It was not until I found myself standing in a line at the cemetery that slowly wound its way up towards the grave, and I reached the front of the line, and my parents pointed to a shovel that was firmly stuck in a mound of earth, and gestured that I should take it and offer a shovelful of earth into the grave, and I did so -- only then, as I watched the clods of earth break apart as they fell from the shovel, separate in the air as they seemingly endlessly tumbled into the grave, landed with a loud thud on the lid of casket, and broke apart into pieces -- only then, did it hit me. He was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.
Is there any ritual more vivid than this one? It has often been said that different religions have their different strengths -- and that Judaism is particularly strong when it comes to our rituals around death and mourning. In the immediate aftermath of bereavement, when it is hard to know exactly what one ought to say or to do, our tradition provides a detailed script: we gather with friends, they bring us food, we sit on low chairs, we cover our mirrors, we do not shave, we light a candle that burns for seven days, we speak the words of the mourner’s kaddish. But among all these rituals of grief, perhaps none is more stirring or striking than the ritual of literally helping to bury the dead, by offering a shovelful of earth into the grave.
Rituals are powerful experiences. There’s a whole academic field known as ritual studies. It is a multidisciplinary field, combining elements of religious studies, anthropology, philosophy, and aesthetics. The field of ritual studies seeks to explain what exactly constitutes a ritual, compared to, say, a routine -- and more importantly, seeks to explain why and how rituals achieve their effects. It is a complex field of study, which is beyond our purposes this morning -- but suffice it to say that a ritual is a physical expression of an idea. Experiencing a powerful ritual gives us access to our truths that are usually just beyond the horizon of our consciousness. A powerful ritual serves as a bridge or a gateway, allowing us to gain access to thoughts and feelings that we do not usually have at front of mind in our day-to-day existence.
For me as a child, at my first ever funeral, as I offered a shovelful of earth into the grave, the thud of the earth as it landed on the casket activated something deep inside of me -- told my heart and my brain that death is final. It spoke to me in a language that was deeper than visiting the hospital, deeper than hearing the eulogies, deeper than seeing our friend’s bereaved husband weeping over the casket. It was, by all measures, a powerful ritual.
A few years ago, standing with a WRT funeral at the graveside of their loved one, the power of that ritual only grew deeper for me. The sons of the deceased, one of whom is our congregant, both delivered stirring eulogies, about how much their father had done for them in their life: from the time they were children, and their father worked two jobs in order to feed and clothe them, through their young adult years, when their father helped to pay for college and get them each started in business, and even into his final decade, helping them to navigate the complexities of marriage and raising children.
We had already recited the words of 23rd Psalm, “The Eternal One is my Shepherd,” had already sung the Memorial Prayer El Malei Rachamim, had already spoken the words of the Mourner’s Kaddish. The graveside ceremony was drawing to a close, and we had but one ritual left to perform -- to help to bury the dead.
In rabbinical school, they teach us what each ritual means -- where it comes from, why we do it. And if you’re lucky, you have good mentors who can help you find a meaningful way to explain a ritual before it is undertaken. And so, at this point in the ceremony, I relied on what I learned from my teachers and my mentors and said something like what I usually say during that part of the service. I will often say something like: Our tradition calls this act of helping to bury the dead a chesed shel emet -- which means a “true kindness.” We call it a “true kindness” because we know that the person we are doing this for will never be able to repay the kindness and do it for us.
Then, one by one, the mourners lined up, and each offered a few shovelsful of earth into the grave. It was a particularly hot afternoon, and we had been baking in the hot sun for more than 45-minutes -- so as the final mourners took part in the ritual, and the crowd’s focus began to turn towards greeting the family, I expected that we would soon grab an icy bottle of water from the cooler that the family had brought, and make our way back to our air conditioned cars.
But then, as the crowd was dissipating, our congregant, the son of the deceased, took the shovel in his hand again, and continued shoveling. Although I knew that it was customary in some Jewish circles for the mourners themselves to fill the grave to the top, this was the first time I had actually seen someone choose to do so. He took off his suit jacket, and sweating through his white dress shirt, and dirtying his black dress shoes, he began to vigorously fill the grave. His brother came over and joined him, and together, they worked at completing the task -- stopping at several points to catch their breath, wiping the perspiration from their brows, saying nothing to each other, as their spouses, children, and friends, watched in profound silence, until the earth that covered the casket was level with the grass, and their knuckles were white from exertion, and they wiped their sweaty palms on the legs of the pants and rubbed their calloused fingers.
There is no class in rabbinical school, no book explaining the meaning of Jewish mourning rituals, that could ever give that be so profound a teacher. Here were these two sons who, only moments ago, had spoken about how much their father had done to help them -- and now it was they who were helping him. Just as they could not feed and clothe themselves as babies, so too, now their deceased father could not lay himself to rest, could not fill his own grave with earth. And so these children demonstrated at a very deep level the meaning of the phrase chesed shel emet -- that to help to bury the dead is a true kindness, one that we do knowing full well that the person we are doing it for will not be able to return the favor. But on this particular day, it was not a favor that needed returning. Their father had already paid them so many kindnesses, with his own sweat and calloused hands. And now, it was they who repaid the kindness unto him.
Of course, not all bereavements are alike -- and not all people will experience the ritual of burying the dead in the same way. But it is my hope for all of us who are gathered in this moment of Yizkor, this moment of remembrance, that we might each, in our way, whatever the shape of our sorrow, that we might experience a ritual that touches our soul and helps us to live with our grief.
Even though we may fill the grave with earth -- in our hearts, we never completely bury our dead. They are with us always in our lives, even if just beyond the realm of our day-to-day consciousness.
Rituals are powerful experiences. They give us access to truths that are usually just beyond the realm of our consciousness: to me as a young boy, the finality of death; to these two bereaved sons, the many kindnesses their father had paid them. May this moment of remembrance help us reach beyond our day-to-day existence -- and in turn, be reached by those whom we have loved and lost.
Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment