My Experience as an Avel

This is my pitch to Jews to spend more effort on the rituals and observances concerning the death of a loved one. I lost my father, Carl Jacobs, the evening of May 17, 2002, the first day of Shavuot 5762.

My mother Fran, my brothers Jerry and Randy, our children and many of our friends spent a great deal of hospital time with my dad as he moved toward his death. It was mostly a pleasant time. He was alert, smiling as always, friendly, and relatively free of discomfort. He enjoyed visits from a steady stream of relatives, friends and community members. We even celebrated a well-attended Shabbat dinner on the floor of his hospital room during his stay.

I sat with my father during the late evening hours, when all of the other visitors had left, or early in the morning when no visitors had yet appeared, to start the daunting task of coming to terms with his death. Death is inevitable, and my dad would not escape the inevitability.

As the end approached, my father, a strapping strong man, of a family of strong men and women, lay quietly in his bed, not moving very much, and obviously transforming into something else, or beginning a journey to somewhere else. I recited psalms with my friend and teacher, Rabbi Howard Hoffman, and our whole family did what we could to ease dad’s passing. I realized that I would require time and space to fit my dad's death into the matrix of my emotional and spiritual being. The traditional mourning observance provided me the needed process.

Before discussing the mourning process, I need to set the context of my own observance. I am a member of Kohelet, a congregation over 24 years old, composed of approximately 75 families of varying Jewish backgrounds. We pride ourselves on our close community and on our evolving approach to Judaism. We do not profess as individuals to be observant or learned, but we acknowledge the value of observance and learning. Each of us starts from wherever our background has led us, and begins a path toward more rather than less observance, toward more rather than less learning.

We do not have our own rabbi or cantor. We rely on our members to lead us. When we need help, we solicit guidance from Rabbi Hoffman and others. We administer life-cycle events, births, deaths, weddings, b’nei mitzvot, and other similar occasions ourselves.

I grew up on Denver's west side, accompanying my father and his family to the Rameinisha Shul and accompanying my grandfather to Sammits Shul, the present site of Beth Jacob High School, on the corner of the block where I grew up. I did not live in a particularly observant home. Until my father’s death, I did not experience or participate in the full Jewish mourning process.

My childhood Jewish education came from the Hebrew Educational Alliance under Rabbi Laderman, Cantor Rector, A.B. Cohen, William Wolf, Leo Verderber, Dr. Chaifetz, Mr. Gerlitz and others. I celebrated my bar mitzvah at HEA. My final formal Jewish educational experience was at the Beth Joseph Synagogue with various teachers, including Rabbi Daniel Goldberger, Alex Kaminetsky, Jordan Hochstadt, Nathan Davidovitch and Cantor Maurice Weiss.

I have had many quality teachers over the course of my adult Jewish experience, including my good friends, Dr. Sheldon Ciner and Rabbi Howard Hoffman, and my friends in Kohelet, including Bruce Heitler, Stephen Kapnik, Hil Margolin, Michael Mandel, Ralph Seligman, and others. Kohelet also has afforded me annual opportunities to have experiences with retreat celebrities, including Rabbi Zalman Schechter-Shalomi, Rabbi Howard Hoffman, Neshama Carlbach, Rabbi David Wolpe, Rabbi Shimon Jacobsen, Ms. Tikva Frymer-Kenksy, Cantor Neil Schwartz, David Sanders, and others.

Because of my relationship with Rabbi Howard Hoffman, I was privileged to meet Rabbi Shlomo Carlbach on several occasions, and I established a cordial relationship with Rabbi Mordechai Twersky, whose father Shloimi had his first center on 14^th Avenue not far from my childhood home at 14^th and Zenobia Street.

When my father died last year, I decided to make an effort to observe the traditional mourning rituals in a way that would be meaningful to me, and in a way that I could sustain for the entire mourning period. As I worked my way through the initial process, I devised an approach that proved to be something I could do without wavering, and that became more meaningful as my year of mourning progressed.

Kohelet, as always, provided yeoman support. Our congregants acted as shomrim to sit with my father’s body from the time of his death until internment, and we observed a full shiva period at my home.

I read several books[1] during the shiva period and in the following days to help me formulate an approach. I decided that my observance would include attending synagogue at least once daily for a full 11 months to say kaddish and that I would attempt to observe many of the other rituals that I will describe below.

During the seven days of shiva, I sat on the floor as prescribed by tradition, I did not bathe or shave, and I tried not to play the host to the many friends and relatives who came to pay their condolences. I tried to spend the entire seven day period meditating on the loss of my father and the meaning of the loss, particularly the question of where did my father go? I discussed all of these issues as deeply as I could with anyone who would listen.

