Daf Ditty Moed Katan 27:‫ִאי ַאֶתּם ַרְחָמ ִנים בּוֹ יוֵֹתר ִמֶמּ ִנּי‬

Grief and Belief

‘The Parable of the Old Man and the Young’ Wilfred Owen

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https://www.feldheim.com/healing-anger

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On his deathbed, Elgar “rather feebly” tried to whistle the theme to his friend, the violinist
William Reed. “Billy,” he said with tears in his eyes, “if ever you’re walking on the Malvern
Hills and hear that, don’t be frightened. It’s only me.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Scba4avQ-t0

And Rav Yehuda said further in the name of Rav: Anyone who grieves excessively over his
dead and does not allow himself to be consoled will in the end weep for another person. The
Gemara relates that a certain woman who lived in the neighborhood of Rav Huna had seven
sons. One of them died and she wept for him excessively. Rav Huna sent a message to her:
Do not do this. But she took no heed of him.

He then sent another message to her: If you listen to me, it is well, but if not, prepare shrouds
for another death. But she would not listen and they all died. In the end, when she continued
with her excessive mourning, he said to her: Since you are acting in this way, prepare shrouds
for yourself, and soon thereafter she died.

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The Sages taught in a baraita with regard to the verse that states:

‫ָתּנֻדוּ לוֹ; ְבּכוּ‬-‫ ְוַאל‬,‫ִתְּבכּוּ ְלֵמת‬-‫י ַאל‬ 10 Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep
‫ ְוָרָאה‬,‫ִכּי ל ֹא ָישׁוּב עוֹד‬--]‫ ַלֹהֵל‬,‫ָבכוֹ‬ sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor
.‫ֶאֶרץ מוַֹלְדתּוֹ‬-‫ֶאת‬ see his native country.
Jer 22:10

“Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him” (Jeremiah 22:10): “Weep not for the dead” is
referring to excessive mourning; “neither bemoan him” more than the appropriate measure of
time.

How so? What is the appropriate measure?

Three days for weeping, and seven for eulogizing, and thirty for the prohibition against ironing
clothing and for the prohibition against cutting hair.

From this point forward the Holy One, Blessed be He, says: Do not be more merciful with the
deceased than I am. If the Torah commands one to mourn for a certain period of time, then that
suffices.

Steinzaltz

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It is stated in the continuation of the verse: “Weep sore for him that goes away.” Rav Yehuda
said: This is referring to one who leaves the world without children to survive him, since
mourning for him is much more intense.

It was related that Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi would go to a house of mourning only for one
who passed away without children, as it is written: “Weep sore for him that goes away; for he
shall return [yashuv] no more, nor see his native land” (Jeremiah 22:10).

Rav Huna disagreed with the interpretation of the verse and said: “Him that goes” is one who
committed a transgression and then repeated it, i.e., one who sins constantly and does not repent
[yashav], and therefore loses his portion in the World-to-Come, his “native land.”

The Gemara notes that Rav Huna conforms to his standard line of reasoning, as Rav Huna said:
Once a person commits a transgression and repeats it, it becomes permitted to him. The
Gemara questions the wording used here: Does it enter your mind that it is actually permitted?
How could it possibly be permitted for him to sin? Rather, say instead: It becomes as though it
were permitted, for after doing it twice he no longer relates to his action as the violation of a
serious prohibition.

Rabbi Levi said: A mourner during the first three days of his mourning should see himself as
though a sword were lying between his two thighs, meaning that he too may be facing imminent
death. During this period he should live in dread. From the third to the seventh days he should
conduct himself as if the sword were lying opposite him in the corner, but still threatening him.
From this point forward it is as if the sword was moving before him in the marketplace, and
the fear is not as great.

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RAMBAM Hil Avel 13:11

Summary

Overturning Beds, Honoring the Poor, and Mourning Excessively2

Mourners were told to overturn their beds when in mourning. Amud (a) describes many of the
practicalities surrounding this custom. It was to be done to every bed in the home of a mourner,
whether s/he slept in those beds or not and whether s/he lived in the town of the deceased or
not. Beds were turned back to an upright position on Shabbat, for Shabbat is not a day of
mourning. Even if only one day of mourning remains following havdala, mourners are to overturn
their beds again. A decorative bed is not overturned, nor is a dargash. It seems that the dargash
may have been a leather bed that was usually used for decorative purposes. The rabbis go to some
length to describe these beds.

It seems that part of the point of overturning beds is not discomfort (for sleeping in a chair or on
the floor is not allowed; beds must be overturned). Instead, overturned beds were noticeable. Thus
visitors would understand immediately that they were in a house of mourning.

A new Mishna teaches us about bringing food in simple containers to the house of a mourner. It
speaks about receiving lines and about not setting down the bier while it is being carried to
discourage eulogies on the street. As well, it tells us never to set down the bier of a woman, in
case blood escapes to the street and her honour is affected.

The Gemara focuses on socioeconomic difference and attempts to maintain the honour of those
who are disadvantaged. Though the rich might do things in certain ways, they are told to follow
the customs of the poor so that poor people are not dishonoured. Similarly, all people must use
fragrance in the room of those who have died to ensure that those who have intestinal disease (and

2
http://dafyomibeginner.blogspot.com/2014/09/

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thus require fragrance) are not dishonoured. Similarly, to avoid pointing out which women were
menstruating and which people were zavim, the utensils of all people were immersed following
death. This ensured that laws of ritual purity were protected while the honour of women and zavim
were also protected.

We learn that all people were wrapped in inexpensive linen or hemp when being prepared for
burial. When mourners were ready to move on from being consoled, their heads were covered and
so they nodded their heads slightly to indicate their readiness to move forward. As well, we learn
that people were encouraged to be careful when stomping their feet in mourning lest they injure
themselves.

So many guidelines:

• mourners and those who are ill are allowed to be seated while others must stand
• mourners should not prepare their own first meal of mourning - if food is exchanged
in times of mourning, that arrangement cannot be discussed
• when a person dies in a city, all work must cease until s/he is buried unless there is
a group designated to take on this task - even so, the city stops working for the burial
• we cannot grieve excessively: three days of mourning, seven days of eulogizing,
and 30 days without cutting hair or ironing clothing
• those who lose their only child are thought to be in greater distress; the rabbis argue
whether this might happen because of a transgression committed earlier (possibly
repeatedly, and thus seeming permitted to him/her)

We are told the story of a woman with seven sons who grieved to excess over the loss of one of
her sons. Rabbi Huna warned her to cease, but she did not, and lost son after son. Finally, he
warned her that she herself would die if she did not stop mourning excessively. She died. This
seems terribly harsh. In context, such mourning was seen as a refusal to accept G-d's
will. Alternatively, it is seen as a punishment for other sins. How harsh this seems in today's
context.

Rabbi Levy shares the last story of our daf. He says that a person who suffers a loss should
imagine that a sword is between his thighs (or perhaps his shoulders) for the first three days of
mourning. For the seven days of eulogizing, s/he should imagine that sword in the corner, still
threatening. For the remaining thirty days, it is as if the sword is following him/her through the
market. Rabbi Levy is suggesting that we are at risk of dying ourselves when we are in
mourning. The birth of a baby in the family would signify an end to this risk.

Rav Avrohom Adler writes:3

3
http://dafnotes.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Moed_Katan_27.pdf

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The Gemora cites a braisa: At what point do the mourners overturn their beds? Rabbi Eliezer says:
When the coffin leaves the house.

Rabbi Yehoshua said: When they seal the lid on the casket. The Gemora cites an incident: It
happened when Rabban Gamliel the Elder died, as soon as he was taken out of the door of his
house, Rabbi Eliezer said to them: Overturn your beds (as the period of mourning has started).
And after the lid of the casket had been sealed (to close the tomb), Rabbi Yehoshua said to them:
Overturn your beds. They said to him: We have already overturned them by word of the Elder (R’
Eliezer).

The Gemora cites a braisa: When do the mourners right the beds on Friday afternoon? The Gemora
answers: From Mincha time (either a half hour after midday or two and a half hours afterwards).
Rabbah bar Rav Huna interrupts and rules that the mourners are nevertheless prohibited from
sitting on those beds until nightfall (since they are still required to be in a state of mourning until
then). The braisa continues: They must overturn the beds on Motzei Shabbos even if there is only
one more day of mourning left.

The Gemora cites a braisa: The mourners must overturn all the beds that are in his house and even
if there are ten beds in ten different places of the house (other Rishonim – in other houses, as long
as he uses them sometimes). Even if there are five brothers and one of them dies, they all are
required to overturn their beds in their houses. If the bed is designated for containing utensils, it
does not need to be overturned.

The Gemora cites a braisa: The mourner is not required to overturn a dargash (will be explained
shortly) bed, rather, one should stand it up on its side (and lean it against the wall). Rabban Shimon
ben Gamliel says: One should untie its straps and the bed will fall by itself. Ulla says: A dargash
bed is a bed of good fortune (designated for the guardian angel of the house). Rabbah asks: If so,
then let us consider that which was taught in a Mishna regarding a king: When the king was given
the mourner's meal (since it was forbidden for a mourner to eat the first meal from his own food),
all the people sat on the ground, while he reclined on the dargesh.

Now, (according to you, Ulla) normally, he would not sit upon it, yet on that day he does!? Rav
Ashi answered: Why is that problematic? The rest of the year, it is optional for him to partake in
meat and wine, but on this day, we bring these for him.

The Gemora asks on Ulla from a braisa: The mourner is not required to overturn a dargash bed;
rather, one should stand it up on its side (and lean it against the wall). And we learned in another
braisa: The mourners must overturn all the beds that are in his house. (If a dargash is a bed, it
should also be required to be turned over?)

The Gemora answers: A dargash (although it’s a bed) may be similar to a bed used for holding
utensils. And we learned in a braisa: A mourner is not required to overturn a bed used for utensils.
The Gemora asks on Ulla from a braisa: Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel says: A mourner should
untie the straps of the dargash and the bed will fall by itself. If it is a regular type of bed, why does
Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel rule that one should untie its straps; a regular bed does not have
straps, it has ropes attached to the frame?

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The Gemora offers another explanation for dargash. When Ravin came from Eretz Yisroel to
Bavel, he said: I asked Rav Tachlifa the Westerner, who would frequent the market for
leathermakers as to the meaning of dargash. He told me that dargash is a leather bed. It was stated
as well: Rabbi Yirmiyah said: The straps of a dargash are attached on the inside through slits in
the frame (even though it was used as a regular bed for traveling noblemen, the Sages were lenient
regarding it because overturning the leather sheet and placing it on the ground would cause damage
to it). The straps of an ordinary bed are wrapped around its frame.

Rabbi Yaakov bar Acha said in the name of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi: The halachah follows
Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel. Rabbi Yaakov bar Acha said in the name of Rabbi Assi: A bed
whose two posts protrude, it is enough if he merely stands it upright. The Gemora cites a braisa:
If he slept (during the seven days of mourning) on a chair, or on a large mortar, or even on the
ground (which is greater discomfort), he has not discharged his obligation. Rabbi Yochanan
explained: He has not discharged his obligation, because he has not fulfilled the practice of
overturning the bed.

