This past winter, in preparation to help my parents sell their house in Florida, my brother, sister, and I went down to Tallahassee, where we grew up, to help our parents pack up all of our belongings in the old house. Predictably, it was a challenging weekend -- rummaging through old memories, preparing to say goodbye to the house that had been our family home since before I was born. For 33 years our family lived in that house -- and now, it was time to say goodbye.
Maybe you’ve had a similar experience -- or maybe the even more difficult experience of having to pack up a house not because you are choosing to sell, but rather, because the house’s former occupant has died. The house, now empty of life, is full only of things -- of objects, which, themselves must now be emptied out of the house.
And if you’ve been through that similar experience, then maybe you also faced the challenge of how to sort through all of those objects. For our part, as we went through each room, we made two piles of the things we found there -- and had to determine which objects went into which pile. One pile was for things that we no longer wanted -- things we were ready to donate or to throw away. The other pile was for things that we weren’t ready to get rid of, things wanted to keep -- things that would get stored in boxes, loaded on a truck, and hauled off to a storage facility.
In some cases, the decisions were easy. The rake and shovel and gardening tools from the shed -- donate, or throw away. A shoebox full of ping-pong balls and rubber darts from the playroom -- donate, or throw away. Our grandparents wedding photo album -- save for storage. The clay disks in which each of us kids had made a handprint on our first day of preschool -- save for storage.
Jewish tradition has long understood the need for this kind of sorting -- if not the sorting of old objects and artifacts, then certainly the sorting of old papers and documents. We might imagine a congregation that is preparing to relocate from one synagogue building to another. And we might imagine the leaders of that synagogue sorting through all of the old papers and documents in the synagogue building, and dividing them into two piles. A stack of extra copies of the minutes from a board meeting -- donate, or throw away. Parking instructions for the High Holidays? Donate or throw away. But there would also be another pile -- another set of papers and documents that we know we cannot just donate or throw away -- documents that we instead set aside for the geniza, or storage bin, to eventually be ritually buried. A worn out copy of the Hebrew Bible -- stored in the geniza, to eventually be buried. A Bat Mitzvah certificate -- stored in the geniza, to eventually be buried. The prayerbook created specially by the families of the synagogue for use on Shabbat morning -- stored in the geniza, to eventually be buried.
It is striking that our tradition treats objects, artifacts, papers, and documents with such regard. These are just things, after all. They are not people. They never lived and breathed. They had no consciousness, no observable will, no animating life force, no soul.
And yet, we treat them with the same dignity that we would a human life. Our tradition might have provided some other ritual for retiring these objects. Our tradition might have instructed us to turn them to ash, to create from them a plume of smoke that reaches to the heavens. Or, to put them aboard a raft and cast them out to sea -- like a message in a bottle, with hopes that their wisdom might wash up on some other shores.
But no -- this isn’t what our tradition instructs us to do. Instead, we treat our sacred objects and documents with the same dignity as we would a human life. We give them a proper burial.
Our tradition provides us with some guidelines for how to distinguish between those things which we are ready to discard, and those things that properly belong in the geniza. The most basic requirement is that a document must be stored in the genizah if it has the name of God written on it -- on account of our not wanting to destroy or dispose of the name of God. But over time, this narrow definition of what must be placed into the genizah softened and broadened. Some authorities say that any religious document, whether it contains the name of God or not, must be stored in the genizah -- say, for example, a Ketubah, or wedding contract, which is indeed a religious document, but doesn’t contain the name of God. Others authorities broaden the requirements even more, saying that any document written in Hebrew, whether religious or secular, must be stored in the genizah -- say, for example, a book of modern Israeli poetry, which is not religious, but nevertheless is written in Hebrew. Still others authorities broaden the requirements even further, saying that any document written in any Jewish language must be stored in the genizah -- not only Hebrew, but also Yiddish, Ladino, or other dialects that the Jewish people have spoken throughout our history -- whether it is religious or secular document, whether it contains the name of God or not.
And these varied requirements get to the essence of the challenge we face when sorting through an old house after someone has died. Although in some cases, it is easy to determine which things to donate and which things to save, in many cases, that determination is not so simple. What are we to do with that old blue soup pot -- now cracked and warped, the one that our mom used to make matzah ball soup for every Jewish holiday? We have many far nicer pots in our apartment now. But the very sight of that pot brings to mind such vivid memories of family holiday meals, the feel of the warmth in the kitchen, of helping our mom to chop the carrots and the onions, of laughing together when the spray from the onion made our eyes water. Surely this pot is no longer useful -- is too cracked and warped to ever make soup. And yet, the pot means so much more than its usefulness -- stands for something much greater than soup. Though it has a crack in its side and can no longer contain liquid, this pot is a vessel -- a container of memories, which could never seep out of a crack in the side.
Our memories are tightly wound around the objects of our lives. Physicists describe this as quantum entanglement -- some complicated theory that, when two particles interact, they are forever linked to each other. But we don’t need complicated theories of quantum mechanics to tell us what human experience so plainly shows. Our loved ones are forever linked to the objects of their lives. That old green and yellow toy football in the garage vividly brings to mind memories of my dad and me throwing it in the backyard on Sunday afternoons. That old and worn out, and quite honestly, dangerous electric blanket vividly brings to mind memories of my siblings and I snuggling up underneath it on the couch on winter nights. That blue soup pot that our mom used on every Jewish holiday.
Each of these objects is no longer useable. And yet, they give us access to our memories. They are vessels of holiness.
