us, but the changes we effect have import within the larger whole. The local and the global “share in the unbroken wholeness that has united them all along” (Wheatley, 1994, p.42). Jews committed to the rituals and beliefs of Judaism are also seeking such a balance between the particular and the universal. I believe one of the functions of these death rituals is to highlight this balance. Perhaps this work will make a small contribution towards individual Jews and their communities realigning their beliefs with their practices regarding the primacy and holistic necessity of these Jewish death rituals.

Potential causes of the problem

As a member of my Hevra Kadisha, my attempts at fully understanding the details of taharah have been frustrated for years. I could not find the information I wanted. Even after buying many books, consistently searching the Internet, and writing to the Conservative Committee on Jewish Law and Standards, I still felt significantly uninformed, and thus unable to provide the quality of leadership I wanted to provide. The Committee on Jewish Law and Standards is now composed of 25 rabbis, 15 appointed by the president of the Rabbinical Assembly, 5 by the chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary, and 5 by the president of the United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism of America. Since 1989 lay leaders from the United Synagogue have held a non-voting place on the committee.

The Rabbinical Assembly publishes the Proceedings of the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards. The publication discusses various she’elot (questions) and teshuvot (responses) that have been submitted for consideration by the committee. Only rabbis may submit questions. There are limitations to the usefulness of this publication. In his introduction to the Proceedings, Rabbi Joel Roth (former Chairman of the Committee) states,

However, this volume, for all its value, is not comprehensive in its scope and should not be regarded, except where stipulated, as the final arbiter of matters of Jewish law. Congregations should look to their rabbis as their authority on all matters of Jewish law and practice, and as their interpreters of all the decisions rendered and principles established by the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards of the Rabbinical Assembly” (Rabbinical Assembly, 1988, p.ii).

The Proceedings therefore provide a very minimal level of guidance to lay congregational members. I became convinced that if I was feeling this lack of resources, so too might individuals in other small communities.

There are a number of historical and sociological reasons, which are well beyond the scope of this research project, that have all contributed towards the development of this problem. Materially, the bottom line comes down to insufficient resources. There are no books and there are no manuals that provide the requisite detail about taharah.

In particular a book is needed that will detail the origins of customs, provide an historical framework for burial and mourning customs, describe and provide halakhically acceptable solutions to problems that may be encountered, as well as give a fully descriptive accounting of taharah procedures. There are books that describe Jewish law as it applies to death and mourning but these books do not give sufficient detail about taharah to be useful to a member of a Hevra Kadisha.

The other resource that is in insufficient supply is professional support in small communities. In many communities in Canada both large and small, there is a perception of being marooned, an attitude that may stem from an experience of scarcity of rabbis willing to work in these communities. Such paucity takes many shapes. I discussed this matter with Rabbi David Blumenfeld, Director of Services to Affiliated Congregations for United Synagogue.  Rabbi Blumenfeld has a particular interest in developing resources for small communities. As such he has developed the IMUN program [3] for developing greater religious leadership skills among laypeople. Rabbi Blumenfeld expressed his opinion on how and why the present situation has evolved. Many rabbis and/or rabbinical candidates are from the United States. Their families are American and there is personal reluctance to move to another country. Canada is seen as ‘foreign’ and therefore less desirable for placement. Many have expressed concern about qualifying for medical coverage upon return to the United States after an extended period away. As older rabbis with the possibility of medical complications they might have pre-existing conditions that would make medical coverage more difficult to obtain in the United States. Financial packages are also a factor. The value of the Canadian dollar against U.S. dollars has been significantly lower for years which affects housing values, pensions and salary.

There also appears to be a bias about what constitutes professional rabbinical success, which may discourage many rabbis from serving in a small community, especially when the community is distant from larger Jewish populations. It is not within the scope of this study to speculate about all the origins of this situation. The result is that there are not enough rabbis available to fill all vacancies in the Conservative Movement and there are often not enough dollars in small communities to make a permanent rabbinical placement possible. As a result of these conditions, the laity in these congregations play a large role as religious lay leaders. Unlike rabbis who have years of text study to support them in their decision-making within a community, lay leaders may find that it is their experiential learning and/or personal studies which inform their leadership. As they search for texts about Hevra Kadisha and taharah to supplement their hands-on learning they too will be disappointed.

The Conservative Movement is expending its resources on training programs for lay leadership and for small communities more than ever before. The IMUN program for example, started in 1990, has offered Conservative lay leaders an opportunity to train

with rabbis and cantors during a weekly intensive retreat. The Jewish Theological Seminary offers distance education programs, which provide opportunities for individuals outside of New York to have access to Jewish educational professionals. These programs are of very real benefit to lay people and to their communities but there are specific areas, including that of Hevra Kadisha, where the necessary information and resources have been unavailable or hard to obtain.

Another significant factor is the notion of rabbinical authority – if not the authority of God, with regard to the observing of the mitzvot. In an Orthodox community the Rav, the rabbi, is consulted about a tremendous variety of personal and communal issues. The Rav is available to paskin (give a legal opinion) based on his [4] extensive learning. Certainly the existing literature about death and mourning attest to the role of such rabbinical authority. Orthodox individuals, in private conversations, have expressed real bewilderment about my living in a community without a rabbi to provide such halakhic leadership. It is literally beyond their realm of possibility. However, I suggest the average lay person in the Conservative Movement has shifted significantly from such belief and such practice (Gillman, 1990, Gillman, 1993, and Dorff, 1977).

For example, Gillman’s discussion of Rosenzweig emphasizes this particular transition. Rosenzweig’s understanding of the mitzvot is as an internal personal sense of “commandedness”. Gillman states that, “many of us do feel that we have the right as individuals to determine how to express our Jewish commitment, to choose those forms of expression that are ‘meaningful’ to us” (Gillman, 1990, p.51). Such an existentialist position was revolutionary in Rozsenzweig’s day (1886 –1929).

Yet today, anything outside the boundaries of such autonomous thinking seems remarkable. Whether this shift was cause or effect is irrelevant. I would suggest that, far from seeking their rabbi to paskin on their personal decisions, the average Conservative Jew would probably not consider consulting anyone but themselves and their family members. They see themselves as living in community, perhaps, but primarily as autonomous beings. The question then becomes one of how this modern, individually personalized Judaism affects the ritual decisions and quality of the work of the Hevra Kadisha?  As well, we must ultimately ask ourselves if these rituals continue to have significant meaning for us as Jews in our communities, large or small, in the 21^st century.

The organization

The sponsor for my research project is Congregation Emanu-El, a Conservative synagogue in Victoria, British Columbia. The synagogue is not only a small congregation within the Conservative Movement, it is geographically isolated when viewed within the context of the Jewish world. Congregation Emanu-El is affiliated with the United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism which now has a membership of over 800 Conservative congregations. Congregation Emanu-El has adopted in principle the standards of Conservative congregational practice (see Appendix A –1). Originally established in 1913, the constitution of the United Synagogue of America (now The United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism) provided norms for the retaining of traditional Jewish customs and values and observances. These parameters then as now are the defining element of a Judaism that is both historically sound and halakhically coherent.  United Synagogue executive vice-president Rabbi Jerome Epstein states,

What is it about the synagogue’s mission that makes it so important, so vital? In my mind, for the Conservative Jew, the synagogue’s importance rests in its potential to change lives and to help Jews grow. The Conservative synagogue’s mission is to help individuals realize the power that Judaism has to enrich their lives and to help us as Jews to harness that power.

In order to achieve its goal, the synagogue must begin by teaching the richness of Judaism. Most Conservative Jews have not been blessed with sufficient knowledge to appreciate how Judaism can improve their lives. It is the synagogue’s task to teach Jewish texts so that Jews will know their heritage” (United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism, 2000, p.8).

The United Synagogue encourages congregational growth in many ways: through a web-site that lists resources; by sponsoring meetings, conferences and conventions; through the President’s ListServ; through a variety of publications and a book service; and many other resources. However, even as the United Synagogue advocates each synagogue to create a Hevra Kadisha, the pathway is lacking significantly clear signposts. The United Synagogue Directory and Resource Guide also offers suggested guidelines for the Hevra Kadisha (See Appendix A–2).

The leadership and membership of a Hevra Kadisha are also integral to this project. Congregation Emanu-El has by-laws, which guide local Hevra Kadisha practices (See Appendix B–1). There are approximately twenty members of the Hevra Kadisha in Victoria, with both men’s and women’s groups.

The Hevra Kadisha in Victoria is responsible for all aspects of burial, not just the preparation of the body. From the moment of death when the Hevra is first contacted, until the end of shiva (seven days of mourning following burial) members participate in planning, performing required ritual and overseeing all details.  Gravediggers are contacted, a gravesite is decided upon, if not previously arranged; the person conducting the funeral meets with the family; the funeral home is contacted and release papers from the hospital are arranged and signed. These duties are typical of Hevra Kadisha groups in small communities, whereas urban groups (certainly those members whom I have interviewed in Manhattan) were only responsible for the actual taharah and shomrim. Many factors bring about this greatly expanded role. Usually there is lack of other professional Jewish resources, especially a Jewish funeral home. There is also usually a greater physical proximity of the cemetery to the towns, which enables the Hevra Kadisha to be more actively involved in the details of burial. Although the responsibilities of the Hevra Kadisha are many and varied, in this study I will be focusing only on one primary responsibility, that of the actual preparation of the body for burial.

Members of a Hevra Kadisha bring their personal stories and journeys to this task. Just as the many small shtetls (small pre-Holocaust European villages) in Europe all had a Hevra Kadisha, just as language and dialects shifted from area to area, so too these rituals today bear a similar stamp of variance. Our challenge is to find ways in our contemporary communities to continue to pour from this vessel of tradition, enhanced as it is with our differing local customs. Time and time again, during my interviews with Hevra Kadisha members, two words kept surfacing: communication and education. It is with these words in mind that I proceed.

CHAPTER TWO: LITERATURE REVIEW

Introduction

In this chapter I will review texts that address the historical role of the Hevra Kadisha and its role in contemporary communities. Although the primary focus of the methodological study is the ritual of taharah, it is necessary to examine the role of the Hevra Kadisha as ritual provider. I will be discussing the Talmudic origins and medieval reincarnation of these societies, as well as the development of early mortuary manuals. Technological advances in printing provided a significant impetus for the sharing of this information. This can certainly be seen as historical precedent for the technological revolution that has led to the new opportunities for Jewish learning that computers and the Internet have wrought.

The second section of the review will address the significance of ritual in general and more specifically the function of Jewish ritual. How do symbol and myth interplay with ritual to create meaning in our lives? The Hevra Kadisha as a society provides certain rituals that are considered to benefit individuals and communities alike. I will outline these psychological, emotional and social benefits, and attempt to explain their transformative potential as the ritual is enacted. I will also attempt to address questions about the continuing validity of these traditions and rituals in communities where a significant proportion of affiliated members may be non-observant.

Jewish individuals, as do Jewish communities, have very different perspectives about authority, autonomy and choice. Where are the lines of authority between individual and rabbi, between rabbi and Hevra Kadisha? These issues are very complex. It is not possible to adequately explore their full complexity within this study.  I do suggest that these traditional rituals may become re-entry points for increased personal observance for some Jews. The Hevra Kadisha may provide an opportunity that enables those Jews who consider themselves to be disenfranchised to consider reentering into a covenental connection with God, and with the entire community of Israel, k’lal Israel. [5]

Finally, I will address issues and theories of leadership and adult learning as they apply practically within Jewish communities. The Hevra Kadisha has historically held a place of esteem and leadership within communities. It could be argued that while providing traditional burial rites within a community the Hevra Kadisha also offers opportunities for leadership. What are the options for Jewish learning that enhance this form of leadership in our communities? What are the styles of learning that best apply to the connection of heart and hands that so exemplify this work?

Learning and ritual, leadership and personal authority, finally all connect into an intrinsic whole within the system of mitzvot. Study and action interweave. In Franz Rosenzweig’s words, “A new learning is about to be born – rather it has been born. It is learning in reverse order. A learning that no longer starts from the Torah and leads into life, but the other way round: from life…back to Torah, from the periphery back to the center, from the outside in” (Rosenzweig, 1955, p.98).  Akin to this conceptual framework of Rosenzweig, systems thinking provides a new metaphor with which to envision Judaism. Systems thinking endeavors to find the inter-relationships between seemingly unrelated aspects. It assumes that any system can be understood only as a whole, not by only examining part of the whole. It is a conceptual framework, and is increasingly used in organizational theory. We are able to see within each seemingly fractured part, a reflection of the whole entity.

The contemporary body of Jewish ritual is, I will argue, altered, but intact. I believe that the mitzvah of taharah is a powerful entry point for us to consider and re-consider our connection to this whole sense of self and community. The Hevra Kadisha is our bayit, a home, in which this wholeness can be developed and nurtured.  Death has the potential to shatter us, to destroy our connections, physical and spiritual. Taharah and other death rituals bind and re-bind our brokenness, and encourage what may seem to be, at first, a barely audible healing. But as we return again and again to these rituals, we become aware of all the words of our history, all the words of our mothers and fathers shared within this silence. In those quiet moments we become aware of the shattering potential of the silence in the aleph.[6]  We know in the corporeality of our hands, the ends that come with all beginnings even as we know in our hearts that there is no end.

Origins of Jewish burial practices

While Torah usually refers specifically to the Five Books of Moses that comprise the Humash (often referred to as the Sefer Torah, or Book of Torah), Torah also refers to the entire body of writings that comprise Jewish scholarship. This corpus of Jewish teachings includes the rabbinical teachings in texts such as Talmud. The Humash clearly states that a dead human body must be returned to the ground. “By the sweat of your brow, Shall you get bread to eat, Until you return to the ground – For dust you are and to dust you shall return” (Genesis 3:19, Tanakh, 1985, p. 7). Prior to that burial the corpse is a source of ritual impurity. Kohelet teaches that “He must depart just as he came. As he came out of his mother’s womb, so must he depart at last, naked as he came” (Ecclesiastes 5:14, Tanakh, 1985, p.1447). Extensive detail is provided about the laws of purification when one comes in contact with death, “He who touches the corpse of any human being shall be unclean for seven days” (Numbers 19:11, Tanakh, 1985, p.240).

References to correct procedures for handling the dead are found in both biblical and rabbinical writings. Jewish scholars and rabbis would attempt to respond to the biblical necessity for purification and burial by writing legal codes which required community members to visit the sick, and engage in communal burial and mourning rituals.

The First Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 B.C.E and the Second Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. The Temples were the center of all Jewish ritual life; their destruction precipitated a major shift in these activities and led to the Rabbinic period and the development of synagogues. During the second century of the Common Era, after the destruction of the Second Temple, a small group of rabbis and scholars produced a document called the Mishnah. Mishnah is primarily a compendium of law, an edited recording of halakhic decisions which interpret biblical law and addresses in great detail the laws and practices of Judaism.

Although Mishnah addressed many aspects of Jewish life, including lengthy descriptions of the structure and sacrifices of a rebuilt Temple, it did not address in any comprehensive way the laws and customs concerning death and burial. There is mention of various practices but these practices are not presented as a coherent whole. Even so, these practices seem to have existed as early as the time of the Tanna’im (first and second centuries CE, the six generations from Hillel and Shammai to Judah haNasi).

The hever ir (members of the town) mentioned in Semahot (a minor tractate which discusses laws of mourning) “gives a glimpse of one organizational aspect of ancient Jerusalem, the ‘societies’ (havurot), [which] are considered by certain historians to be the source for the Jewish burial societies that later appeared in Europe” (Goldberg, 1996, p.18 -19). Semahot also discusses the duties of those who care for the dead. In medieval and post-medieval Europe mortuary rituals and manuals would perpetuate the essential features of the duties of these societies.

The “Chasam Sofer” says, “Now for several hundred years the generations have been worthy and in every Jewish town they established a society to do kindness, removing the yoke of burden from the entire community and placing it on the members of the Chevra Kadisha alone” (Jewish Sacred Society, Meisels, n.d., p. 6).

The Tosefta (additional collections of oral law based on the academy of R. Nehemiah, one of R. Akiva’s disciples) including Semahot 12 and Megilla 3, 8, refers to the existence of societies in Jerusalem which helped the mourner, probably from the beginning to the end.

The duty to bury the dead in earth is a positive commandment of the Torah, which rests on all the people in the community in the absence of relatives who can do it. When there is a deceased person in town, no person is allowed to work. It is forbidden for anyone in town to eat a regular meal before the deceased is buried. If the town has a Chevra Kadisha the duty of burial falls on its members, and it is permissible for others to work and to eat regular meals when there is a deceased person in town (Moed Katan 27b, Yoreh De’ah, 343, 361; Jewish Sacred Society, Meisels, n.d., p. 6).

Between the fifth and seventh centuries CE the Babylonian Talmud was edited. Talmud generally is understood to mean Mishnah and Gemarah (commentary on Mishnah) printed as a unified text. Talmud is comprised of Halakhah, debates on law, and Aggadah, nonlegal stories, history, legends and folklore. Yet even Talmud, a massive set of texts with extensive commentaries, provides few organized details about the practical aspects of death rituals. Like the Mishnah, commentaries are often more oblique, suggestive of practice rather than descriptive. We find in Talmud the requirement for Jews respond as a community to the demands of burial.

An organization that looks after the needs of the dead is called a Hevra Kadisha – a holy society, even as the handling of dead bodies makes society members ritually impure. The holiness is understood to come from their willingness to look after the needs of the “holy ones” who were buried in the earth, referred to in Psalms 16:3. “As to the holy and mighty ones that are in the land” (Tanakh, 1985, p.1121; cited by Schlingenbaum, 1991, p.1). The level of kedusha, of holiness of the human body is compared to that of a Sefer Torah. Moed Katan 25a teaches that when a person dies, it is as if a Sefer Torah was burnt. “The Gesher HaChayim (volume 1, page 65) tells us that when we are alive we are called a Sefer Torah chai – a living Sefer Torah” (Schlingenbaum, 1991, p.1).

Simplicity and human dignity are the two concepts basic to Hevrei Kadisha. In Gemarah, in Masechet Sukah 49, Micah 6: 8 is explicated. “He has told you, O man, what is good, and what the Lord requires of you: only to do justice, and to love goodness, and to walk modestly with your God, Then will your name achieve wisdom” (Tanakh, 1985, p.1051). The Gemarah finds in this verse reference to the services of the burial societies (Jewish Sacred Society, Soloveichik, n.d., p. 3). Talmud has other references to Hevra Kadisha, mourning, and burial.

Rabbi Hama, the son of Rabbi Hanina asked: what is the meaning of the verse: “you shall walk after the Lord your God?”…[it means that] you should follow [God by emulating] His virtues…The Holy One, blessed be He, visited the sick…so too shall you visit the sick. The Holy One, blessed be He, comforted mourners…so too shall you comfort mourners. The Holy One, blessed be He, buried the dead…so too shall you bury the dead. (Talmud, Sotah 14a).

Also,

Once, when Rabbi Hamnuna [a fourth-century Babylonian sage] came to Daru-Mata, he heard the sound of the funerary bugle, and, seeing some people carrying on with their work, he said: “Let these people be under the shametta [ban]. Is there not a person dead in the town? How dare they go about their regular business affairs?” They told him there was a Hevra Kadisha in the town. “If so,“ he replied, “you are permitted to work (Talmud, Moed Katan 27b).

Rabban Gamaliel lived in the first century CE. He was the grandson of Rabbi Hillel and it was his oft-cited words that established the Jewish principles of simplicity and modesty of burial.

Formerly, they used to bring food to the house of mourning, rich people in baskets of silver and gold, poor people in baskets of willow twigs; and the poor felt ashamed. Therefore, a law was passed that everybody should use baskets of willow twigs, in deference to the poor…

Formerly, they used to serve drinks in the house of mourning, the rich serving in white glasses and the poor in colored glasses [which were less expensive]; and the poor felt ashamed. Therefore, a law was passed that everyone should serve drinks in colored glasses, in deference to the poor…

Formerly, they used to bring out the deceased for burial, the rich on a tall bed ornamented with rich covers, the poor in a plain box; and the poor felt ashamed. Therefore, a law was passed that all should be brought out in a plain box, in deference to the poor…

Formerly, the expense of burying the dead was harder for a family to bear than the death itself, so that sometimes family members fled to escape the expense. This was so until Rabban Gamliel ordered that he be buried in a plain linen shroud instead of expensive garments. Since then, people have buried their dead in simple shrouds (Talmud, Moed Katan 27 a-b).

With the import of Rabban Gamliel’s words and example burial rituals of subsequent centuries were established. By the 4^th century, Rabbi Papa stated that the garments of the dead were worth only one zuz (a small coin of the era) (Rabinowicz, 1989, p. 30).  

The care of the physical body was not the only concern of the Rabbis. The Rabbis in the Mishnaic period perceived death as a transition from earthly life to olam ha’ba, the world to come. “Death is seen not as an outlet from this life as much as it is a portal into the next” (Weiner, 1999, p.5). As details of how Jews were to visit the sick and comfort the mourner evolved, they were guided by halakhah and were influenced, generation after generation, by local cultures and customs. It is in Talmud that one of the fundamental precepts of Rabbinic Judaism is explicated, that of olam ha’ba, the afterlife. Such suppositions, if not beliefs, permeate Jewish tradition regarding death and burial.

While the Rabbis of the Talmudic period acknowledged the primary obligations of the living to the living, they also expressed a depth of understanding that the customs and practices of mourning must ensure the comfort of the deceased as well as that of the mourner. The dead were understood to continue to be sentient. All death-rituals reflected such awareness of the sensitivity of the soul of the dead. For example, while in life Jews can perform the mitzvot, in death they are exempt.

Like the living, the dead know and feel. …their knowledge may be superior to the living. But they are deficient in their ability to wear tefillin,[7] to recite the Shema,[8] to light the candles of the Sabbath. The soul, as it lives on independent of the flesh – indeed, long after the flesh has deteriorated – is unable to fulfill the physical commands of God’s Torah  (Kraemer, 2000,
p.112).

One custom in particular, which I will discuss later, the re-burial of the bones at the end of twelve months most definitely reflects an understanding of the transitionary nature of death. The process of dying and of death was considered incomplete until all flesh had decomposed, and the bones had been reinterred.

Earliest reference to taharah, per se, is found in Rashi’s Talmud commentary. Rashi, Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki (1040-1105), was a French scholar and rabbi who authored the classic commentary on Torah and Talmud. Rashi addressed the purpose of taharah in words similar to those of Kohelet. Rashi stated that the purpose of taharah was to make the body clean, “k’mo she’hayah leileich b’chol shabbat l’veit ha’knesset” (as the person would go to synagogue on Shabbat). In his commentary on Moed Katan 27b Rashi mentioned numerous burial societies and the concern of these societies to properly bury their members (Goldberg, 1996, p.83).

In the post Talmudic period, Maimonides (1135 –1204) profoundly shifted the theological underpinnings of Jewish eschatology. Maimonides was a doctor, a judge, and a distinguished scholar. In 1180 he published the Mishneh Torah, a massive fourteen volume codification of Talmudic law, and in 1190 he published the Guide of the Perplexed in which he stressed a critical, rational approach to Jewish doctrine.

His commitment throughout was to integrate the theological truth of Torah with the philosophical truths of Greek philosophy which led him to value “reason as the distinguishing crown of the human being, and to rationality as the ultimate source of truth” (Gillman, 1997, p. 144). The tensions in his writing about the afterlife thus stem from Maimonides’ attempts to reconcile these two teachings. Torah accepts bodily resurrection whereas eternal life for the Greeks is the domain only of the soul (Gillman, 1997, p. 148).

The Amidah [9] (the prayer service recited three times each day by observant Jews) emphatically and repeatedly mentions resurrection of the dead. Embedded in the Amidah are prayers acknowledging God’s power to resurrect the dead (t’hiyat hametim), which became a central part of the liturgical canon. While bodily resurrection would seem to be implied in the Amidah, Maimonides emphasized the immortality of the soul over bodily resurrection. “In contrast to the Talmud which combines the two doctrines [resurrection of soul and body] while preserving the integrity of each, Maimonides seems to fold one into the other; resurrection means spiritual immortality” (Gillman, 1997, p. 155). In 1191 he continued to press his point and published Ma’amar Tehiyyat na-Metim (Essay on the Resurrection of the Dead), in which he reiterated his belief that olam ha’ba was the domain of the soul and not of the body.

The portrait of a disembodied soul that Maimonides drew was profoundly disturbing to many Jews of his time, and caused bitter theological debates for centuries (Weiner, 2000, pp.74-76). While the debate may be less bitter today, the ideas proposed by Maimonides may certainly be seen as a watershed moment in Jewish belief.

“Finally, Maimonides may have been a lonely voice in his own time, but centuries later, when Jews entered the modern age and began to question bodily resurrection, they turned to Maimonides’ affirmation of spiritual immortality as a “purer,” by which they meant more rational, yet still authentically Jewish alternative. While controversial in his time, his views would eventually have a far greater impact in the modern age than those of his more traditional contemporaries" (Gillman, 1997, p.168).

One thousand years later Maimonides’ rationalism and his speculations about resurrection continue to contribute towards modern-day eschatological skepticism.

Nahmanides, the Ramban, (1194 –1270) was born in Spain. He was not only a physician but also a rabbi, philosopher and biblical commentator. Nahmanides wrote Torat ha-Adam, the first compilation of laws about death and mourning. The text notes changes in burial and funeral customs. Torat ha-Adam is based on Talmudic writings but also incorporated contemporary customs (Goldberg, 1996, p.101). In particular, his text reveals that the financial hardships of burial that had led families of the dead (in ancient times) to abandon corpses was no longer evident (Goldberg, 1996, p.82). This legal guide to burial and mourning was influential in the further development of these customs.

Rabbi Jacob b. Asher (1270 –1340), was also an influential legal commentator. In Arba’ah Turim (“The Four Pillars”) he documented further deviations from known rabbinical custom. R. Asher described the then-present-day customs of burial which emphasized the prerogative of each community to establish specific burial practices (Kraemer, 2000, p.134). Custom had replaced codification, community standards had became the norm. Customs continued to reflect community norms in succeeding centuries, as communities reflected changes in demographic and economic patterns.

Hevrot, Jewish communal societies, among them the society for caring for the dead, flourished in Spain until the Expulsion in 1492, but it was not until the late medieval period that a Hevra Kadisha was documented in Northern Europe. The commingling of Sephardic Jews (generally from Spain, Portugal and Northern Africa) and Ashkenazi Jews (generally from Northern Europe, Poland and Russia) led to a blending of custom and ritual that highly influenced the formation of Hevrot Kadisha and the further development of death rituals.

Many of these death-customs were later reconfigured by kabbalistic mystical teachings. Even though Torat ha- Adam was written prior to the Zohar, it already showed the influences of early kabbalistic mysticism (Raphael, 1996, pp.273-278). Originating in France during the tenth and eleventh centuries, Kabbalah further evolved during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. While Kabbalah was an oral tradition and was usually limited to an intellectual elite, eventually these esoteric teachings were written down. The Zohar, a text central to Kabbalistic thought, appeared in the late twelfth century, and is assumed to have been written by Moshe ben Shem Tov de Leon in Guadalajara, Spain. The Zohar was particularly influential in developing ideas about the afterlife in Jewish thought.

Jews in medieval Europe

 A Midrash published in 1522 stated, “The highest act of gemilut hesed (acts of loving kindness) is that which is done for the dead, for there can never be any thought of repayment” (Tanhuma Vayehi 107a, as cited by Kelman, 2000, xiii). However, it would appear that the political, social and economic instability of Jewish life in Europe during the medieval period led to the functional diminishment, if not loss, of such previously well-known communal groups. Between Talmudic times and medieval days, when burial societies in Europe were noted and documented again, there was a long period of mandated exiles and dispersion for Jews. Attacks on Jews and Jewish communities and forced conversions necessitated frequent searches for refuge in new communities. Jews fleeing from one country to another, from one city to another, would have brought their customs and rituals with them. Ironically, the mass expulsion of Sephardi Jews and their dispersion throughout Northern Europe may have led to the re-development of these communal societies.

In 1564 one of the first Hevra Kadisha societies to be documented in medieval Europe was established in Prague. Various factors influenced both the re-institution of these societies, and their written documentation. The institution of Hevra Kadisha was re-created in part to counter the lack of communal structures to attend to the necessities of burials in the community at the time. Various anti-Jewish influences, including repressive edicts from the Catholic Church and acts of violence and destruction, were also influences on the creation of burial societies. The formation of Christian guilds and their subsequent economic power have also been acknowledged as a possible influencing factor in their creation. The guilds controlled most of the demands of trade and production in Europe until the eighteenth century (they were abolished in France in 1791) as commercial and economic life developed. They were highly specialized, and represented all aspects of the trades (Braudel, 1982, p. 496). Whether the Jewish communal aid societies were imitative of the power of guilds or were developed in reaction to the control the guilds held over economic activity is debatable. Probably both factors played somewhat of a role.

Another possible influence towards the initiation of these societies was the still-growing awareness of Kabbalah, which influenced beliefs about death and the subsequent journey of the soul. Scholem suggested that Kabbalah began to influence Jewish customs and prayers, particularly in the area of liturgy associated with ‘specific ritual occasions’ (Goldberg 1996, p.88). Exiled Spanish and Portuguese Jews who had resettled in northern Ashkenaz lands, Holland, Germany and Poland, brought with them knowledge about Kabbalistic beliefs and practices as well as experience with communal societies. Goldberg suggests these exiled Sephardi Jews assisted the Ashkenazi Jews in establishing similar community structures.

Such Sephardi societies are described as highly structured and were apparently unknown at that time among Ashkenazi Jews. The earlier Sephardic societies flourished in well-established communities that had the stability and continuity to take root.

It is only here (13^th century Spain) that for the first time we find evidence of Jewish brotherhoods in the fully developed pattern which exists today. Rabbi Solomon ben Adreth of Barcelona (1225 –1310) mentions these societies in his responsa. Throughout the 14^th and 15^th centuries throughout the country there appeared a series of societies, hevrot, confradias, confratias, confrarias, which busied themselves with the burial of the dead, education of the poor, dowering of orphan brides, support of the poor and visiting and providing for the sick (Marcus, cited by Goldman, 1975, p.174).

The arrival of these exiled Sephardi Jews and their well-established customs and rituals were considered to be very influential in institutionalizing the less than rigorous practices of Ashkenazi Jews (Goldberg, 1996, p.85 -86; Marcus, cited by Goldman, 1975, p.174; Rabinowicz, 1919, p.38).

Texts about burial customs were emerging in other communities during these times. For example, Joseph Yuspa Hahn wrote a book of customs that identifies him “as one of the founding members of the Hevra Kadisha of Frankfurt, established in 1517” (Goldberg, 1996, p.84). It is not clear whether this society was also influenced by the arrival of Sephardi Jews, although the date, twenty years after the expulsion, would seem to allow for the possibility.  Hahn justified the creation of the Frankfurt burial society by the circumstances in which the Jews of his community then lived, “there were many dead, groaning like abandoned corpses, who had no one to bury them… And those who performed the task did not know the required ritual procedure” (Goldberg, 1996, p.84).

European anti-Semitism included many charges against Jews. The Crusades, the Black Death, and the spread of blood libels continued throughout the centuries and unleashed waves of anti-Jewish edicts and massacres, which caused wholesale destruction of Jewish communities. The charge most guaranteed to incite anti-Jewish sentiment was that of a blood libel. In terrifying escalation Christians circulated the myth that Jews required the blood of Christian children, sometimes young girls, other times boys, as a ritual ingredient to bake matzot, unleavened bread, for Passover.  “It is impossible to gauge the moral damage which was done by the ritual murder lie…The regions in which the agitators had roosted were poisoned with the bane of hatred…Every such trial was accompanied by violence against the Jews and destruction of their property (Elbogen, 1946, p.155-159). Such violence and unrest made it very difficult for these communities to become as well established and settled as had Jews in Spain. Burial societies were re-introduced in the sixteenth century in a pattern of reclaiming and restoring historical traditions. They were formed out of tragic necessity, out of memory and connection with historical tradition, and out of an awareness of the potential for social and economic power within community.

Development of mortuary manuals

There were also positive factors which influenced the proliferation and standardization of Hevra Kadisha practices. The new printing and publishing industries had revolutionized access to literary texts. Printing presses in Europe became established between 1440-50, and quickly replaced woodcut printing. Until the eighteenth century the craft was very labor intensive, and involved composing lines of moveable type. But by 1787 a printing press was designed that could print an entire folio.

As with other religious and literary texts, the guides and liturgical texts that members of the society consulted became much more widely available with the advances in printing and publishing. The Ma’avar Yabbok, (literally, crossing or across the Jabbok) published in 1624 by Aaron Berekhiah of Modena, became the standardized manual of the Bikkur Holim/Hevra Kadisha (Visiting the Sick and Burial Societies) (Buxbaum, 1991, p.9). The river Jabbok is mentioned in the Bible. Jacob had to cross over the Jabbok to reunite with Esau, his brother, after many years’ absence. Before crossing the river, Jacob wrestled all night with an angel, at the end of which he was given the name Israel. Berekhiah made an analogue with Jacob’s crossing and the crossing of Jewish people from this world to the next. The combination of three words Yihud (unification), B’rakhah (blessing), and Kedushah (holiness) indicated the means by which Jews would cross the river of light into the next world. These words also form an acronym for the word Yabbok. Kabbalah suggests that once the Jewish people are across the river Yabbok they too will wrestle with God until dawn, a symbol of when the Mashiah (the Messiah) will come and all Jews will be resurrected (Weiner, 1999, p.12).

The Ma’avar Yabbok incorporated extensive Kabbalistic imagery and became the template for other manuals, particularly the Sefer HaHayim, The Book of Life, written by Simeon Frankfurter in 1703. But even as the Ma’avar Yabbok, written in Aramaic and Hebrew, was profoundly influential on the development of mortuary customs, the text had a constituency often limited by gender.  Jewish women could generally read neither Hebrew nor Aramaic. Eventual publications of burial guides in Yiddish were instrumental to the wider practice of these rituals.

Ellus bas Mordechai of Slutsk translated sections of the Ma’avar Yabbok into Yiddish, to act as an explanatory guide for the care of the dead and the dying (Weissler, 1998, p.12). Given its extensive influence on other mortuary manuals and the subsequent passing of those manuals from generation to generation throughout successive centuries, the Ma’avar Yabbok in both languages played a significant role in the transmission of these customs and beliefs. To this day it remains a significant source text regarding Jewish burial customs.

Other sources for funeral customs, particularly for women, were special liturgical poems called tkhines which were written in Yiddish for a primarily female audience. The tkhines of Sarah bas Tovim were exceedingly popular for generations (Weissler, 1998, p.127). Of special interest to this study is the tkhine she wrote about kneytlakh legn (laying wicks) – making candles of the wicks used to measure graves in the cemetery, a practice that may go back a thousand years. The popularity of her writing might have served to preserve and promote an ancient custom, a custom that continued to be documented into the twentieth century (Weissler, 1998, p.134). The theme of laying wicks, was found in Shloyshe Sheorim, The Three Gates, published in 1731-32, and was known and mentioned by Frankfurter in Sefer HaHayim, published thirty years earlier (Weissler, 1998, pp.130-143).

If a young woman “could sign her name in Russian, do a little figuring, and write a letter in Yiddish to the parents of her betrothed, she was called wohl-gelehrnt – well educated” (Stahl Weinberg, 1988, p.44). Yet women became avid consumers of liturgies and religious guides. When the Sefer HaHayim, The Book of Life, was published it was written in two sections, the first in Hebrew and the second translated and simplified into Yiddish. Yiddish editions continued to be published. Women and uneducated men were the primary readership of these Yiddish editions of the Sefer HaHayim and other religious guides (Weissler, 1998, pp. 40-41).

Publication of such manuals prior to this time was significantly limited because of costs and production difficulties incurred by the technological limitations of the day. However, further sophistication of technologies led to wider availability of books, an availability that burgeoned from the sixteenth century on. Books became even more commonly available as they circulated along trade routes and at book fairs (Braudel, 1981, p. 401). Between the seventeenth and the nineteenth centuries, virtually every community in Europe published its own version of a mortuary manual (Goldberg, 1996, p.102). Many of these manuals were also reissued during this period, which would seem to indicate their well-handled and continued usage.

Transition of customs

The Hevra Kadisha then, as now, held a range of responsibilities from conducting the taharah, to providing comfort to mourners, to over-seeing grave digging and attending funerals. The Hevra was a society with tremendous influence and power, an influence that it maintained for centuries (Panitz, 1989, p.64). The elite nature of the membership extended to sometimes having their own minyan (quorum of ten Jewish men) as well as their own rabbi. Hevrei members were often also buried in particularly favorable locations in the cemetery (Panitz, 1989, p.84). However by the late eighteenth century the powers of European Hevra Kadisha and rituals of Jewish burial were beginning to be affected by government edicts issued to delay burials. These edicts acted to disrupt the traditional immediacy of Jewish burials.

Prior to the 1730’s such delays were never an issue (Panitz, 1989, p.180). However, new edicts were enforced to keep dead bodies above ground until decomposition began to take place. In 1772 Duke Friedrich of Mecklenburg-Schwerin prohibited all his Jewish subjects from burying their dead immediately. A three-day waiting period was enforced to ensure the person was dead. This decree was endorsed by no other than Moses Mendelssohn who had read a text on mourning, ‘Abel Rabati’, which told the story of a man who had been buried and thirty days later was discovered to be alive (Novak, 1976, p.106). [10] Because of these edicts taharah was delayed for days. A body in the meantime would become increasingly putrescent. Particularly during the summer, decomposition of bodies was an acute problem. One rabbinical response to these laws included delaying the time of the taharah from hours before the funeral to days. Another response to delayed burial was suggested by Rabbi Schreiber in 1829.The Hevra would prepare the body in the traditional manner and then spread an apron over the shrouded body, only to be removed immediately prior to burial (Panitz, 1989, p.182). Traditional halakhic rulings were thus altered by civil political exigencies as rabbis were forced to work within state law.

           The Hevra Kadisha, between the sixteenth and twentieth centuries, performed a significant civic service within most European Jewish communities. It held a monopoly over all aspects of burial and as such contributed to a certain continuity over the centuries. The power that members of the Hevra Kadisha wielded cannot, I think, be underestimated. Particularly when traditional community structures of Jewish life began to unravel in the grip of the twin incisors of the secularizing influences of modernity on one hand and rising anti-Jewish sentiments on the other, the ballebatim (while today ordinary Jews may join the Hevra Kadisha, in this historical period members were persons of high standing in the community) of the Hevra provided a stabilizing and reinforcing presence in Jewish communities (Michael Steinlauf, personal communication, November 26, 2000, Lost Worlds: Jewish Life from Germany to the Russian Pale: 1830’3 – 1930s, conference, University of Victoria. B.C.).

However, this continuity began to destabilize when millions of Jews emigrated from the Old to the New World. There was a long period of transition as immigrants to the New World attempted to replant their traditional communal structures in foreign soil. Just as the Sephardi Jews had brought their communal societies with them as they moved into Northern Europe, so too European Jews brought their hevrot to the United States and Canada.

Hevra Kadisha in North America

Congregation Shearith Israel established the first documented burial society in the United States prior to 1785 in New York City. During the 1800’s, as many congregations were established, Hevra Kadisha groups were also formed. These societies were similar to their historical counterparts, however there were structural differences. The new hevrot were usually subordinate to a congregation, and not an autonomous society (Goren, 1987, p.69). Some groups expanded their charitable services, others existed more to meet members’ social needs, some were affiliated with congregations, and others were non-affiliated. Many groups merged with cemetery committees and assumed joint responsibility for maintaining the cemeteries as well as providing other services (Goren, 1987, p.69). Issues that we may think of as contemporary issues also surfaced many years ago. For example, in the nineteenth century the question of non-Jewish spouses being buried in Jewish cemeteries was raised (Goren, 1987, p.70).

There were also other notable differences in these New World societies. In this new society, Old World Jews encountered a number of complications. The Hevra Kadisha no longer held the political and economic powers it had once enjoyed, and now often answered to an undertaker, or a funeral director. Transportation difficulties, in part created by the much greater distances between homes, synagogue and cemeteries, were often beyond the scope of the local Hevra. Various municipal codes, factory-made coffins, and dressing of bodies being moved from home to funeral home, were all factors in squeezing out more traditional aspects of burial societies. The 19^th century was a time of peak immigration from Europe to the United States and Canada and a time when “discontinuity seems to outweigh the continuities” (Goren, 1987, p.57). Some efforts were made to preserve the more traditional nature of these societies, in particular by the Orthodox Adath Israel in New York, an organization whose stated “purpose was to bring unity to Jewish life” (Goren, 1987, p.73). Even within the turbulence and disorders of the day, then, there continued to be a certain sustained loyalty to these customs. But the traditional power of the Hevra Kadisha became vastly diminished, and, over the years, so too attachment to traditional forms of preparation for Jewish burial.

The challenge of modernity and secularization

Unlike the Hevra Kadisha which espoused communal traditions and simplicity of ritual, the American funeral industry with its attendant expensive embellishments came to dominate all aspects of burial including the preparation of bodies. The industry promoted sentimental attachments to tradition but these were, by and large, opportunistic and flimsy. The continued pressure on Jews to modernize and become more and more secular exacerbated the shifts in custom precipitated by immigration. As death moved from home to hospital, the general population, not just Jews became distanced from death, and social norms began to shift. Not only was the practice of embalming introduced but also other changes soon became standard. [11] Machine-made shrouds became customary rather than traditional hand-sewn garments, cheaper materials than linen were used for the shrouds, services in funeral homes began to replace attendance at grave-sites, and burials were often delayed beyond the twenty-four hour standard (Schneider, 1991, p.170-171). However, even in the wake of such considerable change, there remained an attachment to Jewish identity and Jewish funeral tradition, even as the shape and style of that tradition had visibly altered.[12]

There have been considerable criticisms of the funerary industry but none as critical or, I believe, as influential as that of Jessica Mitford. Her description of coffins as “the revolutionary ‘Perfect-Posture’ bed” and of  “grave-wear couturiers” point out that they are the antithesis of traditional Jewish custom (Mitford, 1963, p.16). Such status-symbol coffins and other elaborate paraphernalia led to over- priced funerals, which often have been beyond the financial reach of many mourners. In 1962, the United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism of America issued a report addressing this situation and advocated a return to traditional burial customs, with an emphasis on the values of modesty and simplicity. In the same year, in response to this publication, a funeral industry magazine Casket and Sunnyside reported on the dangers confronting the Jewish Funeral Directors of America (Mitford, 1963, p.257). The economics of the industry precluded any loyalty to traditional ritual. Nearly forty years later I interviewed several Jewish funeral directors in New York City and similar tensions, however amicably phrased, were still evident. A plain inexpensive wood coffin was still out of view, tucked into a corner, while fancier much more expensive coffins were glamorously and extensively displayed in front.

Mitford’s critique preceded that of Rabbi Arnold Goodman by nearly twenty years. But it was Goodman, in his role as rabbi at Adath Jeshurun Congregation in Minneapolis,

who carried both these initial critiques forward. He acknowledged the importance of

Mitford’s role in the revival of Jewish burial societies as part of a larger consumer response against some of the abuses she addressed (Goodman, 1981, p. xv). The very title of his book, A Plain Pine Box, indicated both advocacy and challenge. He challenged Jews to not only confront the commercialization of the funeral industry but to rediscover their own voluntary responsibility for burying their dead. Goodman well described the mystique, if not dread, that pervaded American cultures regarding death, and the subsequent diminishment of rituals that had attended and sustained mourners throughout the generations. Such detachment from personal experience with death combined with the professionalization of the funeral industry, acted to virtually extinguish Hevra Kadisha societies in large urban centers. Even Orthodox Jews suffered from this malady of modernity. In 1971 only 2 percent of Jews in Queens received a taharah. Concerted attention has been paid to restoring these burial traditions and figures today (close to forty percent) are testament to such efforts (Shema Yisroel, 1999, n.p.).

Many Jewish traditions were seriously disrupted throughout the socio-demographic shifts of twentieth century North America. In large urban centers, Jewish funeral homes took over the business of preparing the dead. Another factor was an understanding on the part of many Jews that such traditions were outdated and not within the purview of Conservative congregations. Denominational Judaism had increased to the point where traditional observances were seen to be the domain of the Orthodox. Some smaller communities managed to hang on to their traditions, but even in these communities membership in the Hevra Kadisha often dwindled to one or two dedicated and persevering individuals.

Some communities are now attempting to revive this mitzvah and are offering to help

others establish a community Hevra Kadisha. For example, David Zinner described Kavod v’Nichum, an on-line organization established to provide technical and educational assistance. Kavod v’Nichum (literally, honor and compassion) was organized by Zinner, Rabbi Goodman and other Jews committed to education about Hevra Kadisha. (For further information see URL: (http://www.jewish-funerals.org/ accessed January 29, 2000). The oral transmission of ritual from generation to generation that so marked these societies has survived, if only by a thread. The guides and manuals in use by Hevra Kadisha groups today are familiar counterpart to manuals that have been published for centuries, even as their emphasis is more procedural and less mystical. In communities where the tradition of maintaining a Hevra Kadisha has survived, several factors have ensured a certain continuity of practice. It seems that an informal, oral transmission of knowledge has been critical to its survival, as has the transmission of tradition through generations of family members. But this tradition, even with its endowment of oral and familial training is challenged today by a lack of adequate educational materials.

Texts about contemporary Hevra Kadisha and Taharah practices

To date I have been unable to find a single book in English devoted exclusively to Hevra Kadisha and the rituals of taharah. There are standard texts on death and mourning that are available to the public but these are generally inadequate for those members of Hevra Kadisha groups who want information beyond the basic order of washing and dressing. There is a crucial need to provide greater depths of understanding about the details of taharah, particularly for Jews who do not have the classical literacy to read the Hebrew, Aramaic or Yiddish source texts. Perhaps these texts do not exist in English for good reason. Until recently these traditions have been handed down orally, often through family lines. Customs were explained, practices shaped and developed through experience and necessity. Oral teachings have an immediacy and contextual validity, not always found when the teachings have been written down. There are significant differences in affect between these modes of teaching.

The passage of a literary work from exclusively oral to written/oral transmission is profoundly transformative. What was once present as direct address and shaped inevitably to suit the needs of the moment as these took shape in the interaction of speaker and audience is now deprived of the fluid form which constitutes its social reality. A tradition, once reformulated and changed with each performance, is now stabilized and objectified in a form which exerts a powerful control over future performances or readings. What was formerly “authored” at each recitation must now be reproduced “as it is written” (Jaffee, as cited in Kraemer, 2000, p. 7).

However today, in many communities those generational links, which enabled such oral transmission of ritual, have been lost. As the publication of innumerable versions of mortuary manuals would seem to suggest, there has been a long-standing need for some degree of written guidance in these matters to supplement and reinforce existing oral transmission. I believe Jaffee’s concerns about standardized reproduction of ritual will be tempered by loyal adherence to unwritten local community mores. The desire for consistency must always be weighed against potential for ossification; the tendencies to local anarchy must be weighed against a pre-determined legal requirement.

There could be other broader historical factors at play that have led to a dearth of written resources. Particularly relevant to modern Jews is the psychological impact of the enormity of death suffered during the Holocaust. It has been suggested that issues of death and dying are particularly problematic for post-Holocaust Jews and may preclude any conception of after-life (Raphael, 1996, pp.28 -29). Ironically, it is the work of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross that instigated much of the present-day research in the area of thanatology. It was while she was working as a relief worker at the Maidanek concentration camp in 1945 that she first became fascinated by human response to death. On the walls of the barracks she found drawings of butterflies – innumerable butterflies – their wings a static testament to life within the stench of death (Raphael, 1996, p.38-39). Such juxtaposition of life and death moved Kubler-Ross towards the work that would become synonymous with her name. However in counterpoint, it has also been suggested that it was not so much the fact of the Holocaust that created theological despair, but the loss of belief in life after death.

The Holocaust did not precipitate a crisis of faith. A prior crisis of faith made the Holocaust the theological watershed it has become…most modern Jews could make no sense of the Holocaust in theological terms. They therefore found themselves frozen without faith-options (Kraemer, 2000, pp.148-149).

Participation in traditional death rituals may not entirely thaw such a state of being. But it is my belief and my experience that such participation helps to reinforce, if not create a more “theological” discernment of the meaning and meaningless of death.

Regardless of which of these factors singly or collectively have colluded to ensure a virtual erasure of this topic, the fact is that such a literary silence exists. On the one hand, there is ritual, but on the other, little understanding about what that same ritual signifies. The need for such literature is well acknowledged. 

Above all, we need to create a contemporary Jewish death manual that integrates recent psychological perspectives on dying and bereavement with the vast legacy of Jewish tradition on death and the afterlife. Designed for healing the bereaved and Jewish death-awareness education, such a manual, “A Jewish Book of Life”, can be used in hospice, and hospitals, at funerals, in shivah houses, for memorial services, and in other ritual moments that deal with dying and death (Raphael, 1996, p. 402).

There are a variety of texts where some far from complete information is available, but these texts range widely in readability and in accessibility. I was able to find a number of dissertations in the stacks of the library at the Jewish Theological Seminary (Goldberg, 1985,  Panitz, 1989,  Buxbaum, 1991,  Oiwa, 1988,  Schneider, 1991, and Weisfogel, 1988). However these dissertations, valuable and fascinating as they were, are usually not accessible for the average Hevra member to find, however resourceful they may be. To my knowledge, only one of these theses has been published in book form (Goldberg,  Crossing the Jabbok, Illness and Death in Ashkenazi Judaism in Sixteenth – through Nineteenth – Century Prague, 1996).

Later in this thesis, I recount how interviewees described both their commitment to these rituals and their thirst for greater understanding about these same rituals. The suggestive but frozen flight of butterflies carved into the walls offered a symbol of hope to Jews trapped in the death-camps. Images of sailing ships were once carved into the walls of ancient Jewish burial tombs possibly to indicate the journey from life to death. So too might the words of these Hevra Kadisha members precipitate a journey towards greater learning about Jewish death rituals.

Magazine articles

Magazine articles give a brief but valuable glimpse into the practical and symbolic structure and meaning of the Hevra Kadisha. Someone picking up Hadassah, Lilith or the United Synagogue Review might read these articles and be inspired to seek out more information, if not become actually involved in a Hevra Kadisha. The value of these articles cannot be underestimated. Over the past few years there have been several articles in Jewish magazines about Hevra Kadisha and the mitzvah of taharah. These articles tend to be very personal and thus enable the reader to vicariously experience the profoundly moving nature of this mitzvah. One woman described her transition from fear and hesitation to pride and love as she discussed her first taharah experience. She found that participating in taharah transformed her nervousness into an awareness of “a deep sense of privilege that would recur each time I would prepare a Jewish woman for her final journey” (Sommerstein, 1997, p.36).

Some of the differences that geography plays in preserving this tradition have also been addressed, “the fact that almost every Conservative congregation in the south west region of the United States has a society which fulfills all the traditional functions, except grave digging, may well be attributable to the fact that the areas in question have no Jewish funeral homes. In more populous Jewish areas – for example, in northern New Jersey – it would appear that there are no Hevra Kadisha societies in any of the area’s Conservative congregations” (Kuper Jaffe, 1997, p.38). Confirming her findings, in September 2000 I contacted all Conservative affiliated congregations in Manhattan to inquire about their Hevra Kadisha. On three occasions the person I spoke with expressed complete ignorance of what I was talking about. One woman insisted only the Orthodox still did this. Not a single Conservative affiliated congregation had an in-house Hevra Kadisha. However, two unaffiliated Conservative congregations, Ansche Hesed and B’nei Jeshurun, had active Hevra Kadisha groups.

Ironically, it would appear that Jews living in smaller communities, outside the large urban centers that have much larger Jewish populations, are the communities more actively maintaining a Hevra Kadisha. The option of turning to a Jewish funeral home is usually not available in smaller communities. People in smaller centers have been forced to realize that to keep a sense of Yiddishkeit (traditional Jewish culture of observant European Jewry) alive in their communities they need to actively provide for themselves. This aspect of life, which could be perceived of as disadvantageous lack of Jewish resources, has, in fact, actually contributed towards sustaining at least this aspect of Jewish tradition.

Taharah links practical and spiritual elements – a connection valued by many Hevra Kadisha members – and recalls the unity of sentiment and function found in tkhines. As one magazine writer put it, “My motivations for becoming involved were a combination of the practical, personal and philosophical…when death comes, what remains is a sense of incompleteness – a need for spiritual closure. It is uplifting to know that at this venerable moment I was able to perform the final act of love” (Berman, 1996, p.41). These sentiments were also echoed in another article where the author described the respect and dignity accorded the met(m)/metah(f), the body, during taharah: “This body once housed a living spirit and our ritual honors that sanctity” (Friedmann, 2000, p.48).

Articles like these, despite being short and infrequently published, had an anecdotal style that enabled them to emotionally reach their readership. The wide circulation of these popular magazines in which they were published also ensured a distribution that more scholarly papers would never have. These articles provided stories about individuals who, through their actions, demonstrated a devotion and commitment to the concept and the practical reality of Hevra Kadisha.

Books: Halakhic and popular

Books about Jewish death and funeral customs are generally unavailable to those who do not have access to Judaica bookstores, although they may be special ordered. These books fall into two primary categories. First, there are thick halakhic tomes with considerable erudition, often written with extensive detail and footnotes. Second, there are a growing number of popular, reader-friendly books. All of these resource texts should have a place on the bookshelf of a Hevra Kadisha. Some books may be more useful in developing the more scholarly and halakhic expertise of Hevra Kadisha members, while others address taharah in only a more peripheral manner. However, there are very few books that are useful for developing a general practical expertise about all aspects of taharah.