The Gemora cites a braisa: We may sweep and sprinkle water on the ground within the mourner's
house, and we may wash dishes, cups, jars and bottles, but we may not bring the incense and the
nice-smelling spices into the house of the mourner. The Gemora asks: Is this so? But Bar Kappara
has taught a braisa: One does not recite a blessing over the incense and the nice-smelling spices in
the house of the mourner. Evidently, it is the blessing which is not recited, but it may be brought
in!? The Gemora answers: It is permitted to bring the incense and the nice-smelling spices into the
room where the consolers are comforting the mourner.

The Mishna states: They may not bring the food to the house of the mourner on a tray, or in a large
bowl, or with a large basket, but rather, the food should be brought in regular baskets. They may
not recite the mourners' blessing during Chol Hamoed, but they do form the row and console the
mourner and they immediately dismiss the public. They may not set down the bier in the street
during Chol Hamoed in order not to promote eulogies (which are forbidden on Chol Hamoed).
They never set down the biers of women in the street out of respect (blood might flow from them
and it would be embarrassing).

The Gemora cites a braisa: Initially, when they brought food to the house of the mourner, a rich
person would deliver it in containers of silver and gold, and poor people would deliver it in weaved
willow baskets, and the poor people were ashamed. They enacted that everyone should deliver it
in these simple weaved willow baskets, because of the honor of the poor people. Initially, they
served drinks in the house of the mourner, a rich person would serve it in white glass vessels and
poor people would serve it in colored glass, and the poor people were ashamed. They enacted that
all should serve the drinks in colored glass, because of the honor of the poor people.

Initially, they would expose the face of the rich person who died (thus inspiring people to cry) and
cover the face of the poor people because their faces were blackened due to years of famine, and
the poor people were ashamed. They enacted that they cover the faces of all, because of the honor
of the poor people. Initially, they would take the rich person who died out on a dargash and the
poor people on a bier, and the poor people were ashamed.

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They enacted that all be taken out on a bier, because of the honor of the poor people. Initially, they
would place incense under those who dies with stomach illnesses, but those living with stomach
illnesses became ashamed. They enacted that incense would be placed under all corpses, because
of the honor of those living with stomach illnesses. Initially, they would immerse utensils used by
menstruating women before they died, but the living menstruants became ashamed.

They enacted that they would immerse utensils from all women who died, because of the honor of
the living menstruants. Initially, they would immerse utensils used by zavim (men who became
tamei because of a specific type of seminal emission) before they died, but the living zavim became
ashamed.

They enacted that they would immerse utensils from all men who died, because of the honor of
the living zavim. Initially, the taking out of the corpse was harder on his relatives more than his
death (due to the costs involved), until the situation was such that his relatives would place him
down and run away! Until Rabban Gamliel came and acted lightly with himself, by going out with
linen clothing, and all the people followed his example to be buried in linen clothing. Rav Pappa
said: Nowadays, the custom is to use coarse canvas, which is worth only a zuz.

Rav Pappa said: One is permitted to eulogize a Torah scholar during Chol Hamoed. It is certainly
permitted on Chanukah and Purim. The Gemora qualifies this ruling: It is only permitted in the
presence of the bier. The Gemora asks: Is this so? But Rav kahana eulogized Rav Zevid of
Nehardea in the town of Pum Nahara (on Chol HaMoed).? Rav Pappi answered: It was on the day
that they were informed of his passing, and that is similar to being in the presence of the bier. (

Ulla said: The technical meaning of a hesped is striking upon the chest, as it is written: Upon the
breasts they will strike. The technical meaning of tipuach is clapping with one's hands (in grief),
and that of kilus is stamping with one’s foot (in mourning). The Gemora cites a braisa: One who
stamps with his foot should not do so when wearing a sandal, because of the danger (that he might
break his foot); rather, he should be wearing a shoe.

Rabbi Yochanan said: A mourner, who has nodded his head (thus indicating that he has been
consoled), the comforters are prohibited from sitting near him. Rabbi Yochanan said: All are
obligated to stand before the Nasi except for a mourner and a sick person. Rabbi Yochanan said:
[After rising for the Nasi] They are told, “Be seated” (and then they are permitted to sit), except
for a mourner and a sick person (who may sit without being told, for they were not required to
stand in the first place).

Rav Yehudah said in the name of Rav: A mourner on the first day of his mourning is forbidden to
eat of his own bread (rather, he should eat the bread of others). The Gemora relates that Rabbah
and Rav Yosef would exchange their meals with each other (when one of them was in mourning).

Rav Yehudah said in the name of Rav: If there is a dead person in a city, the citizens of the city
are prohibited from working until after the burial. The Gemora relates: Rav Hamnuna once came
to Darumasa. He heard the sound of a shofar signaling that someone had died. He saw some people
carrying on their work, so he said: Let the people be excommunicated! Is there not a dead person

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in town? They told him that there are associations in the town (where each association buries its
own dead). “If so,” he said to them, “the ban is released for you.”

Rav Yehudah said in the name of Rav: One who grieves excessively over his dead will cry over
another death. The Gemora relates: There was a certain woman that lived in the neighborhood of
Rav Huna. She had seven sons and when one of them died, she wept for him rather excessively.
Rav Huna sent the following message to her: Do not act like this. She did not pay attention to him.
He then sent to her: If you need my word it is well; but if not, are you interested in making
provisions (shrouds) for yet another? Another son died and eventually they all died. In the end he
said to her: You are preparing provisions for yourself, and she died.

It is written [Yirmiyah 22:10]: Do not cry for the dead, neither shall you shake your head for
him. Do not cry for the dead means that one should not cry excessively, and do not shake your
head means beyond measure.

The Gemora explains how this is applied: Three days for weeping and seven for lamenting and
thirty to refrain from pressing clothes and cutting hair. From that point and on, the Holy One,
Blessed be He, says: You are not more compassionate towards him than I.

