Thinking about Death Parshas Vayechi
They say a story of a small town in Eastern Europe in the 19th century in which a child’s body was found in a lake. The Jewish community gathers in the shul to discuss what they should do. Blood libel charges were certainly going to arise, and they had to plan on how to protect themselves from the inevitable violence that would follow.
As they argue back and forth, a man bursts into the room, and with a smile on his face says, “I have wonderful news! We don’t have to worry!” They all look up, puzzled, and he explains, “Baruch Hashem! The child in the lake – it turns out she was Jewish!”
Jews are known to have a really dark sense of humor. Many see it as a defense mechanism for all the anxiety we’ve experienced over the ages. Laughing about antisemitism and death give us a much-needed release for all our pent-up fears.
Another story, this one of a man on his deathbed, surrounded by his family. Everyone’s crying, holding his hand, and trying to give him comfort as his soul starts to slip away.
Suddenly, he breathes in heavily through his nose and opens his eyes. “What’s that smell?” he asks. His children tell him that their mother baked some cinnamon rugelach. He whispers to his son, “Please, go to the kitchen, and get me one. I would love to have Mama’s delicious rugelach just one more time.”
A moment later, the son returns to his father empty-handed. “I’m sorry. Mama said they’re for shiva.”
While some of us, myself included, like to talk and joke about death, there is also a Jewish trend to not mention death at all. There is a custom brought down in the Kol Bo, a 14th century legal work, how when someone passed away, they would take all the water in the home outside and pour it out. They did this was to inform the neighbors that someone inside the house had died without saying those words. Many Jews will not say the word cancer, they will say yenneh machalah, which is Yiddish for, that disease. This follows the Talmud’s practice of not saying leprosy, which was a fatal disease in their day, but rather say, “davar acher,” something else.
So, should we be joking about death? Should we never say the word death? What’s the right approach?
The Sefer Hachasidim says it best, when the author writes, “Do not believe in superstitions, but still it is best to be heedful of them.” In other words, likely nothing will happen to you for making a dark joke or saying the word cancer, but it’s not a bad idea to not do so.
But while there is ambiguity around talking about death, there is consensus that we should be thinking about death. The ability to think about our mortality is one of the greatest gifts that G-d gives us for a host of reasons:
First of all, it reminds us to plan for our death. Unfortunately, I have officiated too many funerals in my life and there are two types of scenarios that play out. One, a person dies and the family in a state of grief and shock have to scramble and make decisions for funeral arrangements. Option two, the deceased, at some point in the years prior, spoke to their family or a lawyer or even went to Sol Levinson’s and made plans for the funeral. It is so easy to give one’s family the gift of one less stressor on the most difficult day of their lives.
A second benefit of thinking of death is that it can remind us to fill out a medical directives form. Too often, a patient is incapacitated and unable to make decisions for themselves. The family is left with the impossible challenge of trying to do what their sick relative would have wanted. Reminding ourselves that we will all die is also a reminder that we may possibly be ill before we die. Again, it is so easy to give one’s family the gift of one less stressor during one of the most difficult periods in their lives.
But it’s not just for those around us that remembering death is valuable. It’s valuable for ourselves. There is a shocking Medrash on a passuk in Bereishis: “And G-d saw that all that He had created was tov me’od, very good.” Says the Medrash, ‘Good’ refers to life; ‘very good’ refers to death.
Why is it good? Very simple. Here’s another story. This one is not a joke. It’s a fictitious story by therapist, Lauren Slater:
“The patient was depressed. He was a wet rag. He was suicidal. The psychiatrist had tried every pill and combination of pills he could conceive of, you name it. And still the man was depressed.
He underwent a series of six shock treatments, lying bound on a bed while they juiced his brain, waking up in a fog, his eyes burning. And still the man was depressed. He tried to hang himself, to slash his wrists, to overdose on pills; he even tried to shoot himself but missed and survived without so much as a scar. And now the psychiatrist had grown bored with him. Three times a week, the man came in and either said nothing or talked about his failures. The clock ticked away. The man began to complain of headaches. He felt physically ill. The psychiatrist suspected it was psychosomatic. He paid little attention to the man. Still, his complaints grew louder. At last the psychiatrist referred the man to neurologist, who could see inside his skull using instruments. Three days later, the neurologist called the psychiatrist. “There is nothing wrong with him,” the neurologist said. And the psychiatrist sighed, almost disappointed.