Several of the scholarly texts presume a commitment to traditional observance and an understanding of halakhic terms and Hebrew literacy that is probably not the case for the average non-Orthodox Jew. The Ma’avar Yabbok in print  for three centuries is still being used. Another text by Rabbi Goldberg, with 470 pages of extensive and footnoted erudition, limits comments about taharah to one sentence: ”After the body has been purified and clothed in burial garments, if the funeral is not to begin immediately, the body should not be left where the purification took place” (Goldberg, 1991, p.121). Those of us who have a particular fascination about the details of mourning customs may find Goldberg’s book an invaluable resource, but the average lay person will find such extensive detail overwhelming, and difficult to use. Goldberg’s text is useful, even as the actual section on taharah is so limited, in that in his commentaries he provides some explanation of the more mystical customs.

One of the challenges that definitely confronts any contemporary Hevra Kadisha, particularly in smaller, more isolated communities, is the lack of Jewish ritual literacy among laity. Today, few non-Orthodox Jews are familiar with burial rituals and often do not care to even discuss them except perhaps when immediately necessary. Many Jews may entertain a desire for traditional rituals at such times, but most have no awareness of what it is they are asking for. They may also be unwilling and/or unable to enter into study of such rituals at the time of a death. However, “if thinking on the subject is to be deferred, if there is to be no education before the crisis, what chance is there that we shall know how to handle the crisis when it arrives” (Lamm, 1969, p.xii). Such a dilemma is very evident in many communities today.

However even Lamm’s book, which was widely acknowledged by many of the interviewees as their only source of information, is limited as a resource for Hevra Kadisha members. The initial section on taharah is only several paragraphs, which are descriptive in only the most general of ways. The specific details of the actual order of prayer, washing, and dressing are found in an appendix. However even in an erstwhile accessible and educational book such as Lamm, there are problematic assumptions: “Each member of the Hevra Kadisha should come provided with a copy of the Ma’avar Yabbok, which contains the prayers that should be recited at this time as well as during the entire taharah” (Lamm, 1969, p. 241). This statement presumes a level of literacy that the average Conservative Jew does not have. Most members of my Hevra Kadisha would probably not be able to identify that the Ma’avar Yabbok is a book, never mind read and understand the text.

Rabbi Arnold Goodman, who was central in reviving the concept of Hevra Kadisha in North American congregations, also gives only the briefest of descriptions of taharah (Goodman, 1981, p. 72-77). He does, however, explain very clearly the multiple responsibilities of the Hevra Kadisha. The taharah is only one aspect of the responsibilities of the Hevra Kadisha, but as such, it is a ritual that seems to most carry an aura of mysteriousness, a mysteriousness I would suggest that is only reinforced by a lack of relevant and accessible learning materials.

Rabbi Abner Weiss attempted to address many of these problems in Death and Bereavement. The section on taharah in his book is clear, practical, and contains the level of detail that will be useful for any Hevra Kadisha. In his preface he states that “most works in the field do not cover some very practical aspects of the subject” (Weiss, 1991, p.1). Different typefaces and layout are used throughout the book to make the information more readily accessible. Unlike Goldberg, Weiss has deliberately avoided extensive footnotes and citations, “for the sake of simplicity and readability” (Weiss, 1991, p.2). Rabbi Weiss also addressed some circumstances that might be problematic, from burial of stillborns to the great distances between funeral chapels and gravesites in many cities. However even in this text there are few explanations about the origins and practice of customs and rituals.

There are also a number of Jewish books on death and mourning primarily intended for a lay audience. They complement the more rigorous halakhic texts and are useful as a general introduction to these laws and customs (Brener, 1993, Diament, 1998, Isaacs, 1999, Kolatch, 1993, Press, 1990, Rabinowicz, 1989,  Reimer. ed., 1995 and  Wolfson, 1996). Kolatch, for example, notes that his book will be useful for individuals wanting to know more about these rituals “unencumbered by excessive verbiage” (Kolatch, 1993, p.4). His book, which contains clearly articulated questions and answers about Jewish mourning traditions reflect the practices of traditional Judaism. The adage of “no question is a stupid question” is aptly demonstrated in this text. Other books address the customs and rituals of death and mourning in a more perfunctory but still useful manner (Cutter 1992, Edelstein n. d., Goldberger, 1986, Gordon, 1949, Klein, 1988, Tendler, 2000, and Weiner, 1999).

A Hevra Kadisha might also find it useful to have some educational materials about the medical/ethical aspects of death – suicide, euthanasia, hospice care, cremation, and autopsies. Typically,  “Jewish tradition places great trust in resolving moral dilemmas through legal methods” (Dorff, 1998, p.7). Dorff applies clear parameters of Jewish law to such medical and legal matters. By doing so he deftly integrates Jewish philosophy and practical medical challenges. Hevra Kadisha members, particularly in smaller communities without a rabbi, may have to take on more intermediary responsibilities, for example, addressing the need for autopsy with families and hospitals or explaining Jewish law regarding cremation. Dorff’s text provides valuable background to understanding a traditional approach to these matters.

A small number of books also address Jewish views of afterlife (Dubov, 1995, Gillman, 1997 and Raphael, 1996). Some Hevra Kadisha members might wonder why such seemingly esoteric reading might be important, preferring to focus on a more pragmatic level of involvement. Certainly the work of the Hevra Kadisha reflects the physical care and attention with which members complete this mitzvah. Historically, however, as Talmud, mystical texts, mortuary manuals, and tkhines all emphasized, observing the mitzvot was not at the expense of belief in an afterlife. For many Jews in modern times, however, an emphasis on performing mitzvot has come to be exclusive to belief in olam ha’ba.

Death brings up many questions. Questions about personal suffering, about the existence of a just and caring God, and about the very meaning of our beliefs are challenged by death. While observant Jews recite the Amidah three times daily, stating God gives “life to the dead”, that God keeps “faith with those who sleep in dust”, these words reflect a fundamental faith and belief in resurrection. The prophet Hosea spoke of such a return to God:

 Come, let us turn back to the Lord: He attacked, and He can heal us; He wounded, and He can bind us up. In two days He will make us whole again; On the third day he will raise us up (Hosea 6:1-2, JPS edition Tanakh, 1988, p. 989).

These sentiments may seem anachronistic, at odds with modern rational sensibilities. What does resurrection mean to Jews in the twenty-first century?

Beliefs about afterlife, olam ha’ba, and the destiny of soul and body after death, are not commonly discussed in private, in our synagogues, or even in our Hevra Kadisha groups. As a result, many modern Jews have sought clues to the destinies of their souls and bodies in the corners of other cultures. However, as we have seen, there is a deep vein of commitment to the concept of the presence of the soul after death, to the concept of resurrection and after-life. Today, even as these ideas are often given short shrift, they enable us to look into the crevices of our own Jewish tradition to learn, to ponder, and to reflect upon such concepts. As Gillman notes,

The richness of Jewish eschatology lies in the fact that it deals with the three dimensions of our identity in which these laws are apparent. We are simultaneously individual human beings, members of the Jewish people, and part of humanity. Jewish eschatology imagines an age when the flaws that pervade all these dimensions of our being will be banished. The details of this tripartite cosmos-to-come may have evolved in the course of Jewish history, but there was never a time when Judaism did not have some vision of an ideal end for humanity as a whole, for the Jewish people, and for each individual human (Gillman, 1997, pp. 24-25).

These texts make a serious and significant contribution towards reclaiming this conceptual heritage and make important contributions towards developing a more complete understanding of the work of the Hevra Kadisha.

Taharah manuals

The Ma’avar Yabbok (1624) and Sefer HaHayim (1703) paved the way for other manuals to be published in later centuries. Virtually all present-day mortuary manuals provide the order of preparation of the met/metah with the appropriate prayers. Some include diagrams for the halbashah, the dressing of the met/metah, some do not. Some include transliterated Hebrew, some do not. I have copies of manuals in my collection that were used in several communities (Jewish Sacred Society, n.d., Rubenstein, 1977, Schlingenbaum, 1991, Stavsky, 1965, and Ushpol, 1974).

During the course of my research an excellent manual was published.  Rabbi Stuart Kelman has written a manual that provides clear guidelines, Hebrew and English text as well as transliterated Hebrew (for both men and women) as well as including optional prayers and rituals. As Kelman notes, “This booklet …is one link in the great chain of our Jewish tradition” (Kelman, 2000, p. v). Even this booklet though is largely procedural and gives minimal explanation about customs.

Unlike those of earlier centuries most contemporary manuals have little, if any level of explanation about the “why” behind various customs. The earliest English -language manual which I was able to find (Vidavar, 1884) was written as a translation of the Sefer HaHayim. It is fascinating from a sociological perspective. One section that was particularly fascinating, if not disquieting, was Vidavar’s description of a “bone-house,” which resonated with Moller’s descriptor of the “house of bones” in European Christian ritual.

 The most striking characteristic of the traditional cemetery was the digging up of the dead, the removal of their bones, and the reusing of the grave for new burials. As the European population began to multiply, space in churchyard cemeteries became increasingly limited. In order to deal with the problem of scarce burial space, graves were “turned over” and the bones removed and placed in a charnal. A charnal is literally a “house of bones”, and was designed specifically as a storage gallery – a final resting place – for bones that had been exhumed. Initially, the charnals were no more than storage bins for bones and skulls, but as they became more widespread, they began to take on their own aesthetic meaning. In fact, they became places where bones and skulls were arranged with artistic flair in order to create a sensual museum of the dead that the living would regularly visit (Moller, 1996, p.6).

In an eerie and disquieting foretelling of the Shoah, mass graves became the “suburban shopping mall of the times”. Socializing took place not only in the presence of these mass graves, but also in “full view of the charnels” (Moller, 1996, p.6). Consider, by contrast, the rules for disinterment specified in Vidavar’s Jewish mortuary manual. “If the remains of several dead bodies are disinterred, care should be taken to gather the ashes of every corpse separately and not to mix them so as to re-inter the remains of every one as they were found” (Vidaver, 1884, p.19). A “bonehouse” is referred to in Section VI article 4 of the same manual, “The mourning of persons who live in a besieged town, commences from the time when the corpse is put in a coffin, shut up or fastened with screw, and placed in a bone-house, appointed to keep the dead until the raising of the siege” (Vidaver, 1884, p.18).

The circumstances described in the Jewish manual, unlike the air of conviviality referred to by Moller, reflect persecution and hardship, conditions with which Jews in Europe were all too familiar. Detailed particulars about disinterment refers seemingly to the whims and dictates of government:

In case the interred bodies can no longer remain in the place where they were interred; for instance, if government do not suffice the place to be a burial ground (no difference from whatever reason), then we may disinter the remains and carry them to some other place of rest (Vidaver, 1884, p.19).

But is this comment a reflection of 19^th century political whim or is it possibly a still-relevant link to ancient practices, when bones were disinterred after twelve months and re-buried? Jews commonly practiced secondary burial in the years prior to the Talmudic period. Bones were reinterred, often in small stone boxes. These boxes (ossuaries) were often carved with a variety of motifs – geometric designs, menorahs, and columns. The actual meaning of such disinterment and display of ossuaries is not clearly understood; whether the boxes displayed in charnals were merely decorative or representative of deeper eschatological meaning (Kraemer, 2000, p.22). The very careful disinterment that Kraemer describes is in striking contrast to the European charnal houses.

This nineteenth century manual also provides Halakhic guidelines for those condemned to the gallows. Also of interest is a pronoun change when discussing accidental death – at this point in the manual “he” becomes “she”, reflecting perhaps a greater prevalence of accidental morbidity for women. There are extensive descriptions for how to prepare women who died “in confinement.” Other than these somewhat anachronistic phrases and inclusions the manual instructions are very similar to what we use today.

Later, in the early twentieth century other manuals were published, reflecting, as did earlier manuals, changing social mores (Elzas, 1915, Rabinowicz, 1919, Sperka, 1939). Instructions given are again very similar to present -day manuals but other than some mildly archaic language (women tend not to wear “frocks” these days), these guides could still provide clear instruction for a Hevra today. The Hebrew print, unlike some guides today, is remarkably clear and readable. Various “rational” ethos for particular customs are given, perhaps as necessary counterpoint to the desired rationality of the day. Such opinions permeate these guides. For example, Rabinowicz discusses why all drawn water is poured away, decrying  “the crude suggestion that the Angel of Death cleans his knife in water” and espousing “more rational interpretations” (Rabinowicz, 1919, p.33). Older explanations were seemingly considered by Rabinowicz and then also dismissed as examples of bobbe-myseh, or old wives’ tale. Perhaps this was a continuance of English anti-Semitism, bespeaking the need for Jews of the day to present such an apologetic countenance to British society, or perhaps it was more a reflection of a Jewish response to modernity and scientific rationalism. As with most political and social developments the meaning is probably somewhere in the middle.

While present-day manuals tend to not bend over backwards with such apologetic elaborations, neither do they offer much, if any, insight into the background of our many taharah customs, background that could give color and texture to our practices. Customs shift and change. What has become “traditional” in present-day communities may be quite different from what was traditional in the shtetl, but such is the strength and tensile capacity of Judaism. Jewish law has the capacity to stretch, to expand its girth, to accommodate certain changes, if the basic structures and precepts are also accommodated (Schneider, 1991, p.224). The challenge for present-day Hevra Kadisha groups will be collectively and individually to find their own balance between tradition and change.

The tension of stepping back into our past in order to find the momentum to spring into the future, “reculer pour mieux sauter” is the dynamic defining such a challenge today (Stark as cited by Schneider, 1991, p.227). The proliferation and distribution of taharah manuals throughout the past four hundred years has bespoke an awareness and interest in the function of death rituals. Many individuals whom I interviewed spoke about altering text (“tweaking” manuals borrowed from other Hevrot) to refine and perfect their practices and to better suit their own membership. Hundreds of years ago, Jewish communities were similarly engaged. Further research is needed to establish the breadth of practices in both historical and contemporary communities. By carefully evaluating the function and impact of such rituals on both individuals and community, other studies will act to “underscore the urgency of establishing new models to satisfy these still pressing needs” (Buxbaum, 1991, abstract).

Ritual: a time and a place for everything

Ritual is expressed throughout our lives in many ways. Many of us seek the comfort we associate with familiar ritual. I will first look at the field of thanatology, the study of death, and examine the cultural aspects of death rituals. I will then address the function of symbol and myth as it applies to ritual, and look more closely at how Jewish ritual provides substantive form and emotional succor to those in mourning. There are profound psychological and communal benefits to these rituals. Ritual may enable individuals to grieve within traditional structures even if they have been severed from community and tradition. One of the significant questions all Jewish communities are addressing is how our communities can provide more entry points for unaffiliated Jews to benefit from communal rituals. Even affiliated Jews often have a minimal grasp of many rituals, so education within all of our communities has become an imperative.

Today, many Jews have very little association or affiliation with a formal Jewish community or synagogue and thus have little to no idea about traditional standards with regard to death and burial. Many will be buried using rites other than traditional Jewish ones. Yet even those people who have not been formally Jewishly affiliated for many years may choose to return to Jewish tradition for burial rites. Certainly, as I spoke with a broad range of people who are committed to their Hevra Kadisha they often spoke of their work as an act of hesed shel emet. This phrase is mentioned in Talmud and refers to the accompanying of the dead to their burial as an act of ultimate kindness. In doing this act one can expect no reward, unlike performing acts of kindness for the living. I found myself thinking that the work of the Hevra Kadisha could provide very real leadership in all of our communities. Several individuals discussed how their involvement with the Hevra Kadisha was a turning point for them. Their hands-on participation with burial traditions often precipitated a return to a more traditional practice, and thus enabled a move towards an expanded and more integrated sense of what it means to be a Jew. 

Thanatology: the cultural absence and presence of death

There is a burgeoning interest in the area of thanatology. However, even as the literature expands exponentially with an aging population, and even as academe embraces death as a topic eminently worthy of research, actual discussion of death remains by-and-large still taboo (Mellor, 1993, p.11). In examining the contradiction between an assumed presence but actual absence of comfortable discussion about death in our culture, Mellor refers to Gidden’s theory of “ontological security.” Ontological security refers to the sense of order and continuity, and therefore meaning, that individuals expect to have in their day-to-day lives.

We all individually face the prospect of death. Collectively, as societies we must also address death as a fundamental aspect of life. Any ontological security we may be searching for is ultimately threatened by our projected portending if not imagined imminence of death. Death then, is an inherently de-stabilizing force within our own consciousness and as a result, within our societies. Death threatens not only our personal security but also the mortar of our social groups. What are the structures that help shore up these potentially crumbling walls of meaning? If we are forced to confront the meaninglessness of life alone, outside of community, this singularity may contribute towards the destabilization of the connection and order we ostensibly so value (Berger, 1967, pp.50 -51). Berger suggests that modernity, and more particularly the assumption of relativity within the post-modern sensibility, may accelerate such destabilization.  Berger not only links religion and “social solidarity”, he claims that a central function of religion is to help humans confront the most disorganizing aspect of human society, death.  “The power of religion depends, in the last resort, upon the credibility of the banners it puts in the hands of men (sic) as they stand before death, or more accurately, as they walk, inevitably, toward it” (Berger, 1967, p.51).

What does this statement mean for Jews? For centuries, socially understood rituals provided Jews with such mortar and tools to withstand the tides of change. Today, we have a social and historical responsibility to ensure that these counter-balancing rituals continue to be available. Meanwhile, many Jews are searching for personal meaning outside the boundaries and limits of religious or familial culture. As such they are often confronted with making their individual sense and meaning out of death. What rituals are available, if any, to such individuals? Are there paths of return to Jewish ritual available?

The experiences of those who live outside a system of religious solidarity, particularly during life-cycle changes, is significantly challenged by a need to create individualized meaning out of what is essentially a communal experience. Private funerals are often organized by professionals who are probably unknown to family members; individuals attending the funerals who are often unfamiliar with funeral rites may be unsure of what to do or say. The responsibility for finding the right word or the appropriate gesture then falls to individual inclination (Mellor, 1993, p.20). Mourners may find themselves in the equivalent of emotional solitary confinement. Certainly urban Jewish communities are witnesses to such professionalization of burial rites. Hired staff are often paid to perform the function of community volunteers, that of the Hevra Kadisha. The role is thus transformed from those who act with hesed shel emet to those who need parnassa (paid employment, a living). The experiences of all those involved, mourner and provider, have become profoundly detached, individualized, and professionalized. Individuals are left to their own devices to make meaning out of a profound life/death transition. Such individuation has been described as the “privatization of meaning” (Mellor, 1993, p.22). In counterpoint to such radical individualization, communal rituals and their consequent shared meanings provide a rampart of comfort to mourners and community members alike.

 “The way one dies is a reflection of the way one lives” (Moller, 1996, p. 4). Certainly, social and cultural contexts color the rituals of death, as they do life. These days, few people have seen another person die. Hospitals and extended care homes for the elderly have removed us from the sights and sounds and smells of illness and death. What was (and continues to be) perceived as medically and emotionally beneficial has instead largely contributed to a repression of significant social and emotional expression. Protected from the realities of death we succumb to a social taboo which may be likened to a “pornography of death” (Elkins, 1976, p.236). Just as sexual pornography is dependent on a systematic detachment of persons from each other, so too then have most people become similarly detached from death.

In a cross-cultural survey, Hockey explores what are considered appropriate emotions in the responses and guidance of clergy during death rituals. Hockey quotes one minister who would appear to uphold the stereotype of the British stiff upper lip, “…continental weeping and wailing which is the thing to do over there is very, very difficult to deal with…we have people try and act with quiet dignity…they often don’t manage it and then feel embarrassed because they haven’t managed it” (Hockey, 1993, p.144). The clergyman in question is Christian but many such attitudes have permeated our entire Western culture. I would venture that the Conservative rabbi who disallowed shoveling of earth on the coffin to protect his congregants from subsequent emotional trauma had been affected by such prevailing attitudes (interview, Shlomo). Ritual can provide an antidote to fear, and can provide a means of defense against the inexplicable. If we live within a context of meaning, ritual offers the hope that even in death we may be able to extract meaning.

Function of ritual

Ritual has a distinctive role within our lives. Some rituals offer individuals particular and interior private meaning, whereas other rituals may be a source of shared, collective meaning. Recognition of meaning acts as the fulcrum for the public role of ritual. Hoffman discusses how cultures have “official commentaries” about rites and rituals, but adds that these expert, official meanings are often not necessarily the understandings of those who actually practice the ritual (Hoffman, 1996, p.18). Many Jews who are no longer religiously observant may continue to cling to certain vestiges of communal ritual. The rites of burial and mourning may be personally significant even as the historical and/or cultural meanings may have been mislaid and lost. However, exposure to a community that is still actively engaged in ritual practice may be a re-entry point for some Jews. Ritual thus may carry an invocatory function that invites personal disconnection to be transformed into communal participation.

Recently, for example, a man I know stepped into services for the first time in thirty years. Why had he returned? His father had died, and he came to say the Mourner’s Kaddish for the proscribed eleven months. [13] He came to perform a ritual, a ritual laced with meaning both public and private. The challenge is not only to attempt to interpret such rites and rituals, but to find the underlying, and perhaps more unofficial meanings that are crucial in developing a broader understanding of their function (Hoffman, 1996, p.19). We must develop our understanding of the function of ritual within our communities as well, so that those individuals who approach a community can be welcomed, heard and understood.

Many individuals draw their own personal meaning from participating in rituals that may or may not be congruent with meaning considered to be culturally authoritative. Judaism has a voluminous literary tradition that both establishes and explains, that is both authoritative and interpretative. Might there also be some unofficial private meanings to these rituals, in which Jews engage? Individuals returning to Judaism may have their own sense about both the degree of ritual which they invite into their lives, and about what that ritual means. A study examining ba’alei teshuvah (persons who choose to become traditionally observant Jews, as opposed to those who grew up in a traditionally observant home) found that people, even as they were choosing to live within Orthodox Judaism often limited their religious observance. They often chose which particular rituals they were going to observe and also often did so without consulting any rabbinical authority. They spoke about finding various Jewish rituals personally helpful, the very structure and rhythms of ritual providing them with a degree of connection and comfort they found beneficial (DeFant, 1989, p.170-172). Commitment to ritual, without equal commitment to belief or halakhic authority, “orthopraxy”, is certainly not particular to only those Jews returning to a more observant life.

Myth, symbol, and ritual

Gillman addresses myth as significant in all areas of our lives. “It is the myth as the ‘beam’ of our individual and collective ‘houses’ that determines which facts must be accounted for and how they are held together” (Gillman, 1997, p.27).  He suggests that myth is a primary factor in introducing and maintaining order in our lives – that we need myth to make sense of our lives and the world around us. If a myth works, we feel its presence give shape to our communality (Gillman, 1997, pp.27-28). Yet, even as myth functions, we may personally feel outside it.

The Little Match Girl is a fairy tale written in 1846 by Hans Christian Anderson. A little girl, poor and dressed in tattered rags, is entranced by a scene of merriment and festivity while trying to sell matches for her living. As she watches the dazzling party and bright lights through a window she endeavors to stay warm by lighting her matches one by one. Delighting and longing to join the warmth and dancing, she burns all the matches. Eventually she is found in a snowbank, dead, burnt matchsticks at her feet.  Like the little match girl we too may watch longingly through a window bright with candlelight, but be unable to enter. Bringing ourselves into the myth, becoming part of the candlelit evening, is, I believe, part of the function of ritual. Thus the ritual of taharah achieves a significance beyond the gentle washing and touching and prayer. Ba’ olam, we are linked, washer and washed, for eternity even within this world.[14]

Myth has become codified within Jewish law as praxis, as ritual. Many Jews participate in these rituals and in so doing, experience themselves to be connected to Judaism through understood and shared myth. Yet, how can those Jews who are no longer intimately aware of the halakhah still actively participate as players and not only be observers (if that) in the myriad of rituals that have sustained communities over the centuries. As previously noted, many Jews have left strict observance of Jewish law behind them, but when a family member dies they may still seek out traditional forms of burial and mourning. Such reconnection may stem from a sense of  “doing the right thing” even if the niceties of Jewish law are far from appreciated. Such search for and compliance with tradition may be an indicator of the inherent tug of mythology to which Gillman refers. The primal nature of death must be met. The rigor and strength of halakhah provides mourners much needed ritualized solace. Even a mourner whose observance may be “more in the breach than the compliance” (Weisfogel, 1988, p.70), may still reap the benefits if they are able to enter into a community that understands and demonstrates the efficacy of these rituals. Symbols are remembered, feelings are guided, and order is gradually re-created.

Shared ritual then becomes the glue, the reinforcing agent, between action and belief. The aspects that contribute towards the success of ritual – “precision, accuracy, predictability, formality and repetition” (Myrehoff, 1979, p.86) - create an environment where symbol becomes understood as personally significant. Ritual functions not only on a personal level but provides a transformational template whereby we may place ourselves within the larger community. It is both vessel of containment and liquid within, to be poured, shared and thus sanctified. It is  “an order-endowing device, it gives shape to its contents…this ordering function is furthered by the morphological characteristics of a ritual” (Myrehoff, 1979, p.86).

Ritual in many ways gives voice to the voiceless and actions to those who may feel immobilized. It brings the past into the present and acts to draw us into an imagined future. Timeless, yet very present within the moment, ritual allows us to transcend ourselves. We speak in symbols and myth. We need ritual to give shape and name to our experiences, which then allow us the deepest forms of connection. As humans, our life stories expand through ritual and symbol into the larger myths of our cultures.

Hevra Kadisha – ritual as transformative  

The work of religion can be seen to be concerned with conceptualizing the general “order of existence” (Geertz, cited by Gillman, 1997, p.19). Certainly religious ritual helps to establish and maintain such order. I think this concept of “order of existence” becomes particularly crucial when we are confronting death. The rituals that Judaism has constructed can be seen to guide us through potential feelings of loss of order and meaninglessness. Taharah, by its physical demands, requires a collective participation in a ritual of purification, a rite of communal comfort and closure. There is a profound connection between the physical and spiritual in taharah, that allows a sense of re-ordering to emerge among participants, and vicariously through them to also emerge in the mourning community.

 As particular rituals become embedded through repetition, levels of comfort are derived from both participating in the moment of ritual and from its very familiarity. The ritual act and its repetition become interlinked and develop a transformative potential, the tension inherent in their function and meaning becoming one. Ritual “comes to seem less like a pathway and more like a shelter. These two images – pathway and shelter – reflect the tension in ritualization between the verb and the noun” (Driver, 1998, p.16). These images underscore the enduring comfort yet enigmatic nature of the rituals particular to mourning in Judaism.

Psychological and emotional benefits of ritual

The emotional impact of death is profound. Waves of grief surface and resurface in an uncontained and often uncontrollable manner during the first days of mourning. The ritualized structures of burial and mourning may provide solid psychological benefit as they assist in a mourning individual’s journey from pain and grief to comfort. These structures imply and demand communal support. The Hevra Kadisha is at the center of these comforting rituals. By attending to their physical needs and managing the funeral rites, the Hevra encourages mourners ”to re-establish meaningful relationships with others and participate in the life of the community, thereby resuming a wholesome pattern of living” (Spiro, 1967, pp.132-133). The love and support for the mourner from others in their community allows the mourner to slowly disengage from their overwhelming grief, to slowly reconnect with their community.