It is written [Yirmiyah 22:10]: Cry intensely for one who leaves, because he will not return again
and see the land of his birthplace. Rav Yehudah said: This is referring to one who departs this
world without children.

The Gemora relates: Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi would not go to visit a house of mourning except
to that of one who departed without any surviving children, for it is written: Cry intensely for one
who leaves, because he will not return again and see the land of his birthplace. Rav Huna said: The
verse is referring to a person who committed a sin and repeated it. The Gemora states: Rav Huna
is following his reasoning stated elsewhere that one who commits a sin and repeats it, it has become
permitted to him. The Gemora asks: Do you actually think that it is permitted? The Gemora
answers: Rav Huna means that it becomes to him as if it was permitted.

Rabbi Levi said: A mourner during the first three days should look upon himself as if a sword is
resting between his thighs; from the third to the seventh, he should look upon himself as if it stands
in the corner in front of him; from then on, it should be as if it is moving in front of him in the
street.

Superstition

Ulla says: A dargash bed is a bed of good fortune. The Rishonim ask: Shouldn’t such a bed be
forbidden on account of the prohibition of nichush; One should not act upon the basis of omens or
lucky times (Vayikra 19:26)?

The Radvaz answers that it is being used as a sign to strengthen one’s luck, but not to be
superstitious about it. R’ Eliezer MiMitz disagrees with him and maintains that even that would
be forbidden.

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The Shitah Mikubetzes explains that this is a bed designated for the guardian angel of the house.
It was done for the purpose of honoring the Holy One, blessed is He. This is similar in the manner
that we prepare a chair for Eliyahu Hanavi by a bris milah.

The Ra”n in Sanhedrin explains that it is a bed which is constantly made and kept empty in order
to demonstrate that the household has more than they need. Through this, one is recognizing that
Hashem has blessed him with wealth and thanking Him for it.

Rambam writes that dargash is a small bed that is placed before a larger bed; it is used as a
stepping-stool in order to climb onto the higher bed. The Rosh explains that the angel in charge of
poverty resides in a dirty house and the angel in charge of riches and success resides in a clean
house.

The dargash is a bed which always remained clean in order to beckon the angel of wealth to reside
in the house.

REPENTANCE IN THE SAME SITUATION

It is written [Yirmiyah 22:10]: Cry intensely for one who leaves, because he will not return again
and see the land of his birthplace. Rav Yehudah said: This is referring to one who departs this
world without children. Rav Huna said: The verse is referring to a person who committed a sin
and repeated it.

The Gemora states: Rav Huna is following his reasoning stated elsewhere that one who commits
a sin and repeats it; it has become permitted to him. The Gemora asks: Do you actually think that
it is permitted?

The Gemora answers: Rav Huna means that it becomes to him as if it was permitted. The Gemora
(Yoma 86b) explains that a true penitent is one who committed a sin in the past and then the
opportunity for the same sins comes again a first time and a second time and he is saved from the
sin on both occasions.

The Sefer Chasidim writes that a person should not put himself into a situation where he is tempted
to sin, because he may not be able to withstand temptation. The Tzlach questions the words of the
Sefer Chasidim from the commentary of the Kli Yakar in Parshas Chukas, who writes regarding
the phenomena of the Parah Adumah that the Parah Adumah was capable of rendering pure those
that were impure and conversely, rendering impure those that were pure.

The Kli Yakar likens this idea to certain medicines that are beneficial for one who is ill but can
prove fatal for one who is healthy. There is a parallel between remedying the body and remedying
the soul. One who wishes to repent must be with the same woman that he sinned with the first
time, at the same time of the year in which he had sinned, and at the same place where he sinned
with her.

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Thus, the temptation to sin is particularly strong, as his Evil Inclination will entice him to respond
exactly as he did before. By resisting the temptation, he demonstrates that he is a true penitent.
The Kli Yakar adds that this is what the Gemora (Brochos 34b) means when it states that in the
place where penitents stand, the completely righteous do not stand, i.e. the completely righteous
cannot stand in a place of temptation.

Yet, according to the Sefer Chasidim, a righteous person is not permitted to endanger himself by
entering into such a situation.

TRANSGRESSION COMMITTED ONLY ONCE

The Gemora states that if one commits a transgression and repeats it, it becomes like it is permitted
to him. Rav Shach was once giving rebuke and he questioned if there is any among us that have
committed a sin and not repeated it. Woe is to us.

The Mabit in Beis Elokim (shaar hateshuva ch 11) writes that our sages have said if one commits
a transgression three times, it becomes like it is permitted to him. Did he have a different version
in the Gemora than us? Our Gemora states this to be correct if a person commits a sin even twice.

"ARSA D'GADA" -- THE "GOOD LUCK BED"

Rav Mordechai Kornfeld writes:4

The Beraisa describes which beds must be overturned in the house of the Avel. The Beraisa says
that a "Dargash" does not have to be overturned, but it should be stood up on its side. Raban
Shimon ben Gamliel says that the Dargash's support straps should be loosened and the Dargash
allowed to fall by itself.

Ula explains that a Dargash is an "Arsa d'Gada" -- a special bed designated exclusively for bringing
good fortune into the home, upon which no one sits or sleeps, as RASHI here (DH Arsa d'Gada)
explains. RASHI in Sanhedrin (20a) adds that it brings good fortune through "Nichush,"
superstition.