Observing the shiva in this way, particularly among a community of friends respectful of my approach, was an elevating, educational, and spiritually satisfying experience. It also provided me an opportunity to think about the role visitors play in the process. Some visitors viewed their role as providing diversion and helping to take my mind off of my loss. To them I explained that, far from wanting my mind taken off my loss, I wanted the time and space to focus on my loss and its meaning to me. While I appreciated good wishes and good intentions, I believe that our time was best spent on reflections and meditation about the grand scheme of which death is a part.

I learned from my study and experience that the shiva and subsequent procedures have three primary goals.

First, the process is designed to assist the mourner in coming to terms with a devastating loss. I think it is important to understand that "coming to terms" is something different than getting over it or feeling better. Coming to terms with a loss is coming to the realization that life is given by G-d, life is taken by G-d, and that G-d is the sole judge of when and under what circumstances life is taken. We naturally feel a sense of loss, combined with the recognition of helplessness but, as we learn throughout the year of mourning, we must continue to acknowledge, glorify and sanctify G-d’s design of the life and death process.

Second, and more difficult to grasp, the mourning process is designed to help the departed loved one and his/her soul on its post-death journey to a place, configuration or status we truly cannot understand. Judaism provides an elaborate matrix of intersecting concepts to describe and assimilate where the soul goes, the journey on which it travels, the experiences it has after death and how it returns in a complex recycling process. We believe that the soul comes from a place close to G-d and merges with a set of physical attributes, which although also originating with G-d, are not close in the same way souls are. These physical attributes include size, beauty, plainness, intelligence or simplicity, time, place, and circumstances. The soul’s job is to wrestle with the physical attributes and circumstances it is dealt and address issues that come up during life.

After the prescribed life span ends, the body dies, the soul disengages, hovering for a period of time, and then embarks on a path of cleansing, possibly rehabilitation, refinement for the next cycle. Many believe that the soul goes through this process numerous times, until it has reached the ultimate level of refinement, and finally cleaves to G-d. I once heard this described poignantly at the dedication of a monument to the memory of a six-year old friend. My friend Hil Margolin raised the question of why a child of that age would be taken and, in her circumstances, why through the difficult tribulations of brain cancer.

Hil explained one answer to this difficult question, which at the time was not completely satisfying but makes more sense now. He said that perhaps her soul needed only that brief six years to complete all of its assigned tasks. Having finished her journey, her soul took up residence with G-d for eternity.

One of our jobs as mourners is to help the departed soul along its path. We do this, in part, by daily public recital of kaddish, the ancient Aramaic prayer in which we glorify and sanctify G-d’s name. The kaddish formula appears frequently and in several forms in our daily, Shabbat and Festival davening, and provides the dénouement for all of our study sessions. It punctuates our prayer and study experiences with resounding and positive language:

IN THIS WORLD WHICH G’D CREATED IN ACCORDANCE WITH G’D’S WILL
MAY G’D ESTABLISH G-D’S KINGDOM DURING YOUR LIFETIME, AND DURING THE LIFE OF ALL THE HOUSE OF ISRAEL AND LET US SAY, AMEN.

No sorry lines here; only optimism, hope and faith in G-d. We go on to praise, bless, glorify and exalt G-d. We seek personal peace and renewal and peace for all Israel.

Leon Wieseltier described the origin of kaddish[2] by quoting from Makhzor Vitry, a 15th Century work of scholarship:

The mourners’ kaddish provides consolation for the mourners who recite it, and curiously, also to G-d. A person’s death diminishes our world from our perspective, while at the same time diminishing G-d’s creations from what we speculate is G-d’s perspective. We must restore our own faith in G-d’s divine plans for the world, and restore to G-d the full glory that has been diminished by G-d’s loss of a member of the most important of creations. Our public affirmation of faith and optimism in the face of staggering loss nourishes the world and re-invigorates the departed soul.

The third goal in the Jewish mourning process, as with all Jewish ritual and learning, is to carry on the tradition of the Jewish people that has been with us in the world since the beginning, or at least since Abraham's founding of the Jewish people. I always find it comforting to know when I am doing something that Jews throughout the world are doing something similar or identical and have been doing so from time immemorial. My travels to synagogues in Brookline, New York City and its suburbs, and St. Louis, as well as my Denver shul hopping, demonstrated this continuity.

As I complete the mourning process for my father, I feel as though I have completed re-reading a beloved book, and I am ready to put it away in an honored place on the shelf in my library. It is not a book that I will discard, but it also is not a book that I will reread daily. It is a book that will cast its glow on my house, available to be reread from time to time, available to be touched as I run my hands across the books lining my bookshelves, and available to be opened from time to time so that I can take nourishment from it throughout my life.

I have reached this conclusion feeling as though I have gone through a process that allowed me to come to terms with my father’s passing in a way that has integrity, an understandable shape and a holy purpose.

