Shaking Up Jewish Ritual

My brother-in-law, Bernard Miller, died in March at the age of 88 after a debilitating illness that had stolen his memory, dignity and essence.

A World War II veteran who landed on D-Day-plus-four and whose unit was part of the army force that liberated Dachau, Bernie was a boldly innovative educator, a loyal husband of 63 years, the father of four, adored and adoring grandfather of eight, honored elder and fearless Seder leader of his extended family. But this column is not about his remarkable life, it’s about his remarkable death. And the paradoxes of Jewish continuity.

For two days before he died and four days afterward, I slept in the guest room of the apartment he and my sister Betty shared at an independent living residence in a suburb of Boston, so I witnessed nearly everything that transpired during that period, including Bernie’s last breath and the decision-making process that preceded his funeral.

He was basically comatose, heavily medicated and unresponsive, as the family shared a vigil of sorrow and reminiscence. When we weren’t lingering at his bedside, holding his papery hand or taking his pulse, we were gathered around a platter of lasagna or combing through photographs that dated back to the liberation of Paris, telling each other Bernie’s favorite jokes in an effort to resurrect his lost self.

Before he died, his wife and children met for hours with the rabbi to talk about the sort of man Bernie was, his achievements, talents and idiosyncrasies—and about the logistics of Jewish dying. Usually, the funeral home is called immediately after a death, the body is taken, and the hevrah kaddisha (a group of pious volunteers) performs tahara (the ritual cleansing of the body) in preparation for burial. The problem was, Bernie had left instructions that he be cremated. He knew Jewish law requires interment, but he preferred that his remains not take up space in a cemetery his family might feel obligated to visit.

Upon hearing these plans, the rabbi—a woman who is “post-denominational” and an advocate of progressive Judaism—said no hevrah kaddisha would perform tahara on a body that was to be consumed by fire. Furthermore, she herself was discomforted by cremation, not as a violation of halacha but in deference to those who perished in the Nazi crematoria. My sister understood this view but felt it more important to honor the wishes of her husband who, though he had entered Dachau while the ovens were still warm, had nonetheless made his choice clear when he was lucid enough to convey his preference.

The day before he died, Betty contacted the Veterans Administration and made sure that Bernie’s ashes could be buried in a military cemetery on Cape Cod. My niece and nephews, remembering how much their father loved birch trees, decided they would plant a tree in a nearby park as a memorial to him. Betty liked that idea but it wasn’t enough. She also wanted a Jewish ritual, something that would reflect the importance of tradition in their family.

Four hours after Bernie expired, we performed tahara. Having found no siddur in the house, I’d gone on the Web and printed out the text of the kaddish, the mourner’s prayer. I’d searched online for detailed tahara instructions, but every link directed me to some funeral parlor, except for Wikipedia, which I wasn’t sure I could trust. Fortunately, Betty had a copy of How To Run a Traditional Jewish Household by Blu Greenberg, the founder of Orthodox feminism, and all the guidance we needed was contained in her chapter on death and mourning. Extrapolating from Blu’s description, we created a purification ceremony.

With yahrzeit candles lit, each of us dipped a soft cloth in warm water and cleansed Bernie’s face, hands and feet, and then Betty, in private, washed the rest of him. We dressed his body in a simple white shroud, recited the kaddish together, and held hands in silence, thinking our loving farewells. Later that afternoon, two men from the funeral home came and took his body away. It was Monday. To accommodate people coming from afar, Betty set the funeral for Thursday.

Thanks to 12 years of Jewish education, I used to be a strict constructionist about death traditions. I considered cremation a sin. I believed contact with a dead body rendered a person impure, that only authorized holy people could wash the deceased, that the funeral, ideally, should take place within 24 hours, but never more than three days after death.

By those standards, our actions were transgressive and impermissible. Yet, despite all this, I found the entire experience intensely sacred.

I’ve been trying to parse that contradiction and its significance to the broader challenge of Jewish continuity. Do I really think do-it-yourself rituals are the solution to Jews’ growing alienation from tradition? Is it okay for individuals to alter customs to suit their beliefs and circumstances so long as they stay connected to the community and affirm their Jewish identity? Or should those who break the law be deprived of the comforts of ritual even if it results in their estrangement from the Jewish people?

On the other hand, will there even be a Jewish people—or a coherent belief system called Judaism—if we each go our own way?

I haven’t been able to answer those questions. All I know is this: When we who most loved Bernie Miller prepared his body for its end, I felt God was in the room.

Letty Cottin Pogrebin is at work on her 10th book, a novel entitled The Man is in the Playground.