Why is one permitted to set up a bed in one's home for the purpose of Nichush? The Torah
explicitly prohibits Nichush (Vayikra 19:26)! Moreover, when the RAN in Nedarim explains the
meaning of the word "Gada" ("Gad," or "Mazal"), he cites the Gemara in Shabbos (67b) which
says that a person who attempts to improve his luck by saying, "Let my Mazal ('Gad') become
fortuitous," transgresses the prohibition against Nichush. Rebbi Yehudah there adds that "Gad"
refers to a type of idolatry, as he proves from a verse in Yeshayah (65:11). (CHIDUSHEI
HA'RAN, Sanhedrin 20a)

The ROSH in Nedarim (56a) explains that the Sar of Ashirus, the Divinely-appointed spiritual
being in charge of wealth and success, is named "Nakid," or "refined" (Pesachim 111b, Chulin
105b). A person attracts that Sar to his home by maintaining a clean and neat home. For this reason,

4
https://www.dafyomi.co.il/mkatan/insites/mo-dt-027.htm

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many people had the custom to beckon the Sar of Ashirus to visit them by keeping one bed in the
home always neatly spread.

The EINAYIM LA'MISHPAT in Nedarim explains that the Rosh echoes the words of
the SEFER CHASIDIM (#458): an act which works through supernatural means (Mazal, or
Ru'ach ha'Tum'ah) is permitted if it is widely known that such an act brings about a certain result.
Since that act has been tried and tested and found to be effective, relying on that act to obtain a
certain result is not considered Nichush.

This explains why the Chachamim caution against eating food left under a bed because of the
Ru'ach ha'Tum'ah that resides there. Similarly, it is well-known that a home with a bed kept neatly
spread enjoys success, and, therefore, it is not considered Nichush. (See Shabbos 67a, where the
Gemara says that any act known to heal is not called Nichush; see also Insights to Shabbos 67:2:c.)

It is possible that this is the intention of Rashi here as well. The purpose of the Arsa d'Gada bed is
for a type of Nichush which is permitted (Rashi in Sanhedrin calls it "Nichush" only because it
works through supernatural ways).

(The SHITAH MEKUBETZES in Nedarim writes that the Arsa d'Gada bed is not actually spread
for good luck, but rather it is intended to welcome the heavenly emissary that Hash-m sends to
bring wealth to a home. By honoring the emissary, one honors the One who sent him. Hence, the
bed is unrelated to Nichush.

The Shitah Mekubetzes compares the Arsa d'Gada bed to the Kisei Shel Eliyahu set up at every
Bris Milah to honor Eliyahu ha'Navi, the visiting emissary of Hash-m. (According to this
explanation, it appears that it was only a Jewish practice to spread such an "emissary bed." It
demonstrated a family's trust and confidence in Hash-m that He will send His Divine emissary to
bring bountiful blessing to the home.)

The RAN in Sanhedrin (20a) answers that the Arsa d'Gada was not made for Mazal at all. Rather,
it was a form of expression of gratitude to Hash-m. By spreading a bed which is not even used,
one shows that he recognizes that Hash-m has blessed him with more than he needs. The word
"Gada" ("Mazal") in this context is a borrowed term.

(Through thanking Hash-m for what He has given in the past, one merits to have more blessing in
the home, and thus such a bed indeed brings wealth.)

MUST A MOURNER OR SICK PERSON STAND FOR A "NASI"?

The Gemara quotes Rebbi Yochanan who says that everyone must rise for a Nasi, except an Avel
and a Choleh. Rebbi Yochanan adds that everyone is told to be seated, except an Avel and a
Choleh. What is the reasoning behind these Halachos?

(a) Two reasons are suggested for why an Avel and a Choleh do not have to stand for a Nasi.

13
1. The simple reason is because they are weak and dejected, and for them to stand involves
considerable discomfort. Although the Torah requires that one stand in honor of a Nasi, it does not
require that one undergo excessive duress in order to do so.
According to this understanding, if the Avel or Choleh wants to stand for the Nasi, he may do so
and he fulfills the Mitzvah.

2. REBBI AKIVA EIGER (to Shulchan Aruch YD 376) suggests a different reason for why the
Mitzvah to stand for a Nasi does not apply to an Avel and a Choleh. The Gemara in Kidushin (31a)
teaches that the Mitzvah to stand for a Nasi requires that one stand in a way which shows respect,
a "Kimah she'Yesh Bah Hidur." There is no display of respect when an Avel or Choleh stands for
someone.

According to this reasoning, even if the Avel or Choleh wants to conduct himself stringently and
stand for the Nasi, he should not stand because his act of standing is not a fulfillment of the
Mitzvah.
(
b) The Rishonim suggest two explanations for why an Avel and a Choleh are not told to be seated.

1. Most Rishonim (RASHI, TOSFOS, and others) explain that Rebbi Yochanan refers to the
Halachah he mentioned previously, that an Avel and a Choleh do not have to stand for a Nasi.
Rebbi Yochanan teaches that if they do stand, they may be seated when they want and do not have
to wait to be told to be seated. The Gemara in Horayos (13b) rules that when one stands for a Nasi,
he must remain standing until the Nasi tells him to be seated. The requirement to wait for
permission to sit does not apply to an Avel and Choleh. An Avel and a Choleh do not have to wait
until they are told to be seated, because they were not obligated to stand up in the first place.

(The CHIDUSHEI HA'RAN cites a variant text of the Gemara which is the opposite of the Girsa
in our texts. The Girsa he cites says that "we do not tell anyone to sit down except an Avel and a
Choleh." Nevertheless, the intent of this Girsa is the same as the intent of the Girsa in our texts:
when the people stand for a Nasi, we may not tell them to sit; they must wait until the Nasi tells
them to sit. In contrast, we may tell an Avel and a Choleh to sit if they want to sit; they do not have
to wait for the Nasi to give them permission to sit.)

2. The RAMBAM has an entirely different understanding of Rebbi Yochanan's ruling. He

explains that the second statement of Rebbi Yochanan is unrelated to the first statement. Rebbi
Yochanan's second statement means that anytime an Avel or Choleh is standing we do not tell him
to "sit." The word "Shev" ("sit") might be misinterpreted to mean "sit down in your Aveilus" or
"sit down in your illness" and implies that we are telling him to return to his state of mourning or
illness.