The Hevra Kadisha participates in what is described as a transference process by enabling the mourner to share their grief with its members. The mourner can live within a suspended system of support. They become ego-less, all obligations are set aside, their physical and emotional need to grieve becomes their primary and sole focus. The process is structured and in many ways entirely practical, as family and friends attend to the needs of the mourner (Spiro, 1967, p.131). Ritual enables the mourner to enter into a pact of trust as they surrender to the embrace of ritual and community. Many participants discussed how the act of taharah has made the fundamental presence of death very real for them. As witnesses and participants, members of a Hevra Kadisha often found transference not only applying to mourners, but also contributing towards their own personal transformation and spiritual development.

Observance and personal choice

Throughout the centuries Torah and revelation have been posited against personal and communal sense of commandedness through the mitzvot. This is an on-going and multi-faceted discussion. This study is dedicated to examining one small aspect of ritual observance, albeit an aspect that has significant historical, communal, and personal significance.

Conservative Jews walk a fine line between preserving the recognizability of traditions and adjusting them so that they continue to be ritually useful. For many Jews, the idea of Jewish observance is to stand back and watch. Others are learning through even tentative participation in ritual that the mitzvot can be vibrant and personally sustaining. It may seem at times that “the most innovative thing you can do in suburbia is the tradition – because no one has ever heard of it” (Wolf cited by Reimer, 1995, p.81). However, even with a generally minimalist attitude towards general Jewish observance these particular death rituals continue to be claimed and cherished. Even those who have never heard of these traditions by name seem to know them in their bones.

Being traditionally observant would not seem to be critical for most Conservative Jews. The National Jewish Population survey in 1990 found that only 15% of those polled kept kosher, only about 25% usually lit Shabbat candles and between 1985 and 1990 almost half of those polled had married a non-Jew (Goldstein and Goldstein, 1998, p.60). Ritual observance would thus appear to be minimally important for most Conservative Jews. Religious observance has to a great degree entered the realm of personal choice, thereby scuttling any sense of communal obligation. In light of such statistics, and in light of traditional expectations for the observance of mitzvot, the word “choice” becomes fraught with conflicting meaning. Much as the Conservative movement continues to advocate halakhic observance, most Conservative Jews would appear to be doing otherwise.

Conservative rabbinical understanding of Jewish law is by and large, however, quite other than this. Even as Jews live within the larger social fabric, a fabric that has been rent consistently by challenges to all authority systems, the official goal for Conservative Jews is to enhance and observe tradition, not abandon it. “Put another way, we do not believe that every person should choose on his or her own whether to observe” (Dorff, 1989, p.277). The community structure maintaining traditional rabbinical authority within the Conservative Movement is the Committee on Jewish Law and Standards. This is the committee that considers any potential alteration to established tradition. Despite all the work of the Committee, despite all the stated objectives of the Movement, the actual statistics reflect a very real tension and distance between expectation and practice.[15]

There are several options open to individual Jews as they consider this issue. They may accept the authority of their rabbi, denying the validity of personal interpretation of halakhah. They may decide that they are their own best authority when it comes to matters of observance, or not. Or they may find some position of compromise, recognizing that for some situations they may need to consult a halakhic expert (Sokol, 1992, pp.xii-xiii).

While these options are certainly available in most communities (even small communities without a rabbi usually have a consulting relationship with a rabbi in the nearest city), many Jews will choose particular mitzvot that have particular personal and/or symbolic meaning. They may be drawn to a particular observance or level of observance for many reasons. For the Jews in this study, their perception of the sanctity and necessity of taharah initially drew them to participate in their local Hevra Kadisha. Their initial experience usually immediately superseded any thought of not participating further, and thus, for them, the mitzvah of taharah entered the realm of personal and communal commandedness. This mitzvah with all of its traditions and all of its changes, not only brought each person towards their own confrontation with life and death, it has also led some participants to greater levels of religious observance in other aspects of their lives.

These rituals have had a profound emotional and spiritual impact on participants. Thus the particular authority of this specific mitzvah might be said to override any sense of internal or external authority. As levels of meaning are literally incorporated within the individual, they gradually function to create a sense of ‘halakhah-for-me’. It becomes the authenticity of living within covenant. It is “demand, decision and judgment. But it is also joy” (Herberg, 1977, p.169). As individuals participate in the mitzvah of taharah they wrap themselves in the fabric of Jewish tradition, just as they carefully wrap the body of the met/metah in takhrikhim.

Leadership and learning

In section I will examine the role of leadership in Jewish communities and how such leadership can provide support and opportunity for learning. As I have briefly indicated, there is a broad spectrum of opinion about what constitutes authority within Jewish law. While many Jews neither jaywalk nor steal from the grocery, many have no compunctions about eating oysters or shopping on Shabbat. However, rabbinical leaders are expected to observe the precepts of halakhah, even as many other Jews may exempt themselves. While rabbinical leadership may be expected to model exemplary adherence to halakhah, their authority may be tested or challenged by congregants unwilling to acknowledge their authority and leadership.

Many smaller communities do not have a rabbi and therefore rely heavily on religious lay leaders. Most authors generally assume that lay leadership is executive in nature. In what ways do individuals and communities accept leadership from professional and lay individuals? Vernon suggests that the critical issue of leadership is the sharing of a vision (Vernon, 1999, p.1). Is there such a shared  “vision” about leadership in our Jewish communities? Is this important? Often juxtaposed with issues of leadership are questions of authoritative learning. For thousands of years Judaism has demonstrated a commitment to lifelong learning. What are the traditional forms of learning and what are the possibilities for learning today in Jewish communities? Where have individual leaders learned, what have they learned, and how are they transmitting their learning? These questions also reflect the need for education about the value of Jewish ritual and, specifically the particular value of the Hevra Kadisha and the mitzvah of taharah.

Lay leadership

Who is a lay-leader? Kurshan prefers the term “volunteer” leader to describe individuals who volunteer their expertise and resources in a leadership capacity. She found four factors to be critical to the leadership successes of both volunteers and professionals. These include communication skills, clearly established and understood roles, congruency of vision, and a shared commitment to the institution (Kurshan, 1999, p.12). She notes that the phrase “lay-leader” carries, by definition, a negative connotation, as one who is not a cleric (Kurshan, 1999, p.12). However there are many positive aspects of such leadership that are not diminished by such a definition. Kurshan’s suggestions are supported by Flexner, who suggests that new models of communication between lay leadership and professional staff might be required if a shared vision is to succeed. Key suggestions include: keeping personality differences from interfering with the process of resolving problems, establishing mutual regard and trust, developing a collaborative and co-operative working style, and reflecting shared values (Flexner, 1999, p.7).

Leadership, both volunteer and professional, is irrevocably bound up with the issue of Jewish identity. Congregants and congregations may suffer if there is a gap between leader’s stated commitment to Jewish identity and a demonstrated lack of understanding about what that identity entails. This gap, if it exists, must be addressed. Jewish leadership must develop leadership skills and a Jewish knowledge base if they are to achieve success within their communities. Fundamentally, Jewish leadership must actively demonstrate a commitment to learning. Lay leaders are cautioned against developing a false security about the ease with which a measure of Jewish values and history, behaviors, and traditions may be transmitted and assumed to be understood. To this end, the establishment of formal adult education programs is encouraged (Flexner, 1999, pp.7-11). The potential for the blind leading the blind may be somewhat alleviated if such programs are established. But formal programs are not the only setting for active learning.

There are many informal settings for learning, where leadership is also vital. Learning and leadership are ideally a collaborative process. Text study and discussion, activism and teamwork provide creative and powerful learning opportunities. Katz describes the present -day generation of adult Jews as a “learning generation” (Katz, 1999b, p.16-18). The concept of shared leadership, shifting the emphasis from the mara d’atra (the rabbi) towards partnerships between lay leaders and professionals could be a significant step towards creating “congregations of learners and learning congregations” who are actively engaged in a variety of learning activities (Samuels & Aron, 1999, p.28). A learning congregation is one that routinely reflects on its mission and vision, considers the needs of its members, acknowledges the challenges it faces, and evaluates the effectiveness of the programs it offers. It experiments with new programs and structures as it searches for mechanisms to better fulfill its members. The success of shared leadership is clearly contingent on all members, the rabbi and lay leaders alike, sharing a vision – a process of articulation that challenges and builds necessary leadership (Samuels & Aron, 1999, pp.28-35).

History of Jewish learning for adults

Communal social groups dominated early Jewish societies, the most common being the Hevra Shas, the society for study of Talmud (Goldman, 1975, p.197). Even one of the terms for synagogue accurately reflects this commitment to learning – Bet HaMidrash, house of study. Learning is a distinctive and crucial aspect of Jewish adult life. Maimonides stated:

…every Israelite is under an obligation to study Torah, whether he is poor or rich, in sound health or ailing, in vigor of youth or very old and feeble. Even a man so poor that he is maintained by charity or goes begging from door to door, as also a man with wife and children to support, is under the obligation to set aside a definite period during the day and at night for the study of Torah. (Mishneh Torah, Book of Knowledge, 1:8)

Continuous learning throughout one’s life was seen as necessary because as we age and grow, the learning we have engaged in takes on new meaning. Learning is a life-long process: “from most trees one plucks the fruit all at once, but from the fig tree, the fruits are plucked slowly, over a period of time. So, also, with the learning of the Torah, one studies a little today, some more the next day, for the Torah cannot be learned all at one time – either in one year or two years” (Yalkut Eliezer, cited by Epstein, 1980, p.51). In itself, learning is a mitzvah, as a passage from Gemarah notes: “but the study of the Torah is equal to them all” (Shabbat 127a). Learning is so valued that many Sages teach that it takes priority over all other mitzvot, including honoring one’s parents, doing acts of loving-kindness, visiting the sick and attending the dead. Why such emphasis on learning? If the will of God is understood to be embodied and revealed in text, (both the written and oral law, Torah and Talmud) then it naturally follows that studying those texts will be the portal to understanding all of God’s will.

Primary among the characteristics of the traditional Jewish student was a willingness to learn and to re-learn, a willingness to incorporate repetition into the learning modality. Jewish tradition also encourages learners to study in groups. Individuals studying on their own had only their own experiences to apply to what they were learning. However when students studied with each other their individual backgrounds and experience informed each other’s learning (Epstein, 1980, p.90). This heritage is a real advantage for all those involved in adult Jewish education. Modern theories of learning and traditional Jewish approaches to learning share many similarities. However there are distinct differences, one of the primary differences being the relationship between learner and teacher.

Judaism historically has had a commitment to lifelong leaning. Many traditional Jews, usually men, commit many of their adult years towards learning Talmud. This system of learning, involving solitary learning, learning in hevruta, in partnerships, and learning with a rabbi, a teacher, has been honed for several thousand years. It is a system that seeks to develop both breadth and depth of learning. The term “andragogy” first used by Kapp in 1883, was coined to emphasize that adult education is a fusion of art and science (Epstein, 1980, p.14). Andragogy, as Epstein notes, finds teacher and student in an equitable and horizontal relationship to each other, while traditional Jewish sources place teacher and learner vertically in relation to each other (Epstein, 1980, p.141). However, I suggest the tradition of Jews learning together in hevruta creates an andragogical relationship. Thus, there are opportunities to not only connect these systems of learning, it is possible to connect these systems to modes of learning that take place today within Jewish communities.

Each Jewish adult is obligated by tradition to study. However, in 1991 only one in six Jewish adults engaged in any form of adult learning (Zachary, 1992, p.35). This statistic was presented at the 1991 General Assembly of the Council of Jewish Federations based on the Jewish Education Service of North America Adult Jewish Learning Task Force report. Most of the adults surveyed had left any formal Jewish learning behind after their bar or bat Mitzvah [16] and expressed little interest in pursuing further learning as adults. In the early 1990’s programming for adults was generally not very innovative and Jewish educators were challenged to develop new paradigms that would create new opportunities for learners. They were challenged to think of adult Jewish learning as a system. Systems thinking endeavors to find the inter-relationships between seemingly unrelated aspects. It assumes that any system can be understood only as a whole, not by only examining part of the whole. At the same time each part, however small, will demonstrate patterns reflective of the whole entity. It is a conceptual framework, and is increasingly used in organizational theory. Wheatley, in her comparison of organizational systems to ecosystems suggests that a paradox inherently exists between a whole and its parts in all structures,

When we speak of the stability of mature self-organizing systems, we are referring only to a quality of the whole system. In fact, this global stability is maintained by another paradoxical situation, the presence of many fluctuations and instabilities occurring at local levels throughout the system. …the system allows for many levels of autonomy within itself, and for small fluctuations and changes. By tolerating these, it is able to preserve it global stability and integrity in the environment (Wheatley, 1994, pp.94-95).

Could systems thinking, with its emphasis on integration and internal stability, be applied to adult learning? Zachary suggests these images and metaphors could be applied to reflect back to Jews a traditional lifelong active commitment to learning (Zachary, 1992, p.38). Such a commitment to lifetime learning had informed the ethics and rituals of Jewish communities for centuries and had actively contributed to the sustained integrity of these communities. Systems thinking also reflects a framework of conceptual thinking that both enable patterns to be perceived and the potential for change of those same patterns to also be understood (Senge, 1990, p.7).  If such conceptual thinking were applied to learning, what opportunities and understandings might evolve? The reality of adult learning might not be as dismal as initially perceived in the population surveys.

Opportunities for adult learning

Opportunities for adult Jewish learners are probably more available today than ever before. The Internet provides many on-line opportunities for people to study and learn. There are also programs for face-to-face learning in all major cities. With intermarriage on the rise and many Jews expressing concerns about Jewish continuity, a typical Jewish response has been to engage in Jewish self-education. Many individuals are choosing to assume some responsibility to ensure the survival of Jewish knowledge and tradition. A number of populations within Jewish communities have initiated new programs for learning by demanding relevant programming. Women, older adults, baby boomers and intermarrieds form strong learning constituencies. Motivation may vary from seeking spiritual connection to wanting access to authentic Jewish classical texts (Katz, 1999a, p.11). Baby boomers, “unlike other generations before them who have tolerated a certain amount of inaccessible knowledge… want to know it all” (Katz, 1999a, p.10). This generation is highly educated and generally financially comfortable. As they have in every previous decade, they want their imprint felt. Also, by now, many baby-boomers have buried their parents, while many more anticipate such loss. This constituency could have a major impact on the revival of learning about death and burial traditions.

Education is often perceived as a precursor to involvement in Jewish community life. We educate our young people in preparation for bar and bat Mitzvah and through such education hope to encourage their eventual commitment to Jewish communal life. The above statistics notwithstanding, there is also a cycle where communal work may provide an impetus for further learning, a situation that I think more correctly describes the situation in many Hevra Kadisha groups today. Adult education can become a “lens”, a tool that can help foster and develop religious commitment within a constituency. If one of the functions of religion is to provide opportunities for “theological reflection that guides concrete action” (Saul, 1997, p.171), then the Hevra Kadisha may also provide an ideal environment for concrete action to guide theological reflection. The Hevra Kadisha can not be underestimated in this role. The ritual of taharah is a balance of function and form that perfectly reflects the role not only of ritual, but of the mitzvot in general. Learning guides actions which, in turn, guide further learning. Opportunities for learning about Jewish tradition regarding death and mourning might activate real interest in supporting if not starting a Hevra Kadisha.

Many adult Jewish learners now define themselves as self-directed learners, and may describe that learning as transformative, as both an active and reflective process. Again such learning reflects the transformative potential that an active commitment to Jewish observance, including study, provides. Many Jews are now engaging in on-line systems of self-directed learning. For example the Jewish Theological Seminary now provides a number of courses for distance learners. Advances in technology and the Internet have made a myriad of opportunities for study available to Jews. Geographical isolation is not a factor when learning Daf Yomi (a page of Talmud) on the Net.[17] The Me’ah program (100 hours of Jewish learning)[18] has created another opportunity for Jewish lay people in large urban centers to engage in traditional text study with Jewish scholars, an opportunity unavailable in previous decades.

Jewish identity has always been closely linked with a commitment to Jewish family. Jewish adult learning should reflect this commitment, as well as reinforce a commitment to Jewish communal organizations. Such a conflation of commitment will eventually create and sustain an ‘active cultural literacy’ which could then undergird all Jewish educational developments (London, 1992, p. 8). Supporting and extending London’s views, is the contention that the mutuality and interdependence of individual Jewish identity and Jewish group identity is a key factor when considering educational goals (Schiff, 1997, pp.37–43).

Learning styles

There are a number of different learning styles: formal and informal, experiential and textual. There are many questions about what the most effective learning styles might be for adults. While most programs for Jewish adults have been and continue to be oriented to textual studies there are other opportunities for learning. Some adults want to learn specific information, some want to gain specific skills. How can these learning styles separately and interactively support these various demands?

Opportunities for Jewish adult learning usually take place in formal environments such as classroom instruction or workshops. However, for many adults profound learning takes place on a more incidental basis in informal settings. Certainly in this study, virtually all participants spoke of learning about the taharah by watching, observing, asking questions afterwards, and by doing, even, if not especially, by making mistakes. Informal learning is learning within the context of experience and making personal meaning out of those experiences.

Informal learning is distinctive: it is voluntary, and involves systems of evaluation and feedback rather than grading and degrees. Informal education is also learning that is oriented to intrinsic goals. Further to these qualities, the types of activities in these settings are “highly interactive and participatory…aimed at affecting Jewish attitudes and experiences of persons in the present, with the hope that these patterns will continue in the future” (Chazan, 1993, p.6).

Bringing it all together

In his book Renewing the Covenant, Borowitz cites the thinkers who inspired him –Hermann Cohen, Leo Baeck, Mordechai Kaplan, Martin Buber, Franz Rosenzweig and Abraham Joshua Heschel – as  “thinking as part of a movement or in the context of its ideology” (Borowitz, 1997, p.62). This kind of thinking generally preceded the denominationalism of present-day North America, and is indicative of the holistic approach that systems thinking advocates. If we imagine Judaism as a whole entity, as a self-referencing system, we see a system whereby change and adaptation to an environment occur even as the system remains consistent with itself. Borowitz addresses some of the local disturbances within Judaism, as it were, while arguing for the continued stability of the whole.

He proposes that Conservative Judaism fundamentally holds to the same principles of human autonomy that identify the Reform tradition. However autonomy is not the same as individuation. Borowitz argues against what he calls “radical individualism”, a state of not being committed to the communal values of Judaism. In a positive reflection he adds that modernity “ by teaching us this new sense of self, has made a major, lasting, spiritual contribution to Judaism…contemporary revelation, a new insight into God’s will and thus a present indication of our ongoing Covenantal responsibility” (Borowitz, 1997, p.64). The founders of the Conservative Movement, he argues, highly valued their authority as modern scholars. (As, I would suggest, do many present -day Conservative Movement scholars value their authority as rabbis). These founding scholars accepted and acted “on the authority of their autonomy, literally, their right to be self-legislating” (Borowitz, 1997, p.65).

How are these ideas connected to adult learning? Repeatedly, theorists have stated that we must have a sense of who we are as Jews before we make choices about where and whom we will learn with, and whose leadership we will acknowledge. We must claim individual commitment to be learning Jews and to help create learning communities. The Hevra Kadisha members with whom I spoke certainly reflected the values spoken by these leadership and learning theorists. Participants described how their commitment to meeting the demands of this mitzvah often led to other levels of observance becoming important – keeping kosher, and observing Shabbat.

Their commitment to the Hevra was sincere and voluntary; their participation was valued within their community; they were often called upon to reflect on their commitment and its meaning in the many ways large and small that impacted upon their lives. They were self-legislating and autonomous, bound by obligating themselves to tradition. Several communities cited the Hevra as being the leading organization in their communities that crossed denominational borders. Many spoke about the profound connection with Judaism they experienced during each taharah. Through this one mitzvah they became part of the larger system of Judaism, a system both changing and stable.

The mitzvot provide Jews with an opportunity to concretize action and belief in their daily lives. In my opening to this chapter I cited the words of Franz Rosenzweig. “A new learning is about to be born – rather it has been born. It is learning in reverse order. A learning that no longer starts from the Torah and leads into life, but the other way round: from life…back to Torah…From the periphery back to the center, from the outside in” (Rosenzweig, 1955, p.98). The mitzvot thus enable us to create congruency between our learning and our leadership, and between our personal authority and the larger authority of commandment. These rituals create a necessary sense of olam, of timeless continuity and location within tradition. These rituals become our connection with each other and our pathway to God. Taharah and the Hevra Kadisha epitomize the potential for connection between the functional and scholarly learning to which Rosenzweig alludes. Rosenzweig describes that moment “between the past and the future”; the gap or tension in learning which exists between the developing and the achieved. He suggests that the function of books is to transmit knowledge across this gap (Rosenzweig, 1955, p.58). So, too, we need to develop more “books”, about this ritual. Books for those who have lost touch with the loving hands of previous generations; books for those who do the work but don’t understand what it is about or why they do it; books for those who have been asked to teach new generations of Jews who want to participate in this act of hesed shel emet. These books, symbols of Jewish learning, may help to bring us forward as individuals and as communities to stand together, one, under the huppah of Covenant. [19]  Such a commitment to Covenant speaks with radical hope and enduring love for this tradition.

CHAPTER THREE: METHODOLOGY

Research methods

As I planned my research for this project I was presented with an opportunity within a conundrum. The only information detailed in print about contemporary Hevra Kadisha groups was in several academic theses and several magazine articles. I wanted to go beyond that limitation and directly interview people who were involved in this work in an attempt to develop a greater understanding of both their motivation and actual practices. I speculated that the personal and political circumstances surrounding these individuals and these groups would be indicative of some of the challenges facing Jews today in North America. I decided that a qualitative approach would best give an accurate voice to the participants. It has been suggested that qualitative research provides a new direction for academic research, that researching the context and particulars of actual lived experiences more accurately broadens our knowledge base (Kirby and McKenna, 1989, p.22). I felt that interviews would give me the kind and amount of detail otherwise unavailable, and would solidly substantiate my findings in the literature that did exist.

Story, as biographical narrative, allows different understandings of meaning to gradually emerge within the context of the research problem (Richardson, cited in Dewar, 1996). Telling our story (ies) within a larger narrative setting encourages and assists us as we attempt to understand our lives as coherent, yet with particular and discrete meanings. By stitching the personal stories of Hevra Kadisha members to the underlining of their customs and practices, I hoped their insights would act to bind the seams of the narrative, adhering the personal to the communal. Thus, in a manner both reflexive and reflective, the threads of the narrative inter-weave within the context of personal story. Inevitably many questions remain, threads dangling, as do the unfinished, fraying edges of the takhrikhim.  Yet even these threads are quilted to the fabric of Jewish community in complex and timeless patterns.

The conventions of much traditional academic writing demands the engagement of the researcher to be transformed into detachment, into an objective, externalized voice. Academic researchers are trained to be observers, objectively distant from their area of research, certainly not active participants in their research. It has been suggested though, that as a result, “a kind of paralysis” has set within the halls of academe (Mies, cited in Kirby and McKenna, 1989, p.25). However useful such an observer’s only stance may be in some areas of scientific study, I made the decision that such impartiality was not appropriate or desirable. As a member of a Hevra Kadisha I am very committed to the ideals and the actuality of these ritual practices. Far from being a dispassionate observer, I am very actively engaged and concerned for the future of these rituals. I believe this passion has enabled me to enter this research not with bias but with a more complete sensitivity and understanding of the nuances embedded in the interview material.

My decision to personally interview each participant was made with these factors in mind. Face-to-face interviews would confine my research to a very small locale, whereas telephone interviews opened up potential interviews in any location. While lacking the potential for more immediate visual cues and rapport, these interviews did give both me as interviewer and the interviewees ample opportunity to clarify and verify information. These interviews also gave me the opportunity to encourage interviewees to elaborate more fully with their responses. The nature of our mutual passion for this topic did in fact create a rapport that greatly enhanced the interviews. All of these factors are considered significant in face-to-face interviewing and I think were successfully adapted to a more long-distance interview relationship (Palys, 1997, p.154). One of my obligations as a researcher is to also be sensitive to what is not said - examining the silences in the text, speculating what may lie in the margins. I become the core. The words are sometimes diffuse and painterly, sometimes intensely focused. As I worked I realized how many more questions I could have asked and how this work is very much a beginning point.

It is very important to me that my research leads to greater understanding about the function and practice of these rituals. Theory and practice are often segregated in academic research, (Mies, cited in Kirby and McKenna, 1989, p.25). This attitude is usually based in the quest for ‘scientific objectivity.’ Theoretical research is often posited against more qualitative, action based research, reflecting perhaps another commonly held distinction, that between what constitutes art and what is mere craft. One form is idealized as having a higher social and symbolic value while the other, more pragmatic and functional, is less valued. However, rather than oppose one value against the other I am hoping through my research methods to validate both the theoretical and the pragmatic. As I talked with participants I learned from each person’s experiences. Many people expressed their own passionate interest in taharah, and their frustration with lack of materials to read. They wanted to discuss the source of customs, what other communities were doing, whether other groups existed. Although all the participants have some form of manual or guide they use when conducting a taharah, many said they would appreciate having an improved guide. To this end, one of the practical outcomes of my research is my proposal to publish such a manual. It is my hope that this manual will actively contribute towards greater understanding about taharah and its role within our communities.

Data Gathering Tools: Interviews

My initial plan was to survey Hevra Kadisha members by e-mail. However I was very concerned that my e-mails would be ignored, not passed on to the correct people or might end up lost.  I decided that telephone conversations would be more workable and more reliable. They would ensure that the interviews would be completed. Phone conversations also allowed participants to expand beyond the yes/no format of the questions into the stories behind the questions, which added tremendous richness and depth to my survey. My experience with interviewing local participants made me realize that these stories were fundamental to the success of this research. I tried to develop questions that would address major areas of practical concern. Membership, training, safety, actual procedures used during a taharah, who, if anyone, was consulted and personal reasons for doing this work were all covered in the questions. (See Appendix C–1).

It has been suggested that successful interviews usually involve those who are interviewed entering into a relationship with the interviewer (Kirby and McKenna, 1989, p.70). My experience interviewing the participants was that this relationship quite naturally evolved from our shared concern for this work. I found myself wanting to sit with women in their sewing circle as they hand-stitched takhrikhim, as they had for over forty years; I wanted to meet the members of the Hevra who had first taught their rabbi about their work and now were learning with him; I wanted to spend time with a community of elders, a community where Maritimer’s common sense [20] met Jewish takhlis, (the practical substance of a matter) and together created a solid sustained commitment to their local Jewish customs. We shared our concerns and our hopes for this much-loved mitzvah. My obligation to those interviewed is to try to honestly reflect back their experiences and their passion.