The pre-shiva period. From the time my father died until his burial that occurred two days later, we spent the time as a family in our home. This is a period of waiting, getting ready, in a way just as it is a period for him to get ready. While we were at home, our community was sitting with him in the basement of Feldman’s Mortuary making sure that his hovering soul was not alone in that cold basement, knowing that his community and his friends were with him even in that intermediate state.

Also, at that time, the Denver Burial Society performed the ancient tahara ritual of cleansing the body in a dignified way, likewise making him ready for his journey. Eddie Shapiro, who was in charge of the tahara, told me that he felt my dad showed a great dignity during the process. I have not yet participated in performing a tahara myself (I intend to do so some day), but I can imagine it to be quite a moving experience, and even more so if the aura of the person on whom it is performed is strong enough to deliver perceptions such as Eddie identified.

The funeral. I have attended, participated in, or officiated in numerous funerals conducted by Kohelet. Our congregation conducts all its life-cycle events through its members, asking Rabbis to participate when necessary. However, when the law does not require Rabbinic presence, we are comfortable administering our own life-cycle events.

In this case, my good friend, Stephen Kapnik, officiated and led the service, and Rabbi Howard Hoffman assisted. Both of these friends made the funeral meaningful and moving and gave everyone the sense and knowledge that it was performed in the proper way.

I, and each of my brothers, delivered eulogies, as did each of my father’s three grandchildren. My brothers and our children reflected poignantly on my father’s essential kind and good nature. I commented on the connection of his soul, the soul of a well-loved, kind and gentle man, to the holiday of Shavuot, the commemoration and anniversary of our receiving the Torah from G-d at Mt. Sinai. We all came away from the funeral process with a mixture of grief and fulfillment. I am quite sure that my father was present at the funeral; but even if he wasn’t present in any conventional way, I am sure that he would have taken great joy in the manner in which the service was conducted.

We left the Rose Hill Cemetery by walking between two lines of friends and family giving us the traditional greeting: "Ha Makohm y'nachaym etchem b'toch sh'ahr avaylay tzion vi’'rushalayim," "May the Place of the universe comfort you among the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem." We then came to my home to begin the shiva process in earnest.

The shiva. We could not have had a greater outpouring of love, help, and support from our Kohelet congregation, our family, and the broader Jewish community. We conducted religious services twice daily, had the Torah present for readings on Monday and Thursday, had more food brought to us than the entire community could eat, and had friends from far and near come to visit and chat. As I said earlier, I personally spent most of my time in study and reflection and, for the most part, everyone respected my choice. It is truly remarkable how seven full days can pass so slowly, in a meditative way, and yet so quickly. The hours grew into days and melted into a full week in the blink of an eye.

After the Shiva period was concluded, my family and I took the ritual walk around the block. For me, this was the first venture outside. After saying our goodbyes, everyone left my home.

I then began the process of moving forward through the sheloshim, the 30 days following the burial, and the yud beit, the full 12 months of mourning. My mourning year was a leap year on the Jewish calendar. This occurs seven times each nineteen years and results in adding a full month, Adar II, to the calendar. My year of mourning broke into six parts:

(6) The period from the end of 12 months to the yahrzeit, the anniversary of my father's death.

There are many restrictions that apply during each of these periods but, for the most part, they reduce themselves to the following: One is expected to say kaddish daily for 11 months. The reason given for reciting this ancient incantation for 11 months is that only the most wicked souls to go through the gehenom process require a full 12 months. Unless we know that our particular loved one was a wicked person, G-d forbid, we say kaddish for only 11 months to demonstrate that he was not.

During the mourning period, the restrictions on the mourner are most intense during the seven days of shiva, relent a bit during the 30 days of sheloshim, and then become more regular during the period of saying kaddish and the final period of mourning. The mourner is prohibited from bathing, shaving, haircuts, changing clothes, and sexual relations during shiva. He may bathe in cold water during sheloshim, take haircuts to trim his beard, if his appearance becomes inappropriate, and change clothes. After sheloshim, he may bathe, shave and change clothes but may not use new clothing.

The restrictions that apply to a mourner are numerous and detailed. One is not supposed to enjoy instrumental music or live performances, and one is to avoid public affairs that involve eating in an atmosphere of camaraderie. While the tradition is not so severe as to expect the mourner to be alone the entire period of the mourning and to have no enjoyment whatsoever, the idea in my mind is to impose on the mourner a period in which every single moment of every single day is a time of sensitivity to the mourning process.