14
 Of Rich and Poor

Steinzaltz (OBM) writes:5

Many traditional Jewish funeral customs to which we have become accustomed actually developed
over time. The Gemara relates a series of traditions that were representative of divisions between
the upper and lower classes, all of which were changed in order that poor people would not be
embarrassed. Among those traditions were:

1. The seudat havra’a – the meal that is traditionally brought to the house of mourning by
neighbors. Wealthy people brought the meal in baskets of gold and silver, while poor
people brought it in simple woven baskets. Everyone was instructed to use simple woven
baskets.
2. The wine that accompanied the meal. Wealthy people drank out of white glass, while poor
people drank from colored glass, which was less expensive. Everyone was instructed to
drink the wine from colored glasses.
3. The way the deceased was laid out. A wealthy person’s face was left exposed when he was
being buried, while a poor person’s was covered up because his face was dark from famine.
The decision was made to cover up everyone’s faces.

Rabbeinu Yehonatan points out that there are two possible explanations for the concern expressed
by the Gemara that poor people were embarrassed. It could mean that cheaper things were brought
to the home of the poor mourner, which was an embarrassment, or alternatively it might be a
concern for the person who came to comfort someone and was embarrassed by the meager
contribution that he was making to the meal.

The Gemara concludes with the comment that burial customs became so lavish that the dead
person’s relatives found the burial to be more difficult than the death itself – to the extent that
people would abandon the body and flee – leaving the burial to the community. Rabban Gamliel
put an end to this by insisting that his funeral be a simple one, and he was buried in a simple linen
shroud, which led the people to give up expensive funerals.

Rabban Gamliel’s statement was seen as an important decision, and in the time of the Talmud
when there was a custom to drink a series of cups of wine at the home of the mourner, one of the
cups was dedicated to Rabban Gamliel for having established this new custom.

Our rabbis taught: “Do not weep for the dead and do not bemoan him.” (Yirmiyahu 22:10) “Do
not weep for the dead” - this means do not do so in excess. “Do not bemoan him” - this means
beyond measure.6

5
https://steinsaltz.org/daf/moed27/
6
https://www.dafdigest.org/masechtos/MoedKatan%20027.pdf

15
How is that applied? Three days for weeping and seven for lamenting and thirty day to refrain
from cutting the hair and wearing laundered clothes. Hereafter, the Holy One, blessed be He,
says: “You are not more compassionate towards him (the departed) than I am.”

The Radvaz writes that it is appropriate for a mourner to cry as a reaction to his grief. At a time of
a serious loss, the trait of justice confronts a person, and the proper response is for a person to cry.

When Aharon Hakohen suffered the loss of two of his sons, the Torah tells us that he did not cry.
“And Aharon held his peace.” (Vayikra 10:3) How, then, did Aharon refrain from conducting
himself as other mourners? How is it that he remained silent, and apparently restrained himself
from a correct and spiritually healthy expression of emotion?

The Ba'al Sho'el U'Maishiv explains that crying in response to such a tragic loss is appropriate
only under regular circumstances, when some element of sin can be associated with the person's
death.

As human beings, our existence is overshadowed with the inevitability of our passing from this
world. Sin has always been a factor when we submit our souls to our Creator as we depart from
this world.

The verse states (Micha 6:7): “Shall I give my first-born for my transgression, the fruit of my body
for the sin of my soul?” However, the death of Nadav and Avihu was different. It was designed as
a means to heighten and intensify the Name of G-d, and it therefore was not at all to be a source
of crying.

The reaction of Aharon is introduced with the words of Moshe. “The demise of these two men is
a fulfillment of that which Hashem had spoken when He said, ‘Through the ones who are close to
Me I will be sanctified, and I will be honored in front of the entire nation.’ ”

Moshe thereby instructed Aharon that the death of his sons was different from other situations,
and, accordingly, Aharon was silent.

Originally, the cost of taking out the deceased was more difficult for the family than the death
itself; so much so, that the family would leave the deceased and flee. This situation remained
until Rabban Gamliel treated himself lightly by allowing himself to be buried in linen garments.
The people followed this example and forthwith buried the deceased in linen garments. Rav
Papa said that nowadays it is the custom to dress the dead even in garments of canvas valued at
one zuz.

16
Rav Moshe Feinstein (1) was asked whether it would be permitted to enter into an agreement with
a funeral home owned by gentiles in order to provide more economical yet Halachicly correct
funeral arrangements than those being provided by the already existing Jewish owned funeral
home, or was there an issue of encroaching on someone’s business (‫)גבול השגת‬.

Rav Feinstein responded that there is no prohibition of encroaching in this case since the already
existing funeral home charged exorbitantly high rates. In fact, Rav Feinstein asserts that
overcharging for funeral expenses is more severe than general price gauging for basic sustenance
essentials which the Rabbis (2) equated to lending with usury, which is similar to stealing. The
reason is that the mourner is in a fragile state of mind and is vulnerable to deception. In such a
state, he is unable to properly negotiate terms and satisfactorily select services.

Additionally, the mourner certainly desires to spend more so as to properly honor their loved one.
Thus, he is more susceptible to mistakenly choose expensive options. Rav Feinstein deduces from
our passage that it was such in Talmudic times. Indeed, funeral preparations were terribly difficult
because poor people were embarrassed to bury their dead in inexpensive garments.

It remained such until Rabban Gamliel had himself buried in inexpensive linen. Even this was
extended to have the dead buried in canvas worth a zuz. Rav Feinstein thus encouraged the
establishment of more affordable, Halachically correct funeral services to protect mourners from
additional anguish.