My research plan called for interviewing Conservative Jews in small synagogues. In August 2000 I drew up interview questions and then interviewed members of my Hevra Kadisha affiliated with Congregation Emanu-El in Victoria. These interviews provided me with an opportunity to workshop and refine the questions I had generated. I had traveled to New York in May 2000 to begin my research into the literature, and in September I returned and spent three weeks researching at the

Jewish Theological Seminary and the New York Public Library. While in New York I interviewed members of several Manhattan Hevra Kadisha groups. I had thought initially to compare the practices of larger more urban groups with groups in smaller communities. As I began to realize the challenge of completing such a task within the time I had available I decided to leave such a comparison to a later date.  Also, while in New York I managed to interview Rabbi Zohn, an expert on taharah.

Rabbi Elchonon Zohn, is the Director and founder of the Hevra Kadisha of the Vaad Harabonim of Queens, and is internationally recognized as one of the foremost experts in Hevra Kadisha. Rabbi Zohn is also the founder and coordinator of the Association of Hevros Kadisha; a national network designed to afford  exchange of current information and technical assistance regarding death and funeral practices (Zohn, 2001, n.p.). I also spoke with two funeral directors of Jewish funeral homes in Manhattan, Riverside and Plaza Memorial. One of these directors gave me a tour of the facility including the preparation room, where there was a mikvah for the taharah. Most commonly used by women who keep the laws of family purity, taharaht ha’mishpahah, this mikvah was used by the Hevra Kadisha for immersing the met/metah instead of pouring water over the body.

While in New York I also had a number of casual conversations with Jewish family members and friends who were interested in my research. None of them had ever heard of the ritual of taharah, and one, as I have mentioned, vociferously contradicted my suggestion that the rituals I was describing were traditionally Jewish.

In November, after completing my literature research, I began to interview members of Hevra Kadisha groups in small North American communities. I interviewed 16 individuals across Canada and the United States. The decision about which congregations to choose came about in a number of ways. I chose some of the communities from the United Synagogue Directory. I chose to contact synagogues that did not have a rabbi, or communities that to my knowledge were probably small. One interview came about through a contact on the Internet when I was researching kosher caskets. One interview was with a woman recommended by Rabbi Moshe Edelman. Rabbi Edelman is director of the department of leadership development and associate director of the department of regional and extension activities with United Synagogue offices in New York. Rabbi David Blumenfeld, also at United Synagogue, recommended one participant. One woman in Canada had heard through her sister in New York City that I was conducting this research. She contacted me through her sister, expressing her interest in being included. Even though participants were comfortable with my using their names in this publication, in the interest of discretion, I decided to give them pseudonyms (See Appendix D–1) for a list of all participants).

My first step in contacting individual participants involved telephoning their synagogue. Usually an office administrator spoke with me, who then suggested I speak with the rabbi, if there was a rabbi. After discussing my project with the rabbi I would then be referred by the rabbi to senior members of the Hevra Kadisha. Not all of my initial phone calls were successful. If there was an answering machine I left a message, explaining my project and leaving my phone number. Several people contacted me by e-mail explaining they did not know if they had a Hevra Kadisha. “I’m ignorant on what you are asking for- if our congregation has a Kedusha ” (private e-mail). One person had no idea about whom I could contact in this regard and expressed the opinion that only the Orthodox does this. Another individual made a suggestion about another synagogue that might have a Hevra Kadisha. Individuals whom I interviewed also made recommendations about others with whom I might speak.

The face-to-face interviews in Victoria were conducted in August 2000, and the telephone interviews were primarily conducted in November 2000. In the latter case I made an initial phone call to arrange with the rabbi or administrator to call the appropriate person. I then called the person to whom I had been referred to discuss my project and arrange for an interview, if they agreed to participate, and then called again for the appointed interview. When making arrangements for the interview I obtained participants’ informed consent. All participants asked for a copy of the manual that I plan to publish, and most asked for a copy of this thesis as well.

I had many more names than I could possibly include within the limitations of the time I had available. My idea (once I had decided to limit the interviews to small communities only) was to interview at least one man and one woman from at least 15 communities, but I soon realized that even that was an overestimation of my capacities within the scope of this particular survey. I was interested in creating as much breadth and depth of information as possible even within a smaller group, so I adjusted my expectations regarding both numbers of communities involved and numbers of participants within each community. Within four communities I interviewed both a man and a woman. In the other 9 communities I interviewed one person. I phoned participants from my home in Victoria. Most of the interviewees talked with me from their homes, except for one participant who was on holiday in Vancouver. As participants spoke to me on the phone, I wrote down extensive, near–verbatim notes. The interviews usually lasted one hour. Several of the participants were more taciturn and their interviews were shorter, others had much to say. One interview lasted two hours.

Study conduct: Managing the data

My first task in handling the data involved transcribing my hand-written notes. I entered all the interviews into a computer file without editing any of the comments. After the interviews were completely entered I created a list of themes that were pertinent to this study, and then proceeded to create computer files for each theme. I reviewed each interview and copied any information pertinent to each theme into their respective files. If several themes seemed complementary to me I would organize them side-by-side on the same page. I then stepped back from the minutiae of the data in all of these files and reviewed my questions. What was I trying to ascertain in this study? What questions formed the fundamentals of my literature review? These questions formed the analytical backdrop as I prepared to review the thematic breadth of material and began to develop an understanding of the threads of commonality and differences in these communities. I also shared this information at this stage with several people in my community, more for confirmation of direction, but also to confirm the richness and depth of the material that I was feeling was present. 

Much of the material in the interviews was relevant to several sections and was therefore included several times. On various sweeps through each interview I would also find references to themes that I had missed, and so I would go back to that section and the theme’s file and write in either the quote or the question number from the interview so that I could easily locate the relevant information. Themes also emerged in the interviews that I had not anticipated in the actual interview questions. Many participants discussed cemetery policy for example, as well as financial matters. Political issues such as relationships with other denominations in their community were also issues that many participants wanted to discuss. While interviewing these participants I did not attempt to overly restrict such conversation, because my feeling was that very relevant information would emerge in the context of such a discussion, a feeling that I believe has been verified. I also created a file of questions about customs and ritual about which individuals wanted information. As I was able to find information, I entered it into this file, which will eventually be a chapter in the manual. I have not used all the information, which was revealed to me in these interviews, some of the discussion being clearly beyond the confines of this paper.

CHAPTER FOUR: RESEARCH STUDY FINDINGS

Small communities:  “We do the best we can”

This phrase was repeated in a number of interviews, in fact it became a refrain, the litany of those living in small communities. There are problems facing the continuation of the Hevra Kadisha in many large Jewish communities as well. Large cities such as Toronto, Montreal, New York and Boston generally have Jewish funeral homes, which have the advantage of providing Jews with a professional service. However this same service has also enabled an abdication of responsibility. As someone coming from a small town to the ‘big city’ to conduct my research, I thought I would be able to learn from my more cosmopolitan cousins. It would seem that the country mouse had something to teach its city cousin after all.

Demographic realities are an issue that some small communities are confronting. Some of these communities, once vibrant and active, are now aging, their membership dwindling. Dov clearly outlined the challenges for a Hevra Kadisha in such circumstances.

We are left with only 36 or 38 families. It was once a thriving community with maybe 250 families, but has been shrinking…Our numbers have depleted greatly, as has the size and frequency of attendance…the entire community is now less than 100 souls…There are six men and six women involved…I have great fear for the continuation of the Hevra Kadisha in the real small communities.

The average age in some of these congregations is pushing 70. Amos noted “we are top heavy with aging people.” The challenges of conducting a taharah require certain levels of physical strength. A number of participants voiced real concern about the survival of the Hevra Kadisha in light of a lack of able-bodied young people. Again Dov expressed his concern.  “I would say that when you are first asked it is usually because you are young and able bodied. Men get older, there is little strength left. We need to keep recruiting.” Unfortunately the experience of many in these small communities, is that not only are younger people leaving, few young families are moving in. Even families looking for a way of life they may attribute to a quality of life in smaller towns, may change their minds when they are confronted with its reality. Tzvi remembered one such family.

One family called me before Yom Tov, [the Jewish High Holy days, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur] they were looking for a small community. They wanted to know about Yiddishkeit in our community. But they walked into our shul [Yiddish: synagogue] and they see all gray hair, and no children. They had one small child. They left.

Even in synagogues with younger members there is worry that as the membership of the Hevra ages, the elders are not being replaced by younger people. There were concerns voiced that younger Jews are not as committed to a sense of communal obligation as their elders had been. While most senior members of a Hevra would drop whatever they were doing to take care of a taharah, Golda spoke of the reluctance of younger women to do the same.  “The younger ones I have talked with, the vast majority have excuses - she couldn’t get away from the office [to come to help].“ Although a taharah usually takes only about one hour that hour may come at an inconvenient time for many. A willingness to re-arrange scheduled days is often necessary.

One woman was very concerned about this attitude. She talked about her son and his work with the Jewish Family Services in their town. She talked about the work they both do in their community, and described how her son was grateful to her for setting such an example. Shula’s pride in her son was palpable over the telephone, but so were her concerns. “Parents need to tell their children what they need to do in quiet ways. These days children are being raised without learning to give.” This act of hesed shel emet requires not only commitment and physical strength; it requires time, freely given. Shula was very concerned that too many younger people had not been given the example of such giving by their parents and, as a result, the foundations of community structures were beginning to show cracks.  Shlomo, a forty-year veteran in his Hevra Kadisha stoutly declared that “Volunteerism is on the way out.” Both Shula and Shlomo were concerned that the traditional volunteer nature of Hevra Kadisha groups was suffering.

These statements certainly need to be heard and acknowledged. In many Jewish communities a precious heritage of knowledge and practice of gemilut hasadim has already given way to paid, professional services. Gemilut hasadim translates as acts of benevolence, of kindness. Talmud compares tzedakah, which is righteousness and usually refers to the giving of financial assistance, with gemilut hasadim. Tzedakah only applies to the living, whereas gemilut hasadim also applies to the dead. Tzedakah involves giving of money, whereas gemilut hasadim involves giving of oneself (Sukkah 49b). Hesed shel emet, the caring of the dead, is an act of gemilut hasadim. These individuals were voicing a very real concern for the example being set for Jewish children and for the subsequent survival and continuing of this valued heritage.

Not all of these small synagogue communities were comprised of only elderly people, but age was often mentioned as a significant concern. Changing demographics in these communities may reflect wider social patterns. For example, today many elderly people travel frequently. Travel has become both more affordable and more necessary as sons and daughters move away from their home communities. Safer travel also affords many seniors opportunities for vacations that earlier generations would never have considered. These family trips and/or vacations present the Hevra Kadisha members remaining at home with the challenge to cover the absences of members who are away. Dov recognized the challenge that such absences created.

 We’re all so mobile – half of our group is always away. It can be a real scramble, because you are always doing it quickly, you can never plan ahead. It has its problems. Sometimes we sort of wing it, in a community such as ours.

Given the nature of the training involved in a Hevra Kadisha, such a lack of stability can be problematic. Malka talked about understanding her membership in the Hevra Kadisha as being a lengthy process for her. She spoke of how she is still, after ten years, following the leadership of more experienced members. Even after ten years of membership she is still “searching out the meaning” of this work. Other participants also spoke of how it takes time to feel comfortable with the process. Members moving away from the community necessitate new members being brought in to replace them. This may be theoretically possible, but the fit may not always be as good. While recognizing that some women may have more of a ‘feel’ for this work Shula also realized that time is a factor in developing comfort as well as skill. “When the last two women moved, I had to bring in two other women. They are doing it because we asked, but they haven’t brought their personality into it yet, they are more perfunctory.” The inexperience and instability of newer members puts increased pressure on the older members who may want to pass on the torch. The erstwhile goal of a seamless taharah may seem ever elusive under such circumstances.

There are certainly many positive aspects to life in small communities. Several participants spoke about the love and sense of connection they were able to experience in such settings. Hannah described how the sense of neighborliness that may come with sheer physical proximity could permeate these rituals. She felt strongly that the Hevra Kadisha gave individuals within a community a forum to establish deeper connection with that community, “It has strengthened our bond, strengthening ourselves and strengthened others. There is a sense of love and caring for our elderly women." The interplay between self and other, self and community is reinforced by the transformative potential of these rituals.

However, the strong personal and inter-personal relationships that may develop in these communities may also act to hinder possible participation. This may act as a negative challenge to those considering joining the Hevra Kadisha. Individuals may resist feeling emotionally unable to be involved. Rona’s close connection to her community was the core of her resistance at first. “When I was first invited, I said no, no, no, everyone in this town is related or close friends. I thought it would be very difficult.” However, as Rona reflected on her many years of membership, she, as did other participants, expressed that it was precisely these personal interconnections that encouraged her sense of obligation to this tradition.

Myre spoke about how his community had once had an active Hevra Kadisha but “they got old, and there was little interest in continuing with it.” His community had then depended on a nearby city’s Jewish funeral home where people were hired to do the taharah. But when it was decided to attempt to revive the Hevra Kadisha he went to observe a taharah at this home.  “I was appalled, they were sloppy, careless, they said no prayers. They weren’t as reverent as they might have been. I thought to myself, we have to do better than that.” This community was successful in reviving a Hevra Kadisha, something Amos thought could never happen. Amos was partly committed to being a member of his Hevra because of this concern.

It can very easily slip away. It is the one small thing I can do for the Jewish community. I don’t take it lightly. I’ve obligated myself to guarantee that tradition will be there, and the only way is through my participation. Without a doubt, when it ceases it’s impossible to start it up again, which is why we should continue. It is our obligation to not let it die out. It is becoming more and more fragile. If we have held on this long, we need to do our share. 

His impassioned commitment to the Hevra Kadisha is born of love for this mitzvah and a very real fear that it might disappear.

In other small communities this heritage is not only vibrantly alive but is growing, a testament to determination, love and perseverance. In one community of only fifty members ten percent are members of the Hevra Kadisha. While the men’s Hevra had remained stable for a number of years, Hannah told me the women’s group had a twenty-year gap before restarting. Their motivation for returning to this practice was the number of women in the community who were aging, and a recognition that they needed to face their responsibility to provide this ritual for these women as they died. 

It was clear to me that the individuals whom I was interviewing were usually more senior (membership in Hevra Kadisha and/or age) and had years of practical experience on which to reflect. Many represented a bridge between the practices of European immigrants and of those Jews who were two and three generations removed from immigration. The elders could speak Yiddish, the younger members rarely could. However, the possibility of these disparate groups working together and caring for each other might be more likely in small communities. Many participants reflected on their sense of being needed and of needing others to help sustain this tradition. This need was direct, palpable, and informed by the close social relationships in these communities. The lack of financial and professional resources in these communities demanded that acts of gemilut hasadim become a priority. Individuals described various motivations for involvement. Their personal awareness of the need within their community usually overcame any initial hesitations, fears and anxieties.

Modern realities impinged on these groups in a variety of ways. One participant discussed the terrible pollution in his geographic area, a factor contributing to the decline of the number of any persons interested in moving to his community. The growing population of well-educated Jews choosing professional careers rather than establishing small town businesses has also changed the demographic picture of small Jewish communities. Small towns offer limited opportunities for professional careers. As a result, many smaller communities are suffering their own version of ‘brain drain’. Jewish populations outside of large urban centers are also more likely to inter-marry.

According to the 1990 Jewish Population Survey Jews are a mobile population. Nearly half the population changed their residence in the past six years, and less than 10 percent of Jewish adults live in the same home as 25 years ago. Longer life expectancy, low fertility rates and diminished Jewish identification are all cited as factors in decreasing numbers of Jews in North America. "The future demographic development of North American Jewry will depend on the present generation's ability to transmit a Jewish identity to the next," concluded the demographers. "This will depend on ongoing patterns of marriage and child-rearing” (CUNY, 2001, n.p.).

Participants expressing their concern for the survival of the Hevra Kadisha also reflected their concern for the very survival of their Jewish communities. While Jews have historically gravitated to urban areas, the statistics today reflect even greater urban concentrations. In the United States the total Jewish population is described in terms of four census regions and four identity constructs. The greatest concentration of Jews described is in the Northeast while the Midwest has the smallest population. The largest segment of the population, comprising one-quarter of the total, is the category of Jews by religion, residing in the Northeast while a plurality of Jews with no religion is found in the West (CUNY, 2001, n.p.). Will Jewish communities survive in small communities? Perhaps there will be a shift in the present demographic patterns. Certainly my community has experienced an influx of people wanting to leave once-desirable larger urban centers in the interests of raising Jewish children in what is perceived to be a safer environment. These same Jews often become very involved in all aspects of Jewish community life. Our Hevra Kadisha is a mix of old-timers and relatively new residents. Perhaps there will always be a variation of this theme existing in these small communities.

Membership

The Hevra Kadisha groups that the interviewees belonged to had been in existence over a wide span of years. Six communities had a Hevra Kadisha that was roughly 100 years old, or as Rona put it “since the beginning of time.” Five communities started a Hevra in the past thirty years. Dov was unclear about the length of time, beyond  “many years.” Their personal involvement in the Hevra stretched across a similar span from 2 ½ to 43 years. Four interviewees had over thirty years of experience in the Hevra Kadisha, giving them a unique window of perspectives on organizational practices, training and membership. These individuals were direct witness to changes in these practices as membership shifted from a primarily immigrant population to one made up of those born in North America. The Old World population has now largely died or become too frail to participate in this ritual. I was curious to see what their influence had been, and if it had survived in any manner.

Several people mentioned that their inspiration to join the Hevra Kadisha came through family members. Shlomo’s words were testament to his father’s example.  “My father was a Hevra Kadisha man – this is the best way. When a father moves out there are a set of shoes that are empty. I went into his footsteps.” Amos beautifully described the religious influence of his grandparents. His grandfather and his grandmother had both been active members of the Hevra Kadisha. His grandmother used to hand-sew takhrikhim. “The ladies would come over and sew instead of drinking coffee”. When his grandfather died he wanted to help but was told to wait. “The others did the Hevra Kadisha for him when he died, they would not allow me to do it. I sat outside and waited. They told me, next time, we’ll call you.” The Hevra Kadisha gave Amos both an example of his grandparent’s commitment to this mitzvah and an opportunity for him to then continue to honor their memory.

Dov’s father was a member of the Hevra Kadisha. However, Dov’s actual decision to join the Hevra was influenced more by the death of a dear family friend.

 My father preceded me. He was a member of the Hevra Kadisha. The man that headed it was a very close family friend. Back in the 60’s, I was in my early 20’s. He kind of unexpectedly got sick and died. He was not very old. He’d been trying to get me to join, but I wasn’t all that anxious. [After he died] I said I wanted to do this for him. He was the first. 

Such memories certainly gave these participants very tangible and intimate links with preceding generations. Hannah, while not having direct familial links to Hevra Kadisha, and in fact having no idea about its existence as a child, did grow up near her eighty-year-old grandparents. “As a child I went to zillions of funerals. I understood very early that the function of a funeral was not to cry but to bond.” These experiences, forged in her childhood obviously created a visceral knowledge within her about the value of these rituals, and a commitment to ensure that she too would act to create and nurture similar bonds amongst members of her present-day community.

It is not always the death of a family member that may instigate joining a Hevra Kadisha. Golda described the death of a very close friend twelve years ago. Although the Hevra Kadisha was very active, she could not imagine doing taharah for her friend.

She had a long dying period. I didn’t see how I could possibly participate. I called people in S. to come down. I have never forgotten their response. ‘This is your loving deed that you can do for your friend for which you will receive no thanks’. I thought about it – she is absolutely right.

Variations of this phrase punctuated most interviews. This ritual I think does not only powerfully embody both thought and deed, the one reinforcing the other in a seamless fashion, it is truly a gift of love. Another woman reflecting on the imminent death of an elderly and much loved member of her community also wondered how they would get through the taharah. But as we talked, she too was very clear that these rituals were exactly what were going to help them cope with their friend’s death.

Rona had done considerable research into the history of her own Jewish community. She interviewed one gentleman in the course of her research who told her a story about his father and the Hevra Kadisha in his day. She related the story to me. “When he became 13 he automatically became a member. When the banquet [the annual banquet for members of the Hevra Kadisha, often on 7 Adar] was held, if a member was ill and couldn’t come, the dinner was sent to their house.” 7Adar is considered to be both the date of birth and yahrtzeit of the death of Moses. The date was chosen for the banquet because it was Moses who took on the responsibility for carrying the bones of Joseph out of Egypt. It is the date in many communities when the members of the Hevra Kadisha are honored. The members of the Hevrot fast during the day, as they beg forgiveness for any unintentional spiritual lapses during the previous year while performing their duties. A dinner often follows the fast.

Such personal touches often continue to mark these rituals in small communities. In this same community Rona described her own learning about how to do a taharah. She learned with elderly immigrant women, who, as they prepared the body of the woman who had died, would discuss details of her life.

[They] would tell stories about the woman; funny and not so funny stories, but never disrespectful. They would remember how one was such a good cook, or how one lady loved to play cards and how they could imagine her still playing cards. We still do this. We all know everyone.

Shula recalled a similar group of four to five women who had emigrated from Europe and still spoke Yiddish.

[They were] little ladies. I knew them. They told me where to stand. We would do taharah and then ask questions afterwards. It was as if they were visiting someone they loved, they spoke in very loving tones…At the time I was overwhelmed with love as well. It seemed to be so perfect. 

Today in the same community the personal stories have been replaced with more formal prayers, a change in custom against which the ladies fought, a change that members in other communities continue to resist.

Participants were not themselves strictly observant in any aspect of Jewish religious life. Jonathan observed that he thought the term observance was usually open to personal interpretation. “Jews think they’re observant in terms of where they are.”  As if confirming this opinion, Gershon said that he was observant, but “not by Orthodox standards.” Traditional religious observance, while clearly equated in the minds of many participants with Orthodox Judaism, was not considered a prerequisite to membership in the Hevra Kadisha.

Most participants were clear that such an expectation of religious orthodoxy could not be possible in their communities, Dov even declaring that, “I’ve never heard of that.”  The qualifications they were looking for in their members were not degrees of observance as it is traditionally understood, for example being shomer Shabbat (keeping the laws of the Sabbath) or keeping kosher (keeping the dietary laws), but good moral character and an interest in participating in this mitzvah. The bottom line for one group was willingness. Myre welcomed  “anyone who expresses interest, while Dov looked for  “willingness to participate” and Rona was “happy to have anyone.” Others looked for committed individuals who were actively involved in their respective communities. Malka described her interest in involving “ethical and moral individuals, who had good standing in the community.“ Hannah said her group looked for “people who were involved, good community people. If they were extremely liberal we might discourage them. This is very holy work. We have to feel that God is present. There is an understood standard.”

One community had considerably more stringent requirements for membership. Shlomo described these standards. Prospective members needed to be at least eighteen years old, a long-standing member of the Hevra Kadisha must have sponsored them, and they must have given at least an $18 donation to United Jewish Appeal. There was also a one-year probation period for new members and a clearly stated expectation that members would attend at funerals. These stipulated conditions were not perceived by the interviewee as discouraging participation at all.

Even though strict observance of the mitzvot were not a stated formal requirement for participation in the Hevra Kadisha, one participant discussed how this mitzvah acted to encourage observance in other aspects of life. Shula described this influence and tendency within her own group. “[Members tend to become] more observant and observance increases. I have seen this in my own husband, most definitely. He grew up Reform and now he is in shul every week.” Two other participants also noted this shift towards greater and deeper levels of ritual observance.

Membership in the Hevra Kadisha is limited by tradition to “pious Jews.” (Kol Bo ’al Aveilut, p. 87, as cited by Klein, 1979, p. 277). However, while membership is limited to Jews, if necessary preparation may be done by non-Jews, if supervised by Jews (Melamed Leho’il, vol. 2, Yoreh De’ah 112, quoted in responsum on Taharah by R. Sanders Tofield, Law Committee Archives, as cited by Klein, 1979, p. 277). I was interested to note that four participants actually mentioned being Jewish as a requirement for membership. While this might seem a given, such a statement might also be a reflection on the level of intermarriage that is a fact in most small communities. I suggest that the very fact of ‘Jewish’ even being mentioned, never mind as repeatedly as it was, (given the context and nature of this very traditional ritual) might be an indicator of the depths of intermarriage in small Jewish communities. Such mention might also indicate that the leadership of the Hevra Kadisha (as well as of other Jewish organizations) might be experiencing some degree of pressure from the general synagogue membership to broaden its constituency, if not explicitly, then implicitly. However, such mention of ‘Jewish’ might also be taken more pragmatically. Jews living in small towns often have little reinforcement or reflection of their Jewish identity and values outside formal Jewish settings. Such Jewish identity must usually be routinely reinforced, if not pursued. This reinforcement may also require Jews to make routine statements pertaining to their identity, an identity that Jews in more urban climes may take utterly for granted.

Overall my sense of the members of these groups was that of people who were very sincere and dedicated to the Hevra Kadisha. Myre was mostly concerned that prospective members “recognize it for the mitzvah that it is.” Participant’s entry into their Hevra had occurred in various ways but they all seemed to hold a single-minded commitment to the continuing of the mitzvah of taharah. The Hevra Kadisha, by its very tradition of privacy, would seem to lend itself to a certain circumspection of character when individuals consider membership. Most participants described choosing new members as a process of self-selection, a process that in many cases was reinforced by the physical and temporal demands of the work.

A fascinating tension began to emerge as participants discussed their membership in their Hevrei Kadisha. An unstated yet perceptible equation between belief and practice began to tentatively emerge. While significant differences are generally understood to exist between modern belief systems (rationality, scientism, a generalized discomfort with the concept of after-life, individual authority and control of personal destiny) and those of pre-modern or more traditional beliefs (belief in after-life, superstition, faith, an essential integration of individual into communal norms and community structures), participants gave voice to how modern beliefs worked in tandem, and not opposition with pre-modern traditional practices. This simultaneous continuity of commitment by Hevra Kadisha members to an historical practice, while having no intellectual framework for the context of belief or origins of that same practice was fascinating to me. 

Because of the “stripped-down” nature of most present-day mortuary manuals and the subsequent lack of references thereof to religious belief, the Hevra Kadisha practices became that of “we do what we do because that is how we have done it,” instead of “we do this because this is how we understand the development of this practice within the context of our religious history.” This phenomenon may not, in fact, be unusual. Within more generalized observance many Jews keep to various religious practices without having any biblical or rabbinic contextual understanding for that same practice. However this study certainly highlighted how disconnected many Jews are from the origins of Hevra Kadisha customs, and how many want to have a deeper understanding of the origins of these rituals.

While traditional commitment to halakhah and mitzvot were no longer considered primary factors for individuals to consider themselves observant, (never mind influence a determination of membership in the Hevra Kadisha), most participants did consider themselves to be observant Jews. I wondered if the significant commitment to the continuation of the Hevra Kadisha (expressed by all participants) created a milieu of observance, offered an umbrella of belief, by which participants could at least anticipate a commitment to traditional religious observance. Even if not unfurled, such an umbrella could be tucked under their arms, and might afford potential protection from any rain of disdain that might be voiced by more traditionally observant Jews.