And this is why we don’t throw everything away. This is why we put some things in storage. This is why some things, though they are merely objects, are saved for the genizah to later be buried -- just as we bury the people we have loved. These inanimate objects do contain life. If we look very carefully, we will see that engraved upon them, somewhere, is written the very name of God.
Maybe you’ve had a similar experience -- or maybe the even more difficult experience of having to pack up a house not because you are choosing to sell, but rather, because the house’s former occupant has died. The house, now empty of life, is full only of things -- of objects, which, themselves must now be emptied out of the house.
And if you’ve been through that similar experience, then maybe you also faced the challenge of how to sort through all of those objects. For our part, as we went through each room, we made two piles of the things we found there -- and had to determine which objects went into which pile. One pile was for things that we no longer wanted -- things we were ready to donate or to throw away. The other pile was for things that we weren’t ready to get rid of, things wanted to keep -- things that would get stored in boxes, loaded on a truck, and hauled off to a storage facility.
In some cases, the decisions were easy. The rake and shovel and gardening tools from the shed -- donate, or throw away. A shoebox full of ping-pong balls and rubber darts from the playroom -- donate, or throw away. Our grandparents wedding photo album -- save for storage. The clay disks in which each of us kids had made a handprint on our first day of preschool -- save for storage.
Jewish tradition has long understood the need for this kind of sorting -- if not the sorting of old objects and artifacts, then certainly the sorting of old papers and documents. We might imagine a congregation that is preparing to relocate from one synagogue building to another. And we might imagine the leaders of that synagogue sorting through all of the old papers and documents in the synagogue building, and dividing them into two piles. A stack of extra copies of the minutes from a board meeting -- donate, or throw away. Parking instructions for the High Holidays? Donate or throw away. But there would also be another pile -- another set of papers and documents that we know we cannot just donate or throw away -- documents that we instead set aside for the geniza, or storage bin, to eventually be ritually buried. A worn out copy of the Hebrew Bible -- stored in the geniza, to eventually be buried. A Bat Mitzvah certificate -- stored in the geniza, to eventually be buried. The prayerbook created specially by the families of the synagogue for use on Shabbat morning -- stored in the geniza, to eventually be buried.
It is striking that our tradition treats objects, artifacts, papers, and documents with such regard. These are just things, after all. They are not people. They never lived and breathed. They had no consciousness, no observable will, no animating life force, no soul.
And yet, we treat them with the same dignity that we would a human life. Our tradition might have provided some other ritual for retiring these objects. Our tradition might have instructed us to turn them to ash, to create from them a plume of smoke that reaches to the heavens. Or, to put them aboard a raft and cast them out to sea -- like a message in a bottle, with hopes that their wisdom might wash up on some other shores.
But no -- this isn’t what our tradition instructs us to do. Instead, we treat our sacred objects and documents with the same dignity as we would a human life. We give them a proper burial.
Our tradition provides us with some guidelines for how to distinguish between those things which we are ready to discard, and those things that properly belong in the geniza. The most basic requirement is that a document must be stored in the genizah if it has the name of God written on it -- on account of our not wanting to destroy or dispose of the name of God. But over time, this narrow definition of what must be placed into the genizah softened and broadened. Some authorities say that any religious document, whether it contains the name of God or not, must be stored in the genizah -- say, for example, a Ketubah, or wedding contract, which is indeed a religious document, but doesn’t contain the name of God. Others authorities broaden the requirements even more, saying that any document written in Hebrew, whether religious or secular, must be stored in the genizah -- say, for example, a book of modern Israeli poetry, which is not religious, but nevertheless is written in Hebrew. Still others authorities broaden the requirements even further, saying that any document written in any Jewish language must be stored in the genizah -- not only Hebrew, but also Yiddish, Ladino, or other dialects that the Jewish people have spoken throughout our history -- whether it is religious or secular document, whether it contains the name of God or not.
And these varied requirements get to the essence of the challenge we face when sorting through an old house after someone has died. Although in some cases, it is easy to determine which things to donate and which things to save, in many cases, that determination is not so simple. What are we to do with that old blue soup pot -- now cracked and warped, the one that our mom used to make matzah ball soup for every Jewish holiday? We have many far nicer pots in our apartment now. But the very sight of that pot brings to mind such vivid memories of family holiday meals, the feel of the warmth in the kitchen, of helping our mom to chop the carrots and the onions, of laughing together when the spray from the onion made our eyes water. Surely this pot is no longer useful -- is too cracked and warped to ever make soup. And yet, the pot means so much more than its usefulness -- stands for something much greater than soup. Though it has a crack in its side and can no longer contain liquid, this pot is a vessel -- a container of memories, which could never seep out of a crack in the side.
Our memories are tightly wound around the objects of our lives. Physicists describe this as quantum entanglement -- some complicated theory that, when two particles interact, they are forever linked to each other. But we don’t need complicated theories of quantum mechanics to tell us what human experience so plainly shows. Our loved ones are forever linked to the objects of their lives. That old green and yellow toy football in the garage vividly brings to mind memories of my dad and me throwing it in the backyard on Sunday afternoons. That old and worn out, and quite honestly, dangerous electric blanket vividly brings to mind memories of my siblings and I snuggling up underneath it on the couch on winter nights. That blue soup pot that our mom used on every Jewish holiday.
Each of these objects is no longer useable. And yet, they give us access to our memories. They are vessels of holiness.
And this is why we don’t throw everything away. This is why we put some things in storage. This is why some things, though they are merely objects, are saved for the genizah to later be buried -- just as we bury the people we have loved. These inanimate objects do contain life. If we look very carefully, we will see that engraved upon them, somewhere, is written the very name of God.
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