On our daf we find that Rav Huna interprets the phrase, “weep sorely for the one who goes,”
(Yirmiyahu 22:10) to mean one who did a sin and repeated it.

Such action brings to crying because the sin has unfortunately become “‫“ כהיתר‬, something that no
longer smacks of sin to the sinner himself.

Someone once asked Rav Baruch of Mezhibuzh, zt”l, about Rav Huna’s statement. “Since one can
always repent, what does it mean that the sin is ‘permitted to him?’ Surely the person will still
repent for the sin on Yom Kippur since he does really know that it is a sin?”

The Rebbe explained, “On a simple level it means that it is harder to do teshuvah for a sin once it
has become habitual than for a ‘fresh’ one. But there is also a deeper lesson in Rav Huna’s
statement. also means, ‘and learns.’

17
When viewed this way, the Gemara is really saying that one who sins and learns afterward is
‘hutra,’ or released from his guilt! With this, we can more readily understand Chazal’s statement
that if one sees a Torah scholar sinning at night one should not suspect him the next day since he
has surely repented by then. How do we know that he will have already repented?

From the fact that he is a Torah scholar—he will have learned, and his learning will bring him to
repentance!”

The Satmar Rav, zt”l, had an entirely different view of Rav Huna’s words, however. He would
say, “There are some people whose lack of ‫ שמים יראת‬drives them to try and ‘purify a ‫‘—שרץ‬to
illegitimately rationalize improper behavior.

Such people think that they are accomplished scholars, and they are willing to concoct a ‘halachic’
way to permit almost any wrong. Rav Huna means that if one did a sin and knows how to learn
, he will find a way to justify his misdeed. Then he can say in all innocence, ‘‫‘—הותרה‬it’s
permitted. His ability to learn is what keeps him sinning!”

Rachel Scheinerman writes:7

Long ago, there were no funeral homes to handle dead bodies and people were not even buried in
coffins. Rather, the deceased, who likely died at home, were carried out the door on a bier,
supported by relatives and friends, and would eventually be brought outside the city for burial. On
the way, as we learn today, it was customary to rest the bier in the street, allowing neighbors to
gather and recite eulogies and stamp their feet in grief (the rabbis warn that one should wear shoes
and not sandals for this ritual). During this time, the whole town, or at least a portion of it, refrained
from work.

A common thread on today’s page is the concern that everyone should be treated with dignity at
the end. Since the poor could not afford expensive biers and burial clothes, the rabbis instituted
that all, even the rich, should be carried on plain biers and buried in simple linen shrouds. Similarly,
since famine blackened the faces of those who died of starvation, the rabbis instituted that all faces
were covered in death, so no one would see whose face was disfigured by malnutrition. Those who
died of intestinal disease smelled terrible so their bodies were accompanied by incense — and
therefore so was everyone else. And so on. All were equal in death.

These practices — that honor the dead and the dignity of all — make sense to me. But there’s a
story on today’s page that I found much more difficult to understand. It is brought as a warning
against grieving too much.

A certain woman who lived in the neighborhood of Rav Huna had seven sons. One of them died
and she wept for him excessively. Rav Huna sent a message to her: “Do not do this.” But she
took no heed of him. He then sent another message to her: “If you listen to me, it is well, but if

7
Mytalmudic learning.com

18
not, prepare shrouds for another death.” And they all died. In the end, he said to her: “Prepare
shrouds for yourself” — and soon thereafter she died.

Jewish mourning practices — which take the mourner through several stages, from acute grief to
less intense mourning and, finally, full reentry into the world — are renowned for their
psychological sensitivity. Mourning is a process, these practices remind us, and has many stages.
Mourners must be given time.

But according to the rabbis, there’s such a thing as too much time — and the woman in this story
has entered that territory. Rav Huna encourages her to wind down her grief and rejoin the living,
but she either will not or cannot. Rather than offer comfort, he issues a terse warning that proves
prescient. In the end, she is punished for grieving too long: first with the death of her other sons,
and then she herself dies.

At first, I was struck by the callousness of Rav Huna. Why shouldn’t a woman who has lost a child
mourn indefinitely? And moreover, why should she be punished in the most heinous way — by
losing her other children — for her understandable grief? It’s almost too awful to contemplate. Is
Rav Huna that cruel? Is God?

The answer, I believe, is not to read the story literally. Often in rabbinic stories, death is used as a
narrative device. The woman who cannot escape her own grief does not literally kill her other
children and herself, but by being so consumed by grief for the one who passed away, she
effectively abandons them. Their relationship dies. And ultimately, she cannot be herself.
Indefinite mourning becomes its own kind of death.

In the list of ways that all mourners are treated equally — buried in simple shrouds, faces covered,
incense masking any potential scent — is another rule that we treat all dead women as menstruants
(by purifying the utensils they used at the end of their lives), so as not to embarrass those who are.
This rule is a stark reminder that life in antiquity was short. Most women did not expect to live to
see menopause. Life was (and even today, still is) too short to spend it all in mourning.

The rabbis follow up the story of the woman who grieved her children and herself into the grave
with biblical verses that prove mourning must be limited, and a reiteration of the appropriate
timeline for mourning. It can be tempting to lose ourselves to grief, they warn, but we mustn’t.
After all, we are not yet dead. And we must keep living.

Rabbi Johnny Solomon writes:8

Sometimes you can read about an incident that took place in the past and not fully appreciate the
impact that it had on those living at the time and its implications for today - and a case in point is
what we are taught in our daf (Moed Katan 27b) about Rabban Gamliel and the cost of burial
where we are taught:
‘Originally, the cost of burial was harder on the deceased’s relatives than the death itself, to the
point that there were those who, [unable to afford the burial costs], would simply abandon the

8
www.rabbijohnnysolomon.com

19
corpse of their relative and flee. This continued until Rabban Gamliel came and made the
decision [that instead of his own death placing a heavy financial weight on his family,
notwithstanding the fact that they could afford this cost, he would] treat himself lightly [through
leaving instructions] to be taken out to burial wearing [simple] linen shrouds. Following his
example, the people adopted the custom to be buried in linen burial shrouds. Rav Papa says:
Nowadays, the people have accustomed themselves [to be buried] with coarse canvas which only
costs a zuz.’

