It is no secret that Oaks Lane sees its fair share of death. The fact that so many of you are here for this service is testament to that.
This is one of the Reform movement’s largest synagogues, and a large number of our members die each year. During the Covid pandemic, Rabbi Lisa carried out some 350 funerals. How she managed to do that with such grace will always be a source of personal wonder to me.
Before I came here, then, I expected that coming to work at Oaks Lane would mean constantly swimming against a tide of grief. I thought that this community would be defined by pain and sadness, eking out moments of joy through a long slew of burials.
I was wrong. I was wrong about Oaks Lane. More importantly, I was wrong about grief.
I had accepted the conventional wisdom that grieving was the tough work of slogging through sadness. I believed, without much interrogation, that people had to process stages of denial and anger and sadness to eventually begrudgingly accept the mortality of their loved ones.
Yet, when I began working in this synagogue, I was astounded by what actually happened. I discovered that, in their last moments, people were eager to pass on their happiest moments and their favourite jokes.
I found that, while funerals were always deeply sombre affairs, shiva houses could be full of raucous laughter and mourners could be alleviated by relief that the deceased had gone on to a better place. I was amazed at how quickly families made meaning of their loss, and turned the memory of their loved one into positive action.
Even concerning the saddest and most unjust deaths, the grieving people of this community are amazingly strong.
The truth is that this congregation can feel very proud of how it handles grief.
It turns out that grief is deeply sad, but that’s not all it is. It also shows the immense capacity human beings have to be resilient.
That observation is now supported by scientific study. The psychologist George Bonnano has dedicated his life to studying grief. When he first came to look at bereavement, he found that, while there were plenty of big claims about how grief works, there was scant little evidence to back it up.
Over years of working with mourners, hearing their stories, and measuring their emotional responses, Dr Bonnano found that all the stereotypes about grieving were wrong.
As it turned out, the five stages of grief rarely turned up in people’s lived experiences. In many cases, people did not need to go deep into the recesses of their subconscious to find out why a death had hurt them so much.
Quite on the contrary, many mourners found that they could make meaning of their lives and honour their dead. Many grieving people found that their emotions were close at hand, and that they could handle them best by being honest about them.
Above all, mourners did not need to “get over” their sadness. Instead, people emotionally processed best when they understood their sadness as a helpful emotion. Sadness, it turns out, slows us down, makes us more contemplative, helps us to create more accurate memories, and focuses us on what truly matters.
Bonanno discovered that one of the factors that made people most adverse to handling grief was the Western obsession with reason. The demand that we be constantly rational, strip ourselves of rituals, and just ignore our spiritual inclinations in times of distress actually exacerbates emotional trauma, and can prolong the grieving process.
Of course, that does not mean dealing with death is easy. For some people, the sadness can go on for years, and some people experience very traumatic and complex grief. In all of his studies, Bonnano could not find a single unifying factor for why some struggled more than others. It doesn’t really say anything about a person or their loved one if they struggle more with death. In fact, it seems to be largely random.
One thing Bonnano did find is that, in cultures that ritualise communicating with their dead, and that have a sense of death’s sacred purpose, mourning is often healthier.
From that point of view, I think we Jews can be very proud of how we deal with death.
The tractate of the Talmud that deals with death and dying is called smachot. Literally, the word means “joys” or “festive celebrations.” I had always assumed that the title was a euphemism, to cover over all the other great feelings associated with death.
Now, I wonder if perhaps the rabbis gave it that title as a reminder of what was at stake. Yes, you will feel sadness, but all of those are for the sake of remembering your joys. Yes, these mourning rituals will be sad and sombre occasions, but they may also be festive celebrations of the lives you have lost.
Smachot sets out a clear set of guidelines for how to handle death. Bury as soon as possible. Sit in remembrance for seven days. Avoid certain kinds of work for thirty. Say kaddish for a year.
At every stage, the rabbis provide us with a spiritual framework that means we always have something to do, and continually have receptacles for our grief. With the infrastructure established, Jews are free to experience the full gambit of emotions associated with death.
In addition to its regulations on mourning, Smachot advises ways to handle people who are grieving. Rabbi Meir teaches that, in the early days of somebody’s bereavement, you should offer them words of consolation, then ask them how they are. After the first thirty days, you should ask them how they are, and then offer words of comfort. By the time twelve months have passed, you shouldn’t bring up the death at all unless the mourner does, so that you do not re-open wounds.
All of this provides a way to speak openly and honestly about grief, without allowing it to be all-consuming. I find this rabbinic wisdom incredibly powerful, but it is even more poignant when we see it in real life.
Over the last year, I have watched in awe as our senior rabbi handled his own grief. This time last year, Rabbi Jordan and I switched our expected slots, and I took the yizkor service, so that Rabbi Jordan could have a chance to grieve his recently deceased mother.
Grief could have swallowed Jordan up. Instead, he set up a weekly minyan so that he could say kaddish with all the others who were bereaved. He wore his mourning openly, and channelled it into helping everyone in the community to heal. Perhaps most surprisingly, throughout that whole period of aveilut, Jordan led this congregation with integrity, sincerity and passion. There is much in here for him to feel proud.
I am also continually impressed by the Jewish Joint Burial Society, whose work can never be sufficiently celebrated. Whenever I call Mitzi, Ian or Andrew, they combine a great sense of dignity with humour and good spirit. They oversee hundreds of funerals every year, and support families in their very hardest moments, and do so with an incredible sense of holy purpose. They are an endless source of pride.
More than anything, this community is a source of pride. Its volunteers in the care team leap at the chance to call up people on their yahrzeits. I rarely attend to a family that hasn’t already heard from a congregant already. Alan, Adrienne, Hazel, Brenda, Sheila, and Ailsa… you do more for the people in this congregation than you will ever fully know.
And that is true for all of you. As members, you repeatedly show up for each other and support each other. As mourners, you do everything in your power to honour your loved ones.
So keep on doing what you’re doing. Keep asking after each other. Keep showing up. Keep being vulnerable and honest.
As we sit here, together, mourning our dear loved ones, know that you are here for yourself and you are here for everyone else. And we truly appreciate your presence.
I am incredibly proud of how this community handles death.
Gmar chatimah tovah.
Sim Lev 