This reminds me of how we observe the Shabbat. The rules about what is permitted and what is not permitted on the Sabbath are almost too numerous to count. Many of these requirements are honored more in the breach than in the observance. Nevertheless, if one can get to the level where everything done on the Sabbath is done with the knowledge and sensitivity to the fact of Shabbat, one has traveled far on the path toward observance. Tradition permits breaking Sabbath rules when more important matters trump them. Matters of health, for example, may require someone to be driven to the hospital, or for a doctor to be called on the telephone. When we find ourselves in these circumstances, we often take upon themselves to perform these activities in a manner different than usual, so as always to keep Shabbat in mind. For example, if one must use a telephone to call a doctor, some say he or she should dial with the left hand instead of the right, if his or her accustomed manner is with the right, as recognition that the day is different. Likewise, the process of mourning made almost every activity in which I engaged something different.

As a mourner, I often had to feel my way through the required observances. For example, I had to consider whether a business lunch was camaraderie or a matter of business. I also had to consider how to avoid music. I decided that listening to the radio for news on NPR was permitted, but I turned the radio off when the musical interludes between news stories lasted for more than a few seconds. I truly spent the entire mourning period in a heightened degree of sensitivity; my father's face, his life and his death were my constant daily companions.

Many people find it difficult to attend synagogue every day to say kaddish, not to mention twice a day. In my case, I attended East Denver Orthodox Synagogue almost every weekday I was in Denver. The congregation allowed me to lead or help in leading the daily services, and Rabbi Daniel Alter could not have been more helpful to my process. I also attended BMH/BJ on the days I did not attend EDOS, and attended Kohelet every Friday and Saturday. I traveled to Boston and New York during the months of saying kaddish. My commitment did not waver. I was lucky to find the Maimonides School in Brookline, Massachusetts where I could take the subway and train every day to participate in a morning minyan. I also was fortunate to have my good friend, Nate Eisler, in New York City who took me shul hopping during my two visits there. I attended the Garment Center Congregation, an old and quite interesting synagogue, a Young Israel congregation, located in Scarsdale, New York, a spectacular, well-endowed institution, and Lincoln Park Jewish Center, Nate’s small orthodox shul in Yonkers, New York, where I was privileged to meet Rabbi Solomon Sternstein and speak to the Mincha/Ma’ariv congregants. I also attended Beit Abraham, a Shul in St. Louis that uses nusach sfard, and Beit Menachem, the local Chabad in Denver, which uses nusach ari.

Each of these experiences showed me that Jews of all stripes all over the country were doing exactly what I was doing. It is a great comfort to know that there is a family of Jews all over the world performing the same rituals. Ashkenaz, sfard and ari; each nusach ancient, holy and satisfying.

There are occasions when one simply cannot find a synagogue and a minyan of ten in which to say kaddish. On three occasions, I was unable to find a synagogue with a minyan of ten to recite the kaddish. This occurred in the upper reaches of Vermont once, at a highway hotel on the way to St. Louis once, and on one other occasion when Kohelet could not muster a minyan at its Friday morning service.

The tradition requires us to recite kaddish each day but recognizes that one of the principal purposes of doing so is to help the soul, the Neshama of the departed. It so happens that the Hebrew spelling of the word neshama is composed of the same letters as the Hebrew spelling of mishna. Accordingly, tradition holds that if it is impossible to say kaddish because of the unavailability of a place or a minyan, one can study a mishna. On the few occasions that I was unable to say kaddish, I studied a mishna selection from a volume of the Talmud. In this way, I was able to retain unbroken the process prescribed by tradition for mourning a loved one.

This full year process helped me, and those around me, come to terms with the passing of my dear father and uphold as best we could the time-honored traditions of the Jewish people.

Every Jewish mourner must choose the best way to confront the fact of death: how to deal with Shiva; how to incorporate kaddish. No matter how we choose to mourn, we must embrace and come to terms with death. We cannot deny it.

I recommend observance of the mourning process, to the extent people can, as one of the most fulfilling enterprises in which I have engaged. I hope that people will take to heart the teachings of our tradition that the mourning process is important for the soul of the departed, to allow the mourners to come to terms with the loss of a loved one and to carry on the tradition of the Jewish people from generation to generation.

This article appeared in the August 22 issue of the Intermountain Jewish News, here.

[1] Rabbi Chaim Binyamin Goldberg, Mourning in Halacha (Mesorah Publications 1991); Maurice Lamm, The Jewish Way in Death and Mourning (Jonathan David Publishers 1969); Rabbi Elie Kaplan Spitz, Does the Soul Survive? (Jewish Lights Publishing 2000); Rabbi Abner Weiss, Death and Bereavement, A Halachic Guide (Union of Orthodox Jewish Congregations of America (1971); Brian L. Weiss, Many Lives, Many Masters (Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1988); and Leon Wieseltier, Kaddish (Vintage Books-Random House, Inc. 2000).