While most Hevra Kadisha members I interviewed expressed little if any understanding about why they were doing particular rituals, they were nevertheless committed to the form of those same rituals continuing. Traditionally, the rituals of taharah are understood to symbolize the symbiotic relationship between deed and faith, linking presence in this world to belief in presence in the world-to-come. However, it would seem today that the actions of these rituals continue despite any provision for intellectual, religious, mystical, or historical understandings about their original if not evolving meanings. Given that so much of our comprehension of self is discovered through symbol and myth, I found this primary dedication to form, in spite of such lack of knowledge, intriguing.

I would argue that post-modern conceits of deconstruction and subsequent lack of any possibility of sustained meaning have not entered into the consciousness of the average person. Most people, myself included, tend to still occupy an intellectual realm of modern rationality, even as we may still appreciate pre and post-modern symbolism. Given that supposition, I find it testament to the incredibly enduring nature of these rituals that they have survived in such a vacuum of meaning. As I continued to explore the customs of different Hevra Kadisha groups these tensions continued to intrigue me.

Why join a Hevra Kadisha?

In any Jewish community there are usually many opportunities for participation in communal activities. Organizations such as Hadassah-Wizo, ORT, the Federation of Men’s Clubs, Women’s League, the synagogue board or executive, and various historical, educational and family service committees all rely heavily on individuals volunteering their time. Given the variety of options, why would someone choose to join the Hevra Kadisha? Many people are uncomfortable if not repulsed by the idea of even being in the presence of a dead body. Others think such work is a job best left to the hands of professionals. If, as Shlomo said, volunteerism really is on the way out, how is it that so many people have become so fiercely dedicated to this mitzvah? I wanted to know not only what led to their long-term dedication but also what prompted their initial participation.

Politics in all its guises, both positive and negative, was often cited by participants as a motivating factor in joining the Hevra Kadisha. Jonathan talked about the plans of his community to build their own ‘funeral home’ structure.

[There will be] room for families, room for the Hevra Kadisha, taharah, meetings and gatherings…This opens up the door for the community to have more control. We need to be in control. We need to get our power back, provide the service at an affordable price.

Not only did membership in the Hevra Kadisha give Jonathan an opportunity to become an activist and proponent for his community, his involvement has expanded his definition of what it means to be Jewish.

This is my way of being a Jew. I don’t understand why Jews can’t just be Jews. I don’t see any difference. Especially with the Hevra Kadisha this applies. The Hevra Kadisha has no boundaries. It takes the responsibility for the community to bury its dead. It is way past political differences.

In this vision then, the Hevra Kadisha then, can become a place to both intensely connect with a personal sense of Judaism, (Herberg’s mitzvah-for-me), and can also open doorways between Jews who may otherwise have little cause for connection. Ironically, for Zev and for Malka the Hevra was a very welcome haven from the politicking they so disliked, a politicking that seemed to them to permeate synagogue life. The Hevra Kadisha was their refuge, a sanctuary where their souls were renewed.  

Aging baby boomers reflected on the increased presence of death in their lives. Gershon seemed particularly aware of how his generation was now in its middle years, years where he and many others were confronting death more and more often. 

I’m fifty…Joining the Hevra Kadisha was a reaction to what was going on in my life. My mother was here in a nursing home and she was deteriorating over three years. A good friend of my wife died of cancer. A young boy died of CF. Our generation is constantly having to confront the reality of death. We need to embrace it, learn more about it, learn how it relates to me. As Jews we have a straightforward and positive manner.

Certainly every generation has had to face death. But as they have with every decade the large numbers of baby-boomers are on a crest of influence.  In many communities this influence is being felt as a renewal and rediscovery of aspects of Jewish life. The baby-boomer generation, for example, is a definite factor in the considerable renewal of interest in formal Jewish learning. Social activism led many people of this generation, not just Jews, into an intense examination of their personal values and ethics. The social movements and attitudes that fired political and social activism in the 1960’s and 1970’s were often brought into synagogues as individual Jews returned to Judaism.

The term ba’alei teshuvah has generally been applied to Jews returning to Orthodoxy, but there are also many thousands of Jews who have similarly returned to the more liberal denominations of Judaism. As these Jews return to synagogue communities, they are often blending their newly found learning and commitment to traditional obedience to religious rituals, with their previously held values of ‘radical’ hands-on activism. Ironically, such activism also reflects very traditional Jewish values. The prophetic tradition teaches that God demands Jews value and perform acts of loving-kindness and justice. Within this tradition of prophetic teachings Jews are called to go beyond mere ritualized adherence to and performance of the mitzvot, towards developing an activated consciousness of human and divine connection that will sustain the viability of such actions. Each morning as observant Jews place tefillin on their arm and forehead the following words are recited, “And I will espouse you forever: I will espouse you with righteousness and justice, And with goodness and mercy, And I will espouse you with faithfulness, Then you shall be devoted to the Lord”  (Hosea 2:21 –22, JPS edition Tanakh, 1988, p. 984). As God is bound to us, as we are to God, so too are Jews bound to each other. Such ethical awareness and activism that may have been previously attributed solely to particular modern social movements may now be recognized by many Jews as an inherent element of their traditional Jewish heritage.

Several participants discussed their quest for a deeper understanding of the process of death, and how that understanding offered an essential and enriching element in their lives. As Malka clearly stated this quest was a component in her choice to continue her membership in her Hevra Kadisha. “I’m a member of the Hevra Kadisha because I think death is part of life and makes life richer because you’re aware of the process that you are involved in. it makes the sanctity of life real. Confronting death is like confronting birth.” This ritual contact with death also gave Gershon a personal philosophy that embraced the rich blessings of life.  “This is the sort of thing that will draw people closer. We are able to see the world of life and sunshine, we know how to take advantage of that.” Tzvi described how this mitzvah enhanced his life by its very necessity. “It’s a mitzvah. You do it once and you realize what you have done – this is the natural, normal way. There are no noble reasons. It is just something that has to be done.”

From the most prosaic and pragmatic of reasons to the more philosophical, this ritual was acknowledged by these participants as an instrumental and essential component in their awareness and understanding of the cycles of life and death, death and life.

Death of a family member or a close friend was a significant factor for several participants joining a Hevra Kadisha. Golda described the death of a friend’s mother as impetus for her organizing her first taharah. “I became aware we had to do something. Burial was more than just digging a hole.” There was a sense throughout all of these interviews that very particular personal and communal significance was attached to this ritual. For example, Shula was often called to the hospital to make the necessary arrangements for the release of bodies. Nurses at the hospital had told her several times that the work of the Hevra Kadisha – though they did not know to call it by name – was uniquely special. “[The nurses would say] ‘There is something you Jews have that no one else has’ – what is missing in their grieving is that connection.” The nurses knew what many Jews have sadly lost. As many Jews have left behind traditional rituals and community many have also abandoned this profound sense of connection. Shula expressed a tangible gratitude for the functional connectivity of these rituals. The rituals of the Hevra Kadisha act as a spiritual and physical bond between the present generation, the generations preceding and the generations to follow.

This generational link is perhaps most poignant as Jews recall the millions who perished in the Shoah (the Holocaust). As some Jews say Kaddish weekly for the six million who perished, others perceive the Hevra Kadisha as providing an opportunity to memorialize the anonymity of their deaths. Malka expressed her need to continue this work partly “because 6 million Jews were killed and not given proper burials.” The rituals of the Hevra Kadisha can also provide very real comfort for those who survived the Shoah, but now face death in their old age. Shula described such a couple.

Once there was a Holocaust survivor couple. She was in the hospital and died. The hospital called me in the middle of the night. They couldn’t get him to leave his wife and go home. I went to the hospital and then went with him to the funeral home. He was in the Hevra Kadisha forever. He kept saying ‘You’re going to take care of my Sarah, you’re going to take care of my Sarah’. He relied on us.

This man’s connection with these rituals, so well known from his own participation, enabled him to finally release his beloved wife, knowing he could trust the compassion and loving-kindness of the hands and hearts of the Hevra Kadisha.  Yet another survivor from this same community had a very different reaction to the idea of these same rituals. Again, Shula told me this story with compassion and empathy.

We had a woman in the congregation who got out (of Germany) as a teenager, but her husband was detained in a German prison, not the camps. He was put in a very small cell for 9-10 months. He could only sit with his knees tucked up. Ever since then he couldn’t ride in a car, even a bus – it was too claustrophobic. He walked everywhere. He insisted he would have to be cremated. He insisted, ‘You can’t put me in a box’.  The woman asked – what can I do? She asked her brother, who was a rabbi, and he told her that King Saul chose to be cremated. If it was good enough for him it was good enough for her husband.

This rabbi was recalling the story of Saul and his three sons who were killed and beheaded by the Philistines. Even though cremation was not Jewish practice (and is, in fact, forbidden by Jewish law) their bodies were taken to Beth-shan and burned, and then the bones were buried (First Samuel 31:12 –13). Kimchi (biblical commentator, 1160-1235) has suggested that “it is possible that in this case the bodies were so badly decomposed that it was considered an affront to the dead to bury them in that state” (Goldman, S., 1962, pp.184-185). Thus a biblical precedent allowed compassion for the needs of this survivor’s neshama (soul) to also override the protocols of tradition. That the Hevra Kadisha stretched to comply with the aberrant request of this survivor to be cremated demonstrated their recognition of his despair and honor for his dignity even as they found a way to locate their decision in Jewish text.

Some participants discussed their decision to join the Hevra Kadisha in very pragmatic terms. This was a mitzvah. It was necessary, and it kept the tradition alive. Some spoke of this mitzvah being the most important of all mitzvot. Rona remembered her father’s words to this day.

I remember my father telling me this is the greatest mitzvah there ever is. When you do something for someone there is always the possibility that they will acknowledge you. This is the one thing you can do that the person can never do anything for you…I just keep hearing my father’s voice coming back to me. I think I am doing it for him.

Not all children appreciate the merit of this mitzvah as Myre ruefully acknowledged.  “My children think I am out of my mind. But I recognize the mitzvah for what it is.” How is the legacy of this mitzvah best transmitted through the generations? How do we educate our children and our younger members so that they don’t think we are out of our mind, so that they choose to join their own Hevra Kadisha? Later, I will look at the challenges regarding education about these rituals within our communities.

In many ways taharah is inexplicable. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why there is so little descriptive literature about this ritual. But even without any formal explanations to act as reinforcement, many participants spoke about the intrinsic value of such work. Malka described the experiential knowledge that nourished and sustained her. “I think you only know what the Hevra Kadisha means until after you have done it. First you do and then you understand. It is a living thing, based on experiences. It is the stuff you cannot tell people.”

Golda also described the inner recompense this ritual affords. “We are never paid – only from within.” Generally the word radical is understood to mean in opposition to tradition. But within these rituals the meanings of these words merge. Radical can mean going to the root of a matter, affecting its very foundation. These rituals founded in tradition are at the root of our connection with life and death. The Hevra Kadisha is radical in this very primacy. These rituals enable the living to learn from death as the dead are supported by the living.  Amos referred to this merging of meaning when he described what the Hevra means to him. “It has given me the root of it. It is some way I can hold on to a little part of tradition in my shul.” Amos described how the cycles of life and death are made palpable within the very heart of these rituals.

Some of these stories bring tears to my eyes every time I read them, every time I hear them in my head. They are poignant and intimate; they are stories of courage and fear. Reizl described her work in palliative care. She discussed her need for a sense of connection with the soul of the metah. “I feel I need to follow right through, I feel I can be of some help to the soul, especially with a more difficult death. I help with ‘soul retrieval’, if someone is caught between death and the afterlife, I can help.”

This woman described several occasions where she strongly experienced herself as a spiritual conduit during taharah. Like Reizl, Hevra Kadisha members may experience a sense of themselves as a gesher, as a bridge working collectively in this world to help the neshamah of the met/metah on its journey. As individuals spoke about why and how they became members of the Hevra Kadisha I sensed a larger gesher extending between us all, with the wings of the Shekhinah (God’s Presence in this world) both span and truss. The first four letters of the Hebrew alphabet are often counted out loud as the ties of the takhrikhim are twisted, then tied into three connected but unknotted bows. Reciting aleph, bet, gimel, dalet members of the Hevra Kadisha invoke God’s gift of letters, and the calling of the world into creation by Word. The ties are twisted into the shape of a shin. Shin is the letter that begins one of the names of God, Shaddai, a name that connotes the power of God. It is also the first letter of the Shema, the Jewish creed of belief in one God. So as the body of the dead is dressed and the shrouds are tied in this holy letter, even the garments become prayer, threads of connection between our hands, the neshama of the dead and God.

Training

What training had these participants been given when they first joined? Did they feel that such training was adequate? What training did members receive today? Given the paucity of literature on the subject, I was curious to know how information about taharah was relayed. I was also interested in participant’s opinions about how this training could be improved, if at all. The taharah manuals that I have seen to-date provide an outline, often fairly cryptic, of procedures to follow. But I was curious about what other texts, if any, were available for training purposes. My personal experience of the Hevra Kadisha was that training was usually based on an apprenticeship model. Most participants echoed this understanding.

All participants discussed how prospective Hevra Kadisha members would be initially invited to observe a taharah. When I asked Shlomo about his training he laughed and succinctly replied.  “When I became a member? - Zilch! I was dealing with the old timers!”  Shula also started her initial training years ago and she described her early experiences similarly.

There was no service or reading when I started. The women were in their 60’s and 70’s…the older women had their own ways…We would do taharah and then after they let me ask questions, and they asked me if I was ready to do it next time. If I made a mistake they would just raise their eyebrows.

I often heard from participants that in earlier days, taharah was especially a ritual handed down by elder to younger members. There was a sense of dignity and continuity in such generational transition, and in some communities this is still the case. As Dov described training in his group is largely informal. “There is no formal training. The elders lead the way, directing the ritual. It is an apprenticeship.” Today, many of the ‘old-timers’ are long gone, leaving the aging middle generation with the responsibility of passing on this heritage. In other groups, there appeared to be less of a span in ages, particularly if the groups were relatively new.

A Hevra Kadisha group other than their present community trained several participants. Hannah felt that the training she and the women in her group received was very positive and thorough.

We were made to feel very comfortable by the veteran women. Once we got over our terror at being in the mortuary, we relaxed. There were no bodies, only Annie, a doll. They talked us through; we asked our questions…For the first death we went back with the body to M. We went in and worked with three women who were experienced, it was so much easier, touching her, feeling the emotions. It was a beautiful experience.

Unfortunately, not all such instruction was as positive. Myre learned by wanting to improve on the carelessness he had observed, determined to do better with his own group. Only two members talked about specific formal training. Jonathan mentioned holding training workshops, but then stated that he thought they needed to do more training and educational programs in their community.

Gershon enthusiastically described training sessions, which he had experienced.

[He thought they were] as good as it gets. I was originally trained by the Orthodox in Denver. They gave me tapes and books. They hold daylong programs annually. During the day you watch tapes, typically there is someone there to speak, the rabbis speak, other Hevra members speak, and the funeral director discusses safety issues. The books are on a list with the highest priority at the top. Some of the reading is optional. The leadership of the Hevra conducts the program and acts as coordinator.

Obviously such training sessions are of a very different nature than more informal observational styles of learning about taharah. I would suggest that today, when there are fewer elders to pass on the wisdom of their experiences, and especially when new groups are forming, that these types of training seminars will become increasingly useful if not necessary. New medical circumstances (HIV, Hepatitis B) which may pose a potential risk for Hevra Kadisha members, as well as limited availability of medical personnel who can serve on the taharah teams, may also necessitate some level of formalized education and training.

Participants voiced varying concerns about formal and informal training methods. Rona was very clear that the observational-and-then-participatory training style was completely adequate. “We do it exactly the way we did when I started out.”  Participants also stated concerns about education that went beyond the outlining of actual practical details and procedures. Hannah was concerned that prospective members “understood the spiritual nature of what is done”. She also suggested that it would be important “to be very nurturing of people, to bring them into the mortuary to get them used to being there.”  While some felt that such training could be managed adequately in his or her own communities Golda thought it would be useful to have “somebody from outside the community come in for the training.”  She felt that she had been instructing new members for a number of years, and that a fresh perspective might be both enlightening and inspiring. Amos also felt that what they were doing was adequate but insufficient. “We probably don’t do as well in that area as we could. We need some explanations and learning as we go. A class or two would help. We could have a big group discussion and explain things.”

Such group discussions and more formalized learning certainly could complement the more individualized on-the-job learning that characterized most of the participant’s training. Shula had an idea for a training workshop that she has been discussing with her rabbi.  “I talk about doing workshops with the rabbi, with children of aging parents, to try and get them to come. It should be timed so they don’t feel on the spot, [it would be an opportunity] to let them ask questions.”  Such a proactive workshop would have the merit of introducing basic death and mourning rituals to the surviving family members. However, it would require an acknowledgment of imminent or even potential death that many people might find uncomfortable, if not morbid.

Zev, who had moved from one community to another, also voiced his concerns that members be given adequate practical instruction. He was particularly concerned that even after years of participation during taharah, members still did not know techniques for more easily dressing the body.  “Members should be shown how to dress the body properly. They don’t know how to dress here; they were always struggling.” However, such correct instruction may be difficult to find, especially in more isolated communities. It was only when this individual arrived in his new community, bringing skills he had learned in a larger community with a much longer tradition of Hevra Kadisha, that anyone even knew another technique was available. He was then able to pass on these techniques to members of his new community.

Dov voiced his concern about access to information. He discussed his support for a transition from oral to written transmission of details at least for matters concerning a local Hevra. Even though Dov realized much information about taharah and other obligations of the Hevra Kadisha continues to be passed on orally and by direct example, he expressed his worry that such important procedural information was not also written. His experience was that such information was being kept  “only in the head of the current president. I feel like the person heading this should write down all the information for the second in command…some things have to be passed on that way.”

Such a style of retention of information might be more often found in smaller communities where there might be few or any employees to create and manage information systems. But still, Dov’s point is well taken. Possible illness or the extended travel of the person with such information ‘in his head’ can lead to very real foul-ups and difficulties for remaining members.

I asked participants what materials they were given to study, if any, as preparation for their involvement. Few materials were mentioned. Many participants cited Lamm (1969) as their only source of information, in addition to the taharah manual that their particular Hevra Kadisha used. They were generally positive in their assessment of this book, while at the same time aware of its limitations. Several people mentioned compiling their own collection of reading material – such as there was. Hannah described what she had been able to find. “There is a sentence here, a sentence there, there really isn’t much.” Dov mentioned occasionally receiving something from United Synagogue but that it was just very general reading about Hevra Kadisha. “Sometimes it applies and sometimes it doesn’t.” 

Rona was clear. Much as she thought she might enjoy reading more about Hevra Kadisha, she did not think that the women on her team would be interested in either reading about this ritual or participating in a formal workshop. I sensed she didn’t want to push her luck, given the limited human resources in her community. “I’m grateful when women want to participate – I don’t want to bother them with a lot of reading.” Amos was also concerned about what the response of members of his group would be to any expectation of formal study or reading. “I’m not sure everybody wants to be that well informed. Some say – just don’t load me up with lots of information.” There was a general sense that if such materials were more widely available then those who were interested could at least study the information themselves. Perhaps they could then pass on new information to other members of the Hevra Kadisha in a more informal or conversational manner.

There appeared to be a tension of needs between those who wanted to read as much as they could (and who were frustrated by a singular lack of text) and those who were uninterested in any level of formalized learning. Amos noted that relevant books were mentioned in their community newsletter.  “[But] they probably get used by the teachers in the Sunday School rather than by the Hevra Kadisha.” Golda perhaps best summed up the approach to this matter in her own inimitable manner.

People in our community, if they come up with anything, they bring it to me. I have all the known publications, which is so small…I learned (I was also one of the people who set up the kosher kitchen in the shul) which are the good hekhshers, and which are questionable. [21] [I learned] that there are levels of everything, from taharah to eating a hot dog.

Her respectful yet humorous pragmatism personified the attitudes of many of the participants. Recognizing this, I suggest that increased training, with both formal and informal styles to complement each other, can address the needs of prospective Hevra Kadisha members and can be gauged to the nuances of individual and community. Even as there are “levels of everything,” I believe most present-day Hevra Kadisha groups are spending their capital and not re-investing the interest of their members. As new groups form, as elders in communities themselves die such training becomes more essential. The present-day detachment of many Jews from understanding any textual or historical context about these rituals also necessitates greater degrees of training. As I will discuss later educational networks are being developed that will enable the Hevra Kadisha leadership and members to share their experiential resources and expertise. But one practical and essential aspect of training for all Hevra Kadisha members today is safety.

Safety

Safety precautions while conducting taharah were fairly standard even as safety has increasingly become a concern. None of the Hevra Kadisha groups required participants to have Hepatitis B inoculations, a procedure that is becoming recommended more frequently in urban groups. Rabbi Zohn stated that “there was no reason to not have Hepatitis B shots. I now recommend shots" (personal communication, September 11, New York). Certainly many urban Hevra Kadisha groups are grappling with regulating this procedure. For example, a member of New York’s Lincoln Square Hevra Kadisha posted the following question on-line;

“We have been told that the danger of infection from hepatitis is much greater than the danger of infection from the AIDS virus. Most of our members have already been vaccinated for hepatitis but not all. Do you advise or require all your members to take the hepatitis vaccination? Are you aware that after the first 3 initial injections, it is necessary to receive a booster injection?” See URL:  (http://www.jewish-funerals.org/infection.htm accessed January 10, 2001).

My sense is that there needs to be a concerted effort to clearly communicate to all Hevra Kadisha members what medical risks are involved with regard to hepatitis B and other infectious diseases.

Several participants mentioned that being in a small community provided them with a certain understood protection in that they usually knew everyone in the community, and knew with whom they were dealing. Most deaths were natural deaths, usually of the elderly. Several people mentioned that they had never dealt with contagious diseases of any kind.  But Dov, even as he described his Jewish community as tightly-knit, acknowledged that members of the Hevra Kadisha now had concerns about safety, particularly with regard to strangers they may be obligated to prepare.

[These concerns about contagious disease] have only come up in the last couple of years. Today we are much more careful, more by our own fear of what could happen, our own lay knowledge of bodily fluid contact. If the body is tagged hepatitis, we always ask to be notified. We are much more careful than I recall 25 years ago. We get a fair number of people we don’t know…different situations are far more frequent.

While members of the actual Jewish community may be well known to Hevra Kadisha members, it is entirely possible that they may encounter Jews unknown to them. There will always be a certain number of unaffiliated and unknown Jews that a Hevra Kadisha may encounter. In smaller communities the likelihood of a community volunteer Hevra Kadisha being called upon to provide taharah for a stranger is certainly possible. Such an occasion may, in fact, not only be more noticeable but may be considered more risky than in a larger city where the anonymity and professional services of a Jewish funeral home are usually in place. To this end, extra precautions may be necessary. Amos reinforced these perceptions by mentioning the differences in precautions his Hevra Kadisha used with strangers. “Most people we get, we know their health ailments. For people from out of town, we use all precautions.” A number of participants had discussed communicable diseases, including hepatitis and AIDS, within their groups. Some groups took direction and guidance from funeral home directors, while others turned to nurses and doctors who may assist the taharah team. Zev said his group arranged for doctors to come to the Hevra Kadisha meetings held once monthly to discuss various diseases and medical procedures. Only one Hevra had never discussed this aspect of safety during taharah.

When confronted with death by contagious disease, the possible medical risk to Hevra Kadisha members must be weighed against the task of completing a full taharah. Dov described exactly such a circumstance that his Hevra Kadisha had recently encountered.

We had somebody, not very long ago. We didn’t know much about them, and we didn’t know they had a contagious disease. Nobody mentioned any of this. We didn’t know until we read the tag. Four of us went out in a mid-winter snowstorm to get over there, without knowing anything about this person. We found out they wouldn’t do him in F. – they’re Orthodox. But we said, “If he’s Jewish we’ll do it.” The tag said ‘Be careful.’ The guys were very upset by that. They were upset that they didn’t tell us anything. I mean we’re here risking our lives. We did kind of a limited taharah. The washing was much more limited. We did manage to dress him in takhrikhim, but we were more careful in the washing and preparation. Very careful. We’re not professionals.

All participants wore latex gloves and gowns or smocks. Usually participants only wore single gloves, doubling up if only there was a problem, for example, cleaning the rectum. Some wore waterproof aprons over their gowns. Hannah described their precautions in this manner. “We try to imagine every surface being like tar, every surface is contaminated. We take the gowns off from the inside.” In some communities the gowns are cleaned after every usage. Zev described a similar technique for removing gloves, removing them from the inside, and being careful to never touch the outside of the glove.

Some participants wore foot coverings or rubber boots. Half the participants routinely wore surgical masks, the other half either did not wear masks or only under particular circumstances. One group had Plexiglas shields available if members wanted to use them. Few participants routinely changed their gloves between the washing of the body and the actual taharah. Scrubbing well with antiseptic soap after completing the taharah was also mentioned. If any IV’s or needles needed to be removed, participants either relied on the expertise of the nurses and doctors on their team, or on the expertise of the funeral home personnel, who often had removed such needles prior to the taharah.  Hannah actually described how to remove an IV.  “You take a couple of clamps, clip as closely to the body as you can. While keeping the clamps on, take out the IV. Leave the clamps on, leave them alone.” Other participants did not mention such specific detail.

Communication is probably the most important aspect of safety for the Hevra Kadisha. Communication between the funeral home and the members of the Hevra about the state of the body to be prepared is very important, as is communication between medical personnel and members as they learn how to best deal with situations that may arise. Even where there is potentially very low risk within a given community, it is essential this information be shared.

Certainly concern for their fellow members safety was an overall issue for most of these participants. There were clear expectations that they should and would receive prior warning if there were any situations where that safety might be compromised. But as concerned as the participants were about this aspect of taharah, it felt secondary to the primary purpose. Beyond this concern was the greater concern that they be willing and available to provide a dignified taharah for any Jew who needed. A number of participants discussed their reliance on the knowledge of funeral home directors. Hevra Kadisha members, as volunteers, expressed their appreciation for the expertise of these professionals. 

Funeral homes

One of the primary responsibilities of the Hevra Kadisha is to arrange for the taharah and for the use of space, as needed, in a funeral home. Most small communities conduct the taharah in a non-Jewish funeral home. Participants described the relationships between Hevra Kadisha members and funeral home directors as generally very cordial. Employees of the funeral homes tended to take care of all the paper work essential for the mourning family: notifications to various government offices, obituary forms, and death certificates. The funeral home directors also had multiple roles to play vis-à-vis the Hevra Kadisha. They advised on safety matters, and they often had checked the body prior to the arrival of Hevra Kadisha members, removing any IV or medical equipment. While some Hevra Kadisha groups were very firm about opening the body bag themselves, others allowed the funeral home to prepare the body at this initial stage, prior to the actual taharah. The funeral home directors routinely made arrangements for the funeral, for the digging of the grave, and for the use of a hearse. Most Hevra Kadisha groups also had an arrangement whereby the funeral home would purchase kosher caskets and takhrikhim as needed.

Of necessity then, the relationship between the Hevra Kadisha and the funeral home is closely intertwined. Although I hadn’t asked directly about this relationship, all participants discussed the funeral homes they worked with. Some groups had a long-standing relationship with one or several funeral homes; others had a portable supplies cabinet that they took with them to the funeral home of the families’ choice. One participant reminisced about how his Hevra Kadisha used to pick up the body from the family home or hospital themselves, but today the funeral home was responsible for all such transportation.

The financial ups and downs of the funeral industry, particularly over this past decade, have led to considerable re-organizations of ownership. Loewen is the "second largest and fastest growing publicly held funeral service corporation in North America" according to its Internet web site. Loewen operates more than 1,000 funeral homes, 450 cemeteries and 50 crematoriums in the U.S. and Canada. Funeral industry whistle blower Darryl J. Roberts has criticized the climate surrounding funeral services takeovers (Roberts, 1998, n.p.). Such takeovers have led to changes that Shula described as leading to a more strained relationship.

The funeral home was sold to a conglomerate, and there was less and less sensitivity. Once they even walked in on us. I talked with them at a board meeting. Later, a new funeral home was going to be built close to our neighborhood. There were protests from people about its location, so they used us as an example of why it would be okay to build there. They told everyone that Jews don’t embalm bodies – so it went through. They needed us, so now we have our own room with our own cabinet.

This situation clearly became a case of quid pro quo. Another community, however, was anxious to end its dependence on the funeral home they were using. They decided to fund raise to create their own Jewish funeral home. They were paying $2200 for each use of the funeral home preparation room, dollars they preferred to see stay in their own Jewish community.

Sometimes the relationship between funeral home and Hevra Kadisha was very positive. Golda described an arrangement whereby the “funeral home lets the Hevra Kadisha use the facility gratis.” Golda also pointed out that the funeral director she worked with was actually very knowledgeable about Jewish customs as well as customs of other cultures. She stated that such familiarity was “part of their training.” In one city an owner of a funeral home used by the Hevra Kadisha was even invited to the annual Hevra Kadisha banquet, a clear indication of the respectful relationship that existed. The funeral home, now managed by the owner’s son, had provided services to the Jewish community for many years, in a relationship of mutual regard and respect. Certainly the overall tone of relations between most participants and funeral homes appeared to be one of respect. When there were problems between a funeral home and a Hevra Kadisha a meeting with those involved usually immediately resolved any problems. It would certainly be advisable for several representatives of a Hevra Kadisha to meet with the management of any funeral home that they are planning to use and explain the basic requirements necessitated. My experience is that funeral home personnel are pleased to also learn more about specific rituals and custom. Such time is well spent. 

Many participants also mentioned developing their relationship with the local coroner as an essential part of their work. Based on the experiences of some participants I also recommend that a representative of each Hevra Kadisha be pro-active and arrange to meet with the local coroner to explain Jewish customs and expectations, particularly with regard to autopsies. In some communities the rabbi spoke with the coroner, in others a member of the Hevra Kadisha did so. The emphasis on doing minimal damage and on sewing the bodies back up as completely as possible often required careful explanation. Rona’s group had a particularly horrifying situation.

Once we had a situation where the organs had not been put back in after an autopsy; they had not sewn the body back up. We tried not to look. We just put a towel over the body and then dressed the body. A doctor went and talked with the people at the hospital and explained we were not professionals. He said ‘I don’t want to ever hear of this again, it is inexcusable’. I have made up a list of instructions to give nursing homes about what to do and what not to do.

Myre also mentioned their “good relationship with the local coroner. We really discourage autopsies.” Whether new or already existing, each group should seriously consider being proactive in this matter, and approach not only coroners, but all professional medical organizations, nursing homes and hospitals, leaving them information about preferred procedures for handling a Jewish body after death. There was a general consensus amongst participants as they discussed their relationship with these professional groups, that once individuals in these groups had been sufficiently informed about Jewish customs these expectations were honored. However, given the considerable changes of employment in both funeral home and medical personnel, such educational efforts need to routinely become part of the responsibilities of Hevra Kadisha members.

Taharah: Manuals

Historically, most communities borrowed and/or published their own version of a mortuary manual. Similarly today, all participants had some form of manual or guide to consult during the taharah. These manuals were also often borrowed from other communities and then either revised or used as is. Some participants were completely satisfied with their manuals but others mentioned changes they would like to see incorporated in a new manual. Several participants mentioned that the pages of their manual were plasticized, which provided useful protection given the washing and handling of wet cloths.

Several communities had both the procedures and the berakhot (blessings) fastened to the wall of their preparation room where they conduct the taharah. Rona described how her community actually had an artistic rendition of their guide fastened to the wall of their preparation room.

An artist did a big picture with all the rules and regulations and the prayers. It is on the wall, we leave it up. It is adequate to our needs. His son re-did the painting. The man had originally written taharah incorrectly and the son wrote it the same way. He wrote tarah.

The word tarah is missing the central letter hay, a letter that can symbolize the Presence of God. The letter hay has multi-dimensional meanings. Talmud discusses the form of the letter hay. It has three sides, but one side is open. It is said that this indicates the freedom of choice open to all humans. We are not confined to religious observance but given free choice. However if one leaves the strictures of Torah it is possible to slip and fall through the open space into an abyss. At the same time, the letter symbolizes the potential for teshuvah, for repentance, and God’s ever-readiness to forgive (Menachot 29b, Munk, 1983, p.87). As art may imitate reality so too may this missing letter reflect a perception of God’s absence. Ritualized human intervention is necessary to complete the purifying quality of taharah as human hands prepare the met/metah for return to God.

All of the manuals had both Hebrew and English text. Only two groups used manuals that had transliterated Hebrew. Only some of the guides had separate text for men and women or offered necessary linguistic gender changes within the body of the prayers. Several people seemed surprised by this question of gendered language and didn’t know if the text provided for this or not. Rona, for example, said, “I never thought about it.” Given the lack of Hebrew literacy in many small communities such inclusion should be considered standard in future publications. Several participants mentioned using the Jewish Sacred Society guide from Chicago. Zev particularly liked the graph that outlined responsibilities for particular individuals during the course of the taharah. However Hannah found the biggest problem with this particular guide was reading the Hebrew. Even Zev complained that the Hebrew in the booklet was tiny, the print was fuzzy, and thus generally difficult to read. Both Zev and Hannah wanted larger clear print that was more readable.

Many participants read the blessings in English as well as in Hebrew. Several participants mentioned the capacity of God to understand the blessings no matter what the language. All groups attempted to have at least one person on any team that could read Hebrew. However as Malka pointed out, “there is reading – and there is reading and understanding.” Shlomo, who has been doing taharah for over forty years didn’t understand Hebrew and felt prayer in English was entirely acceptable.  “We may as well be realistic, you can pray in English. I don’t understand Hebrew.” Halakhah does not require the blessings to be recited in Hebrew, but it is advised.

Rather than have only a person who is fluent in Hebrew recite the blessings, Rona mentioned that she used these blessings as an opportunity for different women to expand their learning. “Yes, they can read Hebrew. Three or four are converts. I try to have a different girl read the prayers each time, first in Hebrew, then in English.” Amos said, “If we have eight members, out of that eight, three can read. But someone is always present who can read.” Shula commented that even if someone chose to struggle with the Hebrew all his or her prayers were repeated in English. As the comments of these participants reflect, levels of Hebrew literacy are minimal in many small communities. However, all participants discussed the need to balance a sense of inclusion with respect for linguistic heritage.

Facility with Hebrew is a challenge for many North American Jews – for those in smaller, less urban communities where there may be fewer opportunities for adult learners, this challenge is particularly acute. Transliteration may be a window for some individuals to at least pronounce the Hebrew words they may be accustomed to only being able to hear. While I am sure God does hear our prayers in every language, I think the very sound of Hebrew syllables elicits a certain resonance, especially for Jews. Transliteration has obvious problems – as my attempts to transliterate the words in this text have illustrated. However it has real benefit as well. I think of transliteration as another form of gesher, a drawbridge enabling those who wish to traverse the moat of incomprehensibility into at least a temporary locale of vocalization. Reading the English as well grounds the participant’s understanding of the blessings, while the very sounds of the Hebrew carry those blessings through time, from ancient days into the future.

Shula found the language of the prayers, even in English, distancing. “I’d like to see the prayer service in contemporary language, so women can feel connected to it. It feels Old World, some women have a hard time reading it even in English.” Some of the taharah manuals reflect a similar searching for contemporaneity, providing alternate selections for the traditional prayers. Some groups seemed more comfortable incorporating new language, new blessings, while other groups were more dedicated to traditional prayers. Shula also mentioned that their Hevra did not always know the Hebrew names of the deceased, that they may only know their English name. In such a case the English name was used during the blessings. If the person’s Hebrew name is completely unknown the name Chaim/Chaya, a name that means life, may be given to reflect both their life in this world and in the world to come.

The taharah guides were varied. Not everyone even followed his or her own guides all the time. Amos described their practice as more fluid than rigid. “It [the manual] has been around for a while. The rabbi revised it. We skip some prayers, sometimes do a combination. We use it almost as a program guide. On occasions we don’t use it. It can be a matter of logistics.” Some suggested such flexibility was inappropriate. Zev, for example, said his Hevra did things “by the book.”

Whether sticking to “the book” or not, these manuals and the manner in which a community responds to the particular needs of a situation are part of an historical continuum. Certainly such fine-tuning on the part of each community brings the comments of Rabbi Jacob ben Asher to mind. Writing in the fourteenth century he commented on the burial practices of his age with pragmatic wisdom. “All of these matters are dependent on (local) custom…and in our generations these customs are forgotten…rather, this is how we practice now” (Kraemer, 2000, p.139). The basic order of the taharah procedure – washing, pouring of water, dressing – may remain much the same. But in each community minor variations continue to embellish these basic rituals.

Taharah procedures: Washing and purification

The word taharah has come to mean the entire ritual of preparing the body for burial. It is a word that commonly describes both an entire ritual and also a specific procedure within that entirety. Similarly the ritual bread served for Shabbat meals is called hallah when the hallah is actually a small, walnut sized piece of dough taken prior to shaping and baking the loaves. The piece of dough is then burned, a last remnant of the Priestly sacrifices in the Temple. There are three basic components to the taharah procedures: the rehitzah, or physical washing, the taharah or spiritual purification and the halbashah, or dressing.

When the members of the Hevra Kadisha arrived at a funeral home the body, (always face-upwards, never downwards), was usually already lying on a table, and covered with a sheet, having been previously prepared by the hospital or funeral home staff.

The tables may vary, but most commonly groups used a table similar to the one Myre described. His Hevra used a “slanting table which allows the water to drain into a receptacle.” Two groups stood the body up for the taharah, but both groups had a table that tilted, allowing members to comfortably support the body during the pouring of water. According to Rabbi Zohn, boards – usually lengths of 2x4’s - should be placed at the shoulders, hips and feet. These boards should first be dipped into the water (in the buckets used for washing) prior to being placed under the body. The boards act to support and lift the body, providing greater opportunity for more of the body area to be covered during the pouring of water. However, only one group routinely put boards underneath the body. 

The Hevra Kadisha members gather and a prayer is recited and then they begin to wash the body. While the body is being washed excerpts from the Song of Songs are usually recited. The body is washed thoroughly in a very specific order from head to toe, from right side to left. Once the body is completely washed, nine kabin (24 quarts) of water are poured over the body symbolizing a spiritual cleansing. This ritual of pouring of water is actually the taharah. Usually three separate vessels are filled with water and poured in sequence so that water streams continuously over the body. The taharah with its streaming waters acts to separate the spiritual from the physical. Water, so inherently a symbol of life, thus serves to help guide the soul on its journey to olam ha’ba.  A prayer is recited while the water is poured over the body from head to toe. After the taharah is complete the body is then carefully dried and dressed. The hair is combed prior to the halbashah.  As the Talmud states “in the World to Come the righteous sit with their crowns on their heads and delight in the divine splendor” (Berakhot 17a). Through such preparations the head (and hair) of the soul is prepared to be crowned (Weiner, 1999, p.37).

None of the participants had a mikvah in their community to use for taharah. (Instead of pouring water over the body, the body is placed on a lift and then lowered into the waters of the mikvah).  But several groups did have a mechanized lift to help carry the met/metah from the table to the coffin, usually to alleviate the strain of lifting. As Shlomo asserted, without the lift “the women were breaking their backs.”

The concept of hiddur mitzvah, enhancing and beautifying a mitzvah, applies not only to beautiful silver crowns and shields for the Sefer Torah (Torah scroll), it applies to all of Jewish life. No detail is considered too small to achieve this particular mitzvah. Myre gave a beautiful example of this mitzvah. In many communities plastic pails were used for pouring water during the taharah. Myre decided he wanted to replace the plastic buckets with something he thought was more fitting. He described his search for the containers he felt would bring hiddur mitzvah into the ritual of taharah.  He searched and searched. Eventually, living in a more rural area, he found three stainless steel milking pails at an animal feed store. He also purchased porcelain cups to use to for pour water from the buckets. These purchases not only greatly enhanced the function of mere cup and bucket, they reflected the quality of commitment and dedication Myre brought to his Hevra Kadisha.

After washing and after the taharah the body is then completely dried, as is the surrounding table. After the body has been dried the halbashah, the dressing of the body in takhrikhim, the burial shrouds, is completed. Again, the body is dressed in a specific order, and again special prayers are usually recited during the dressing. When the body is fully dressed the sovev, the sheet is placed in the casket, and then the body is placed carefully in the casket. Sherblach, pieces of broken pottery, may be placed over the eyes and mouth, earth from Israel may be placed on or around the met/metah, and a final prayer is recited. The members of the Hevra Kadisha then ask forgiveness for any indignity they may have inflicted upon the deceased. The coffin is then closed.

The actual order – washing, purification, dressing – is standard in all groups. As Shlomo noted, a respectful decorum during taharah is universally expected. “They discharged someone who constantly wanted to tell jokes.” While some groups allow minimal levels of conversation (particularly, it would seem, in the women’s Hevrot), that conversation is expected to always be appropriate and respectful. Shlomo also mentioned that most groups usually have a clearly designated leader who “calls the shots.”  Usually there are at least three to five people present.

Traditionally, family members are not present during the taharah, however several participants spoke of exceptions made to this practice. Jonathan described one moment that held a sweet poignancy for the group and for him personally. “Once we did a taharah, a guy’s son came in and wanted to be part of it. I don’t usually let that happen, but it turned out to be a profound experience. I haven’t been that close with my Dad – there are no cut and dried rules.”

Zev similarly described a break from the usual rule about family members, a break that served to accentuate the spiritual aspect of their work. “[A brother of the met] wanted to be in the room, he sang niggunim (wordless tunes, Hasidic in origin) in the room, it was real nice.” More often, however, family members are barred from participation in the taharah. This was Amos’ experience. But his need to emotionally connect with his grandfather’s death led Amos to join the Hevra Kadisha, where he, in turn, would prepare the bodies of others in his community, just as they had done for his family. Such continuity and mutual responsibility is redolent of a living Torah, a Torah where the Rabbis taught that we are to turn each page, and turn again, to more deeply understand its meaning. Similarly many participants talked about taking their turn, as had others in their family, in fulfilling this communal responsibility. One of these responsibilities has long disappeared in most communities. Most Hevra Kadisha groups order factory made takhrikhim, the mitzvah of hand sewing these garments given way to mechanization and changing priorities. But several communities continued to cherish this mitzvah. This next section will hopefully inspire others to resume this precious mitzvah, and not serve as merely archival.

Taharah: Takhrikhim

The takhrikhim are the burial shrouds. The word takhrikhim is from the root “krkh”, to wrap. They represent the garments of the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest in the Temple. (Tripp, 1980, p.326) The garments are first described in Exodus 28 as “vestments of sanctity” for Aaron and his sons, the first Kohanim. The fabric for takhrikhim is one where the laws of shaatnez (prohibition against mixed fibers, of wool and linen or wool and cotton) do not apply. The dead are freed from all obligation to observe the mitzvot. “When a person dies, he is freed from carrying out the commandments” (Jerusalem Talmud, Bava Batra 17a). The laws that apply to the living therefore do not apply to the dead (Kolatch, 1993, p.35). The Zohar states that in the World to Come the righteous will be dressed in the Haluka de-Rabbanan (Robe of the Sages). “This heavenly robe is woven of the mitzvot (good deeds) that were performed by the deceased during his or her life” (Weiner, 1999, p.41). The burial shrouds worn by the physical body are the garments corresponding to this mystical garb of the soul. The fabric, always white, can be linen or cotton or a muslin/cotton blend. The garments should have no knots and neither should the thread used to stitch the garments be tied in knots.

The intertwining, fastening, and securing that knot tying implies is entirely contrary to the releasing that is a primary symbolic focus of taharah. Ancient superstitions reflected a belief that tying of knots invited difficulties and problems and should therefore be avoided. Such potential debilitation is reflected in adages such as “my stomach is in knots”, and “a knotty problem.”  Certainly the transition from this world to the next could be adversely affected by such a powerful influence. Thus knots, with their potential to adversely affect people’s lives, were forbidden to be used in any aspect of the making of burial shrouds (Kolatch, 1993, p.36).  To further aid in the propitiation of evil spirits and to also avoid the possibility that women in a state of niddah (ritual impurity due to menstruation) takhrikhim were customarily hand-sewn by post-menopausal women.

All taharah manuals provide the order for dressing the met/metah. Takhrikhim consist of several different garments. The met/metah is first garbed in a mitznefet, the headdress. This is usually a hood for men and a bonnet for women. Next to be put on are the mikhanasyim, trousers, the bottoms of which are sewn to encase the feet. The mikhanasyim are tied at the waist. Then the met/metah is dressed in a k’tonet, a long shirt with sleeves. A cloth ribbon is drawn through the neck seam and tied. The last garment is a kittel, an overshirt, which is drawn over the k’tonet. This garment is very similar to the k’tonet and is symbolic of the kittel ritually worn on Yom Kippur. It will usually have a collar, will reach down to the knees and is also tied at the neck. For the women there will usually be a masveh, a face-veil tied around the neck and sometimes an apron as well that is tied over the kittel. The avnet is a belt that is wound around the kittel and tied in the front in the shape of a shin.  Finally, strips of non-hemmed cloth are tied just below the knee for women and at the ankle for men.

The sovev is the sheet used to drape the body in the coffin. After the dressing is completed the met/metah is then laid in the casket which has been prepared with a sovev and tallit, prayer-shawl. Those who are accustomed to wearing a tallit while alive should be buried with it (Yoreh De’ah 351:2 cited by Klein, 1979, p. 277). Most observant Jewish men own their own tallit. Many women are now choosing to observe this mitzvah and may also wish to be buried with their tallit. One synagogue provided the Hevra Kadisha with old tallitot to use for burial of Jews without their own tallit. Tallitot (ritual prayer shawl) are made pasul (rendered non-kosher) by cutting a corner, cutting the tzitzit (ritual fringes) or knotting the tzitzit and then tucking them into a corner of the tallit (Gesher Hahayim 2:14; Yoreh De’ah 351:12 in Rama cited by Klein, 1979, p. 277). The cut tzitzit are placed in the foot of the aron (coffin).

The word for coffin, aron, is the same as the word used for the Holy Ark, the Aron Kodesh. It corresponds to the Holy of Holies in the First Temple, where the Ark (also Aron) with the tablets of the Ten Commandments and a Torah scroll was kept. The Ark is described in First Samuel as a simple wooden chest, occasionally carried to sites of war. At the time of the destruction of the First Temple the Ark was probably destroyed. Therefore the Second Temple could not house the Ark, but the absence of the Ark became it’s own prevailing presence. Mishnah (Yoma 5. 1-3) suggests rituals were enacted as if “the holy of holies” was present (Kaufmann, 1960, p.302). Today the “holy ark” in a synagogue houses the Torah scrolls.

The ties are never tightly knotted, but tied to easily slip free. There are varying customs about how to tie the avnet around the kittel as well as the ties over the mikhanasyim.  Most of the interviewees described their counting with letters of the alef-bet  (alef-bet-gimel-dalet) as they crossed the ties of the avnet hand over hand. Usually the two ends of the avnet are crossed over 13 times and then tied to resemble the Hebrew letter shin. But here, as with many of the customs, variations abound.  Some participants described twisting the avnet seven times, some four times. Zev also described how his group tied the hands and feet. “We would tie around the thumb and the big toe, then tie the thumb around the wrist, do the same with the big toe and the foot, and then tuck in the ends.” It is also recommended that fingers be left open and that the hands be left lying at the sides of the body, not placed over the chest. If the hands won’t open readily there is a technique that might help. Take the elbow and the wrist in hand, bend the wrist back against itself and then open up the thumb, then gradually extend the fingers. Bending the wrist back extends the tendons that may have tightened the hand allowing the fingers to open (personal communication, Zohn, Sept.11, 2000).

One man wondered why the takhrikhim included trousers for women, as most religiously observant women would not wear such attire. As noted, the takhrikhim symbolize the garments of the Kohen Gadol and as such apply to both men and women. However, differences in where the ties are wound around the trousers may serve to indicate gender differences. For men the ties are wound around the ankles to represent their shoes. But for women the ties are wound just below the knees. This tying below the knees is understood by some to represent pantaloons, long undergarments worn under a dress, an anachronistic custom specific to a particular historical period (personal communication, Zohn, September 11, 2000).

Several participants I spoke with described their commitment to continuing to make hand-sewn takhrikhim, while in two other communities the shrouds were stitched using a sewing machine. All other participants used standard factory produced takhrikhim, usually ordered through a funeral home. One sewing group, once with a membership of over 100, now consisted of six women and one man. They met once a month to hand stitch all the takhrikhim needed in their community. They usually kept one small sized shroud for children and one extra large sized shroud in stock.

The pattern used for the takhrikhim was the same for men and for women except for the mitznefet. The women’s bonnets were edged with a border of lace. The original patterns used by the sewing group had recently been redrafted by one of the members of the group to simplify the complexity of the sewing. Their commitment to hand-stitching garments otherwise so readily available commercially, again bespeaks both hiddur mitzvah and a loving and determined commitment. As one of the women said, “Those of us in it feel we’re doing a very special thing. We just do it.” Another group had also been meeting for many years. One of the women has been sewing takhrikhim for over 40 years. The group meets every week and sews over 40 sets of takhrikhim each year. In yet another community a group of women sew takhrikhim on a sewing machine. As Sarah described their group she was very matter-of-fact about the lack of necessity to still hand-sew these garments.

We don’t hand-sew, we use a machine. We don’t knot anything. We start sewing right after Pesah; there are 30-35 funerals a year. We make 60 sets. We meet every Monday morning. Everyone has a different job, the kittel, pants and shirt. The head piece covers the face, it is the same cloth as for the other garments…We have contact with the women in Calgary, they still sew by hand, but it isn’t necessary. We made our own pattern, and then did improvements. We made it larger so that it isn’t so difficult to dress. All the collars are finished, it is much nicer.

Jonathan discussed how his Hevra Kadisha had designed their own takhrikhim. Their garments are quite different from the more standard shrouds, shrouds that he described as resembling ‘Dr. Denton’s.’

We have 3 sizes, S, M, L. It was hard with the different sizes of people. Now we use a shroud that opens up in the back, like a hospital gown. It goes from the shoulders to the feet. There is a belt and a hood. The sleeves go over the hands. There is enough fabric to wrap around the feet and the hands. Then we cover with a sheet. We have a non-Jewish seamstress makes these for us, on a machine. We buy a bolt of cotton/muslin at the discount fabric house. She made up a pattern and she makes 6-8 at a time.

Keeping costs down was one factor in this Hevra’s decision to have locally-made shrouds. To some degree, this decision could be perceived as a group’s local protest against the commercialization of a particular Jewish tradition. It might demonstrate a reclaiming of a sense of community responsibility, to continue a cherished tradition. Sewing their own takhrikhim might also demonstrate the concept of hiddur mitzvah, the same concept that Myre demonstrated when he replaced worn plastic buckets with stainless steel.

The pride in the voices of those sewing these garments was very infectious. Far from being a seamstress, I found myself actually considering picking up needle and thread. However, the numbers of people (nearly all women) involved in this enterprise has decreased dramatically with the ready availability of factory made takhrikhim. Amos remembered his grandmother sewing.

Thirty to forty years ago my grandmother used to hand-sew takhrikhim. The women would come over and sew instead of drinking coffee. We have a set from 70 years ago, with hand stitched lettering, all Hebrew letters. They would be made by the women in the community.

One set of these hand-stitched takhrikhim is now considered an archival item, a cherished remnant of days past. Will this tradition survive? I have faith that hand sewing takhrikhim will continue, albeit perhaps only in a few communities. I recently had a telephone conversation with a friend who had just been invited to join the sewing group in her city. My friend is in her sixties and has waited for many years to be invited to join the group. She was very touched and thrilled to be asked to come and participate. So do the threads of tradition survive.

Specific local customs

There are many other customs associated with preparing the body after the washing, taharah and dressing of the body has been completed. Many participants were curious about the practices of other Hevra Kadisha groups, and many wanted to know more about the origin of these customs. Few people could identify in any manner the origins of any of the specific customs or rituals they used during taharah.  Some practices had originated in biblical text; others originated with kabbalistic writings, while others probably originated through local vagary. While there may be particular customs other than the following, these are the primary secondary rituals.

Covering the face

The mystics referred to the altered face of the deceased as mar’eh letusha, or a ‘hammered image’ (Lamm, 1969, p.31). While the face of the dead may still be physically recognizable, it does become only an image of what was once entirely unique and expressive. The face, as does the body, becomes a shell, hollowed of any enlivening soul. However, the soul of the met/metah is considered to still be present, hovering above the body until burial. The face covering is understood to protect the soul of the met/metah from our possible adverse reaction to such a transformation, a reaction that the mystics suggest might add even more pain to an already anguished soul. The face covering may also provide emotional protection for the Hevra Kadisha members. Rona talked about how there were two things that were still difficult for her, even after many years’ membership in the Hevra. “I try not to take down the sheet for the first time, and I don’t pour the water over the face.” The face and the eyes are considered by many societies to be a window to a person’s soul. Rona’s reluctance to literally ‘face’ such loss is understandable.

The responses from participants regarding this custom were mixed. Dov described how his group didn’t cover the face with the hood of the takhrikhim but covered the face with a tallit.  “We put on their tallis, wrap it around their shoulders, and then wrap it over their faces, over the kittel.” He hadn’t heard of any other community covering the face of the met quite like this. Amos described leaving the face uncovered, the only covering provided by the sovev, the sheet that covered the whole body in the coffin. He described how they would “extend (the sovev) about three feet above the head, and then fold it back like an envelope.” Others covered the head with a hood when dressing the body, but also covered the face during the washing.  Gershon described the reason his group had for covering the face throughout the taharah. “We cover the face to give a sense of modesty. We cover with a terry cloth towel, over the face.”