When the man came in for his next appointment, he asked, “Did you speak to the neurologist?” The psychiatrist nodded gravely and said, “Yes, I did.”
The man leaned forward in his seat. His dull eyes flickered — with terror. “And?” he said. “Well,” said the psychiatrist, drawing it out, with no plan or premeditation. “I’m sorry, but the neurologist says you have only three months to live.” The man shot back in his seat, stared for a long time at the ceiling, and then left abruptly.
The man was now in a rush. He booked a flight to Greece, and travelled to Crete, and saw dazzling white sand, he ate from a big buffet in the Caribbean. He sent his psychiatrist postcards from countries all around the world. Here I am in Russia, he wrote. I was in a bar all night, he wrote. I am taking cooking classes in Taiwan. I swam in the Dead Sea. Eventually, though, the months passed and the man did not die. Nor did he seem to be dying.
The man, of course, doesn’t die. He keeps burning brightly. Eventually he goes back to the psychiatrist who tells him his disease is in remission. And a year later he goes back again, only to find the office door open and the psychiatrist away. He takes the opportunity to open the filing cabinet and read his own file. He flipped to the end of his chart and read: Tried to inject some existential urgency into the Man’s condition. Ethically questionable. Radical intervention. Told patient he was dying. Three months to live. Patient’s affect changed considerably. And the next note said: Postcard from patient. Depression in complete remission. Will continue with intervention. Benefits outweigh risks.
The man slowly closed his folder. On the doctor’s desk, he saw the American Journal of Psychiatry. Next to an advertisement for Effexor was an article written by his doctor. He looked at its title: “Mortality Therapy: A Case Study.”
“‘Good’ refers to life; ‘tov me’od, very good’ refers to death.”
We are celebrating an Aufruf today. About a year ago, Rabbi Seth Phillips joined our shul. His outgoing character, menchlichkeit, and kindness made him an immediate friend to so many in our shul and in the community-at-large. We were all so thrilled for him when he met and got engaged to Joanne O’Connor. The other day I was meeting with this lovely couple and Seth mentioned to me what motivated him to find love later in life. And he quoted a verse from Hallel, Lo hameitim y’hal’lu Kah, the dead do not give praise to G-d. What he was saying is that as we age, death hovers us. Some are debilitated by fear of death, but others allow their mortality to motivate them to live every day of their precious life to the fullest. We hope and pray that Seth and Joanne live a full and long life full of blessing and joy.
Egyptian culture was notoriously anti-death. The tombs filled with the deceased’s belongings was a way of saying, “Don’t worry about anything. We are here forever.” Even the hairstyle of the Egyptians, a shaved head, not letting people know if you are greying or balding is an expression of this ignore-death culture. But it’s not just a relic of the past. When Jeff Bezos shaved his head, that was his way of saying, I’m not going anywhere. When the market for anti-aging products is at 80 billion dollars and projected to grow to 120 billion dollars in the next few years, that is our society’s way of ignoring the inevitable reality of our demise. We do so at our own peril.
Yaakov Avinu recalls the day of death and makes burial instructions so his family can know exactly what to do when he dies. Yaakov Avinu recalls the day of death and uses it as an opportunity to speak to his children and share the many messages he had held on to for way too long.
Someone recently shared with me a story of a survivor of Auschwitz who was on the train to the camps, separated from her parents and alone with her eight-year-old younger brother. She looked down at his feet and noticed that he wasn’t wearing shoes. “What’s wrong with you?” she creams. “How could you be so stupid to not wear shoes?” In the commotion and crush of bodies they were separated. Her brother didn’t make it out of Auschwitz. Those were the last words she ever said to him.
She committed, after liberation, to remind herself in every conversation with a loved one that it just might be the last. The petty fight that you don’t even remember how it started dissipates in the face of death. The estrangement of friends, of family, is so obviously unwarranted when we remind ourselves of our demise. “‘Tov’ refers to life; ‘tov me’od’ refers to death.”
So talk and joke about death or don’t talk and joke about death – whatever makes you comfortable. But let’s do ourselves and those around us a favor and think about death. The key to a good life is not shaving our head and having less wrinkles. It’s remembering that every day and every conversation just may be our last.