The women also had variations on head and face coverings. Hannah described her group’s methods. “We put the bonnet on, and tuck her hair in. The cloth goes over and is tied behind the neck and tied in front.” However in Malka’s community even though the head covering is put on immediately after the body is dried, “it is not tied until the sheet is draped over the coffin.” Rona described a practice that seemed to be particular to their community. “We seem to be one of the few communities that do this. We take very fine netting and cover the face, tuck it in under the bonnet and the collar of the shirt. It softens the face. The top jacket has a collar that is ruffled – it looks very feminine with the face veil. The netting is wrapped softly around the face.” None of the other participants described having such a custom.

Some women’s groups have unwittingly mistaken the head covering for an apron. Certainly the custom in our Hevra Kadisha has been to use this covering to tie around the kittel to symbolize an apron. This custom has continued for years, even over the protestations from some women that they certainly did not want to be buried wearing an apron. When I discussed this matter with Rabbi Zohn, he laughed heartily and said that the apron/face covering discussion had been going on for some time. There may also be an apron in the set of takhrikhim, but the primary purpose of the squared fabric with ties is a face covering. [22] The variety of customs regarding types of face coverings should not preclude an understanding of the relative consistency of their function. Just as we are not to close the eyes of a dying person even a moment before death, so too are we to respect the dignity of the soul of that same person, a soul reflected in their face. We are also enjoined to only stand at the sides of the body while conducting the washing and dressing. It is understood that God is present at their head and so we as their agents of transition stand at their side.

Sherblach/earth

The practice of placing sherblach, shards of pottery, over the eyes of the met/metah, has its origins in Torah and in Psalms. They symbolize the earth to which the met/metah is being returned.  “For dust you are and unto dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19). Also in Psalms 103:14, “God is mindful that we are but dust” (Kolatch, 1993, p.39). The mystics were concerned that the eyes should be covered because eyes that could still look upon this world could not focus on the next. The sherblach also acted to prevent the deceased from seeing any possible misdeeds of their relatives, while fragments placed over their mouth ensured that when in the next world the met/metah would not speak ill of any person who may have insulted them (Weiner, 1999, p.48).

Another interpretation of their function is that our life in this world is seen to be as frail as the fragility of pottery (Press, 1990, p. 43). Covering the eyes also has a connection to Aaron and the Kohanim, the priests in the Temple. As the sherblach are placed over the eyes, some Hevra Kadisha members may recite “Let them not draw near to see the sanctuary being dismantled, lest they die” (Numbers 4:20). The Kohanim, the priests, were responsible for setting up and covering the vessels in the sanctuary. No one else was even permitted to look at these objects, thereby protecting their sacredness (Kolatch, 1993, p.39). The sherblach and the fabric face covering thus act to protect the vision of the soul about to enter olam ha’ba and the sight of those still living in this world.  Any form of pottery can be used – broken dishes, preferably kosher, or clay flowerpots.

Only four participants described their Hevra Kadisha actually using sherblach. Myre described how they added the sherblach after the body was put into the casket; “ we put white of egg and crockery from broken dishes at the shul over the eyes.” The white of egg might have practical purpose as well as symbolic purpose, in that it might have a slightly gluing effect.  Zev also recommended putting a little Vaseline on the eyes to hold the shards in place. Tzvi remembered hearing as a child about pebbles being placed on the eyes but his group did not do this.

Reizl had a beautiful story about sherblach. Her father had Alzheimer’s disease for about ten years before he finally died. During those years whenever he forgot someone’s name or did not recognize someone he would always blame his eyes, saying, “I’ll just have to go to Rochester and get new eyes. I’m going to get blue eyes this time.” Years passed with her father increasingly often saying he was heading off to Rochester for new blue eyes. After he died, she went with her sister to see him. He was all prepared for burial, but the sherblach were missing. She asked the member of the Hevra Kadisha who was standing nearby, “what about the pottery?” He didn’t say a word, but left the room and came back with a hammer and a cup. He smashed the cup and handed a piece of the crockery to both the woman and her sister. “Finally, my father had his blue eyes, magnificent blue eyes.”

Unlike the use of sherblach, sprinkling earth in the casket was a much more universal custom. Sprinkling the earth on the met/metah and around the aron also has symbolic and mystical import. The earth used is nearly always earth imported from Israel. The earth is added to symbolically hasten the decomposition of the body, thereby reducing the “anguish suffered by the departed soul” (Weiner, 1999, p.41). Also there is a mystical belief that the souls of those who have been buried in exile, outside of Israel, must be returned to Israel before they can be resurrected. Adding soil from Israel to the aron is understood to aid in this future resurrection of the person when the time of the Mashiah (the Messiah) arrives. An early tradition, one that I believe to be now almost entirely forgotten, had members of the Hevra Kadisha place gerblakh in the hands of the met/metah. Gerblakh were small forked sticks or branches. It was thought that when the Mashiah did arrive and Jews were collectively at the point of resurrection, the righteous could tunnel and dig their way to the land of Israel with the help of the gerblakh. In the Jerusalem Talmud it is noted that Jeremiah asked to be buried not only with a wooden staff in his hands, but also to be buried upright, so that he might more readily leave his grave at the time of resurrection (Press, 1990, p. 44). However the Shulhan Arukh notes that this is a ‘foolish custom’, and adds that if this must be done, then the branch should at least be placed alongside the met/metah and not in their hands (Ganzfried, 1927, p.99).

Participants sprinkled earth in a myriad of ways. Some sprinkled it around the head. Some left the small sack of earth on top of the face. Others took the earth out of the packet and sprinkled it in various combinations of the following: a little over the cloth covering the face, over the chest, on the pillow, over the heart, eyes and genitals, and around the body but not over the head. Amos mentioned that if the Hevra Kadisha thought a family member might be viewing the body, they would not sprinkle the earth on the body. Dov’s Hevra Kadisha had a custom of not using earth from Israel but earth from their own cemetery. “We get the earth from the consecrated ground at the cemetery. We place a bag [of earth] from the actual grave of the person we are preparing, within the coffin.” This unique variation on the theme might not be sound according to kabbalistic principles, but there is a particular sweetness of connection with using such in situ earth.

Finger and toenails

There is also kabbalistic thinking about the cleaning of finger and toenails. It is thought that the nails as well as the skin beneath the nails are particularly susceptible to residual impurities, and must therefore be cleaned prior to burial (Weiner, 1999, p. 37). Most of the participants described giving a light cleaning to the nails of the met/metah. Several cut the nails and did not clean them. Nail polish was always removed. Hannah said they did neither. “Most people have died of old age, their hands are usually very clean.” Dov said they did a very superficial cleaning “more to say we’ve touched on this.”  False nails were left on. The use of toothpicks or a wooden cuticle stick (orange stick) is recommended for cleaning.

Egg/wine wash

The last custom that I asked participants to describe involved washing the hair/face with egg and wine. This is one of the more esoteric and, I discovered, contentious of customs. Eggs have an inherent connection with life force. Especially when humans are directly confronted with death, round foods like eggs, act to symbolize the eternity of life. We are thus reminded that olam ha’ba has no beginning and no end. In some communities the egg is actually beaten in its shell with shape and content indicating such life force. Use of an egg during this death-ritual may also imply that mourners should accept their loss without protest.

When Jews hear of a death it is customary to recite a blessing, the words of which end with the words “dayan ha’emet,” words that acknowledge God as the true judge of all life. As with words so too does the shape of a mere egg bear witness to the supremacy of God in matters of life and death. Talmud teaches that since lentils are round they have no ‘mouth’, which may symbolize the voiceless grief of the mourner. The lentil’s lack of a mouth is remarked upon in connection with its use as a food for mourners. While Talmud says they sit silently (specifically noting the lack of a ‘mouth’, which is also noted in reference to eggs) this silence may refer more to the mood of the mourners (Bava Batra 16b, personal communication, April 19, 2001, Mordechai Torczyner; Press, 1990, p. 83). Both lentils and eggs are commonly served as the first food eaten by mourners upon return from the cemetery.

 

It is thought that this custom originated as an olfactory means of identifying the corpse as Jewish. In certain circumstances bodies may have been sent to a cemetery without any written identification. To insure correct identity an egg-vinegar mixture was brushed on the heads of Jewish corpses prior to arrival at the cemetery. This strongly smelling mixture ensured correct identification and separation of Jewish from gentile corpses.

There are some Hevras that use a mixture of egg white and vinegar, applied to the forehead, which was an old way of identifying the body of a Jew, when a body had to be transported and sometimes switched by non-Jews to perpetuate a blood libel. The vinegar has a strong smell, and the egg is sticky, so by either feel or smell, Jews could tell if the body was switched (Zohn, n.d., n.p., accessed January 1, 2000)

Thus, not only could Jewish corpses be clearly identified, non-Jewish corpses, by the very absence of such an egg wash, were also identifiably not-Jews. Therefore, the potential for inflammatory charges that Jews were stealing the bodies of Christians was diminished.

Only one community continued with this particular custom. As was the case with other customs, there were a variety of attitudes towards this custom. Shlomo strongly disapproved of such a custom. “We don’t do egg white on the eye. We do a dignified taharah.” In Rona’s community however, Hevra Kadisha members combed an egg white and wine mixture  “through all the hair on the head and on the body.”

Interestingly wine was now used rather than vinegar. Egg and a few drops of wine were mixed together in the eggshell and the head, either the face or the hair, was then washed with the mixture. This mixture combined the sweetness of wine with the life-giving force of the egg, to aid the journey of the dead. The mixture is said to symbolize the wheel of fortune “that makes revolutions in this world” (Ganzfried, 1927, p.99).

I did have a conversation with one individual, who was not included in the final survey, who described washing the face of the met/metah with an egg/wine mixture. He mixed the egg and wine in the shell. He described the softness of the face after the egg was washed away and he repeated several times that the wash left the face unbelievably beautiful. Amos remembered reading about this custom, but had never included it in his community.

Aside from the basic order of washing, pouring of water and dressing the body it is clear from the variations in the practice of these customs that there is no right or wrong way to approach understanding of their function and application. Just as Hevra Kadisha groups in pre-modern Europe evolved their own local customs, so too are contemporary North American groups. There are many factors influencing a community’s choice about which customs they have incorporated into their rituals. Regardless, each participant seemed proud of how they prepared each body.  Rona remarked on how they did the best they could. “We always comment once they are in the coffin, that each person looks so peaceful. Each person has something to say, to say goodbye.” Whether wrapped in netting, or covered in a hood, whether sherblach are covering the eyes, or earth from Israel is placed in the casket, these rituals served to mark the entrance of the soul of the met/metah into olam ha’ba. These symbols also served to demarcate the world of the dead from the world of the living. And, as one man’s ‘blue eyes’ demonstrated, these rituals serve as a link between the dead and the living, between the physical and the spiritual, and between human souls and God.

Problems: practical

I asked participants about any unusual or difficult circumstances their Hevra Kadisha may have encountered. These circumstances very quickly broke down into two categories: the practical, on-the-scene difficulties encountered during the taharah, and the more long-term political problems that may have arisen within these communities. As I examine these issues I want to clarify that the opinions of these participants are their opinions alone and do not reflect any particular movement policy, although most are members of synagogues affiliated with the Conservative Movement.

During a taharah the goal at all times is to maintain a dignified and respectful environment, which may be challenging in some situations. Problems can range from unusual difficulties encountered during the taharah, such as bleeding, dealing with colostomy bags, and IV’s, wounds on the body, dealing with victims of violent death and amputation, to more mundane issues such as difficulty in removing jewelry. All participants stated that they rarely encountered problems – or at least attempted to avoid inviting problems.

Participants described most deaths as those of elderly congregants who had died natural deaths with few, if any, complications. However, even within this population problems occasionally arose. Participants also had questions about how to most appropriately proceed in certain circumstances. For example, a number of participants questioned the appropriateness of leaving on gauze bandages that might be covering bedsores. It can be entirely acceptable to leave such bandages in place because technically blood which has flowed from the body prior to death can be washed away. The difficulty, however, is that it may not always be possible to determine the precise timing of the flow of blood.

If blood flows after death, it must be stopped and the source of flow covered. Gauze bandages, even sanitary napkins can be used for this purpose. If bandages can be removed without causing bleeding they should be removed. Otherwise they should be left alone. Blood that flows from the body after death must be sopped up and the bloody cloths put into the aron with the met/metah. If there is blood on the body from when the person was still alive regular washing of the body can proceed. Problems can occur when the blood flow cannot be stopped. Hannah described such a difficulty. “Once we could not find the source of the blood. We had fabric to absorb the blood and we searched the body. I don’t remember where we found the source. All the cloth went into the coffin.” Amos had also encountered such a difficulty. “Bleeding can be a problem sometimes. Once we had someone bleeding through their nose and it wouldn’t stop.”

Occasionally bodies arrived in a condition that made the taharah very difficult.  Malka described several circumstances that were very challenging for her Hevra. 

A person was brought in with a large plastic cork in their anus. We didn’t know what to do. There was also a big open wound on the body; there was actually access to the internal functions. We didn’t have enough gauze to cover this incredibly large hole. The nurses and the veterans made the decision [about what to do].

Rona also encountered several difficult situations.

A friend of my daughter’s died in a car accident. There was an autopsy; her parts were buried in the aron. Once we had a situation where the organs had not been put back in after an autopsy; they hadn’t sewn the body back up. We tried not to look. We just put a towel on the body and then dressed the body.

Such situations can be very upsetting for the members of the taharah team. Advance communication ensuring that members be forewarned of potentially difficult circumstances is critically important.

The most difficult circumstances usually arose from accidents, suicides and autopsies. Sometimes the bodies were too damaged to proceed with a regular taharah. In these situations the procedures of the taharah must be limited. Gershon described how his Hevra dealt with the victim of an accident. “We considered it to be a spiritual taharah. At the beginning it was very difficult. We lay the takhrikhim over the top of the met.” Myre recounted how several times his Hevra Kadisha has also had to limit the taharah.

In the last three years we have had half a dozen times that were very hard. There have been a couple of instances where the deceased was in very bad shape – one hit by a train, one was a suicide who had jumped 15 floors. We could not do the taharah in the normal fashion. We did the prayers – we do what we can do.

Zev talked how his Hevra had dealt with a particularly horrifying suicide.

The worst was an eight-year-old child who had committed suicide. There have been some accidents. Once someone jumped 22 stories, we mopped up all the blood off the pavement. The paramedics put a plastic sheet over the body and we put the sheet in the coffin. We put the takhrikhim over the top. We used an oversize coffin, put in his tallis, and all the towels that we had used to clean up the pavement.

There are hardly words to describe the requisite fortitude and dedication to complete a taharah in such circumstances. If it is not possible to actually dress the met/metah because of extreme physical trauma, the shrouds are placed over the body in the order they would normally be dressed.

There is a custom that if a person is killed violently, particularly if he or she was killed because she was a Jew, then that person is buried as he or she was found. Sometimes we won’t even take off the victim’s clothes. The belief is that when this person appears before God in such a horrifying state, it may arouse compassion from on high and hasten the end of the exile (Zohn, n.d., n.p., accessed January 1, 2001).

The amputation of limbs also presents very particular challenges to a Hevra Kadisha. There are options for burial of limbs. If a person is about to die soon and the limb does not really need to be amputated the leader of the Hevra should press for the body to stay intact. Alternatively, if the limb is amputated but death is imminent, inquiries can be made about cold storage for the limb until death, when it can be buried with the rest of the body. If it is expected that there will be a relatively short time until death then the limb can be placed in the grave site but left relatively close to the surface so that it can be removed fairly easily. If it is clear that the time is longer between amputation and death, the limb can be buried at the gravesite but in a section where it will not be disturbed when the site is finally dug for the coffin (personal communication, Rabbi Zohn, September 11, 2000).

Zev recalled how his Hevra Kadisha had to deal with such a disinterment after amputation. The limb had been buried earlier in the cemetery. They dug up the limb from where it had been buried and then put it in the coffin. This disinterment was made even more difficult because of the opposition of the man’s wife. But the Hevra Kadisha was clear. As Zev remarked  “it had been part of his body, ” and was thus deemed necessary.

Dealing with IV tubes, colostomy and other tubes can present another type of challenge. Many of the groups had nurses and doctors on their teams whose medical background accustomed them to dealing with such circumstances.[23] But having such expertise within the community, or for any given taharah may not always be possible. Some groups had a very clear policy about these situations. Amos was very definite. “If it is easily removed, we’ll remove it, as long as it won’t cause a problem. We don’t mess with a catheter. We do the best we can without making a bigger mess.” Dov seconded this hands off policy.  “Often there are times, I’ll say, we leave that. We attempted once or twice to get rid of it, but then the fluids were draining.” Other groups resolved these sorts of problems by having all the tubes and catheters removed at the hospital before the body was transported to the funeral home.

Other challenges, especially when dealing with the elderly, included washing bedsores and touching fragile tearing skin. Shula described how they had once resolved this problem. “Once we had a lady, whose skin was tearing. Every time we touched her the skin would tear. We used liquid glue.” Oozing wounds and seepage of blood were also mentioned frequently as a difficulty. Many people were not aware of Monsel’s Solution, also known as Ferric Subsulfate Solution, a small amount of which will cause the blood to clot. Several people also mentioned that they occasionally had difficulty coping with feces. Malka noted that “we clean the rectum, but not obsessively” but she also mentioned that her Hevra occasionally resorted to stopping up the rectum with cloth. She was unsure such a measure was acceptable. If necessary such packing can certainly be used. These circumstances can be disconcerting at best, deeply unsettling at the worst. Each Hevra Kadisha should have access to information about how best to deal with such situations.

Very few of the people I interviewed had prepared a child, for which they were uniformly grateful. However, several Hevra members had had to face this terrible task. Amos discussed balancing the needs of a grieving mother against traditional custom.  “A child is the most difficult. We had a 1½ -year-old baby. The mother provided us with pajamas, and we accommodated her.” Dov described how his Hevra Kadisha had to prepare a 2 or 3-year-old child.

I was in my 20’s, I happened to be away at the time. I had the same age child. I also had around the same time a buddy of mine die. We were to take our first trip to Israel together. I had to do him; it was very hard, especially at that age. Death has a different feel - at this point in my life it’s much more part of life than it was then.

At any point in life, though, preparing a child was usually described as the worst of all possible scenarios. The emotional stresses that several participants described in this regard were very real. Participants did not describe how they dealt with their emotions after such a traumatizing taharah. While actually participating in preparing a body for burial may help alleviate feelings of loss and grief, such extreme circumstances may require more explicit de-briefing for members of the Hevra Kadisha.

Hannah discussed the emotional stress that even an expected death may bring.

“There is an upcoming funeral, an elderly woman who is near and dear to everyone. I feel very emotionally stressed – this will be the roughest one, we all love her so much.” The women in this Hevra are part of a very small tight-knit community and the loss of each person is very much felt.  But as Hannah continued to talk she realized that participating in the taharah for this much-loved friend was actually going to be the best way for her to accept her friend’s death.

While family members are not encouraged to participate in a taharah, the size of the community and the size of the Hevra Kadisha may necessitate family involvement. Shula described the tension between grief and love that may condense in such a situation.

The hardest for me is when you have loved a person so much. It grounds you, but it takes its toll. It puts everything into perspective. When my mother-in-law died it was the hardest. Two women came forward to help but they had never done it before. At one point, I was holding her and it was as if time had stopped. I looked up and the women were against the wall, crying. I have no idea how long I had been holding her.

Shula’s description of the suspension of time as she cradled her mother-in-law aptly describes a similar suspension of the soul of the met/metah at this point after death. The soul is understood to hover over the body, which is dead but not-yet-buried and members of the Hevra Kadisha are expected to exhibit respect and decorum in the presence of this soul. Just as the threads are left unknotted and the ties of the takhrikhim are tied only with a slip-knot, the ties between the material and the spiritual worlds are also unraveling. Ironically one of the challenges and one of the benefits of living in a small community are the creation of strong ties between people of all generations – ties that are then very hard to release. For these women the ritual of taharah and the support of the Hevra Kadisha made and continues to make such release easier to face.

Not all the problems the Hevra Kadisha members encountered were as emotionally trying. Sometimes just moving the body into the casket was problematic. If a body is heavy and large the members participating in the taharah may be unable to physically lift the body into the casket. Zev described a table that made this procedure much easier. “We had an actual six foot long table with handles. It was easy to get the body into the coffin. You could slide it in. The women couldn’t handle [the weight of] some of the women.” Dead weight is aptly named. If such equipment was not available and the Hevra Kadisha could not lift a body, staff at the funeral home was called in to help move the body into the coffin. 

As a side-note burial of the casket can present other complications. Zev related an incident that happened once in a northern community. The burial was held during frigid, mid-winter conditions.

It was very cold, and we had to bury someone…The hole was nine feet deep but the ropes only extended six feet.  It was so cold the plastic straps broke. The coffin dropped, and the lid fell off the coffin. We moved people away and two of us had to go down on the rope, nine feet, to put the lid back on. It was a disaster – we couldn’t get out. It was minus 40 degrees – at least we were out of the wind.

As Zev recounted this story he was laughing but the black humor of the situation demanded an obvious recommendation– don’t use plastic strapping to lower the coffin, especially in frigid conditions.

Removing jewelry over swollen fingers can be problematic. Rabbi Zohn mentioned a method for removing a ring that is stuck. The finger is soaped and then embalming cord is pulled through one end of the ring, it is wound round and round the finger and then pulled. If the knuckle is so enlarged that this method does not work then ring cutters may be used. However if this upsets the family, the ring can be left on the finger (Zohn, personal communication, September 11, 2000).

Several situations that also presented themselves in Jewish communities had only arrived relatively recently. Zev talked about how recent immigration patterns had directly affected decisions of the Hevra Kadisha.  “There was a big discussion about Russian immigrants who may not be circumcised. It was decided that if they were not, we drew a drop of blood and then put the wadding into the coffin.”  Infectious diseases such as AIDS and Hepatitis B have also become issues people are discussing if not confronting. Transsexed people may also provide a particular conundrum for Hevra Kadisha groups. Traditionally men prepare men’s bodies and women prepare women. But, if necessary, women may prepare the body of a man. This would be a possible solution to such a circumstance. 

Hevra Kadisha members may also encounter another procedure, that of organ donation. While the obligation is to not delay burial there is a more over-riding concern – that of saving another person’s life. The Conservative Movement in 1995 adopted the ruling of Rabbi Joseph Prouser. Rabbi Prouser noted that the failure to donate organs after death violates the commandment “Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor.” The Conservative Movement policy therefore defines organ donation as an obligation. However, there continues to be a range of opinion about organ transplants. Elliot Dorff describes organ donation in detail and discusses all aspects of such donation, from defining the moment of death, psychological factors, the issue of resurrection and donation of cadavers for scientific research (Dorff, 1998, 221-241).

One community had to deal with several situations where family members made demands on the Hevra that made members very uncomfortable. Golda recounted several situations where the family members had very different ideas from the Hevra Kadisha about what clothing was appropriate. “Once a daughter insisted on her mother’s tennis outfit being included. One old lady insisted on being dressed [in her own clothing].” These kinds of situations usually involved discussions, if not negotiations, between the Hevra Kadisha and family members, negotiations that may leave either the Hevra Kadisha or the family members unhappy.

In summary, Hevra Kadisha members encountered few problems as they proceeded with taharah. Most of the individuals they were preparing for burial were elderly and well-known members of their community, a situation that caused little concern for transmission of infection.  Growing social awareness about diseases such as HIV and AIDS was increasingly becoming cause for unease amongst members when the met/metah was unknown, and greater precautionary steps were being taken in such circumstances. Greater levels of education and communication have become crucial for Hevra Kadisha members whether they are attempting to ascertain health risks, to make necessary procedural decisions during a taharah or to inform family members about ritual matters. A forum for education and communication about Hevra Kadisha concerns is very much needed.

Perhaps a Hevra Kadisha version of the Bintel Brief might be instituted through the Internet, providing an opportunity for members of a Hevra Kadisha to both voice concerns and offer possible solutions. The Bintel Brief  (a “bundle of letters”) appeared in the Jewish Daily Forward, a Yiddish newspaper published in New York. Bintel Brief was first featured in 1906 and continued for sixty-five years, and became an immediate success. The column gave readers an opportunity to write about their own problems as new immigrants, letters to which editor Abraham Cahan responded (Metzker, 1971, pp.7 –16). The Internet offers tremendous potential for a similar on-line service.

Even as participants expressed concern about these practical issues though, a greater degree of concern was voiced about potential, if not active, political problems. Staunching a flow of blood or deciding whether or not to remove an IV tube may look much less complicated when compared to problems of changing community mores.

Problems: political

One of the significant issues for any Hevra Kadisha today is to work out lines of authority regarding matters concerning taharah and burial.  In some communities, the rabbi is clearly in charge. In other communities, the authority of the Hevra Kadisha would appear to be primary. Differences between Jewish denominations can also lead to very real difficulties for a community Hevra Kadisha. Virtually all communities are being confronted with the results of changing allegiances and practices of individuals and Jewish movements. For example, the Reform Movement’s decision in 1983 to accept the validity of patrilineal descent is causing ripples if not waves of concern in many communities. Patrilineal descent has been deeply controversial.  While traditional Judaism recognizes as Jewish a child whose mother is Jewish, the Reform movement now also recognizes the children of a Jewish father and non-Jewish mother as Jewish, as long as the child has been raised as a Jew and has had a Jewish education.

The argument about ‘who is a Jew’ has already divided some communities, but burial of non-Jewish spouses and cremation are examples of political issues that are increasingly causing bitter divisiveness. While participants acknowledged the presence of these issues in their communities, at the same time I felt there was a sense of the politics being a “hot potato.” There was a ‘wait and see’ attitude that permeated the interviews while at the same time tensions were clearly bubbling beneath and above the surface.

While some communities were able to work successfully together on joint Hevra Kadisha committees, there was palpable strain, if not hostility, elsewhere. In one community ideological differences separated the Reform and Conservative synagogues. The Reform synagogue had refused to create a Hevra Kadisha. This decision and the ramifications thereof were causing serious fractures between individuals and between individuals and their usual denominational loyalties. Tzvi recalled a story that reflected these growing tensions.

Someone who had purchased a plot [in the Conservative cemetery, reserved for members only] but who never came to services, died. The Reform rabbi did the service. I found out the day of the service. We let that happen [the burial by the Reform rabbi in the Conservative cemetery], but this really strained relationships between us and Reform.

These feelings were somewhat appeased by a $25,000 donation the deceased had left to the Conservative cemetery.

Another community was similarly wrestling with differences between Conservative and Reform policy. Shula was very concerned to try and resolve this issue.

Members of the Temple [Reform] want to be buried as their parents did. There is just starting to be interest at the Temple. They don’t have a Hevra Kadisha. We each have our own cemetery. There is a little bit of discussion, one couple is interested. We’re trying to get them trained so that they’ll be there when their members have taharah. This is just starting.