What we see here - which is a phenomenon that was prevalent then with burial but which continues
to be prevalent in other aspects of Jewish living – is that situations arise when those with limited
funds cannot afford to give their loved ones the honour they deserve, and given the heavy financial
weight that often comes with celebrating life-cycle events or honouring the dead, this then impacts
the sense of self-respect felt by the living - and in the case described in the Gemara, the human
dignity shown to the dead.

Having observed this phenomenon, Rabban Gamliel realised that something urgent needed to be
done to demonstrate that everyone could – and should – be buried in a manner that would ensure
that funerals could be affordable to all. As Rabbi Menachem Mendel Kasher explains in a
responsum on this topic (Divrei Menachem 4 No. 5), this comes to show that religious leaders
need to be sensitive to the financial strains of a community and be an example to the rest of the
community in terms of modelling how things should be done.

Yet here’s the thing: imagine this was done now. There would be some who applaud Rabban
Gamliel for his commitment to preserve the dignity of the poor, and who would also likely be
inspired by the humility that he showed by ‘treating himself lightly’. But there would be others –
and especially those who are in a financial position to afford costly funerals - who would likely
criticize him for challenging and changing the past customs, for being a ‘reformer’, and for doing
things differently.

Of course, this is why, as Rabbi Kasher explains, these changes need to pushed and modelled by
senior religious leaders to ensure that they get the traction they need to spread within the
community, and also to avoid the likely criticism that such changes might attract.

The problem, however, is that there are times when senior religious leaders are unprepared to ‘treat
themselves lightly’, when such leaders are not sufficiently sensitive to the financial strains of a
community, and when the fear of being criticized for challenging and changing the past customs
and of being labelled as a ‘reformer’ for wanting to do things differently will be enough of a factor
to stop senior religious leaders from doing what needs to be done.

When this happens - and sadly I think that this is happening in our day and age - we all need to do
what we can to change things from a grassroots level notwithstanding the criticism that will likely
be directed to those who push for such changes.
And why? Because, as the Meiri writes (in his Beit HaBechira on Brachot 19b), ‫כבוד הבריות חביב‬
‫‘ – עד מאד אין לך מדה חביבה ממנה‬human dignity is very special; there is no principle more special
than this’.

20
 Leading By Example

Rabbi Jay Kelman writes:9

No idea is stressed more in the Torah than that of being kind to strangers, “because we were
strangers in the land of Egypt”. This notion, in various forms, appears no less than 36 times in the
Torah. Concern for the vulnerable is the hallmark of the Jew. There is little we are told about
Moshe prior to his being chosen by G-d, save for his concern for the weak of society--Jewish or
not. The need of sensitivity to the weak is greatest at times of communal joy. It is not by chance
that the mitzvah of rejoicing on the holidays is recorded in the context of ensuring that we do not
neglect the widow, the orphan, the stranger, and the Levite[1]. As the Rambam notes, if one enjoys
Yom Tov without helping the poor, one has neglected the mitzvah of simcha in favour of personal
gluttony. And at the other end of the spectrum, it is at the time of death that extra care must be
taken towards the poor.
The Gemara lists a series of decrees enacted to prevent embarrassment to the poor at the time of
mourning. Perhaps most telling is that in each of these cases, the decrees were reactive, not
proactive. They were actually legislated in reaction to acts of kindness by the general public--done
with little realization of how these acts of kindness had the unintended consequence of making the
poor feel shamed. Once the Sages came to such a realization, the law was changed in order to
ensure the necessary sensitivity to the poor.
“Formerly, they were wont to bring to the house of mourning, the rich in silver and gold baskets
and the poor in osier baskets of peeled willow twigs, and the poor felt shamed: they therefore
instituted that all should convey [victuals] in osier baskets of peeled willow twigs for the honour

9
https://torahinmotion.org/discussions-and-blogs/moed-katan-27-leading-by-example

21
of the poor” (Moed Katan 27a). Bringing beautifully wrapped gifts to the house of mourning is a
beautiful gesture--but can cause much pain to those who do not have the means to do so.
“Formerly, they were wont to uncover the face of the rich and cover the face of the poor, because
their faces turned livid in years of drought and the poor felt shamed; they therefore instituted that
everybody's face should be covered, out of deference for the poor”. While the notion of viewing
the body of the deceased seems foreign to us, it is not in so in other cultures, nor was it so in our
culture in Talmudic times. Such was stopped because the poor would not “look good”, and felt
shamed.
These series of eight decrees culminated with the following. “'Formerly, the [expense of] taking
the dead out [to his burial] was harder on his near-of-kin than his death itself, so that the dead
man's near-of-kin abandoned him and fled; until at last, Rabban Gamliel came [forward] and,
disregarding his own dignity, came out [to his burial] in flaxen vestments and thereafter the people
followed his lead to come out [to burial] in flaxen vestments,' said R. Papa. 'And nowadays, all the
world follows the practice of [coming out] even in a paltry [shroud] that costs but a zuz'”.
Dealing with death is difficult enough, but being unable to afford a proper funeral is more than
people can bear. The loss of dignity and the humiliation was so great the people “left town” so
others would take care of the deceased in a more dignified matter.
It is quite noteworthy that, unlike the seven previous examples listed, no rabbinic decree was issued
in this case. It is very likely people would not have listened to one. With the funeral being the last
chance to show respect to the deceased, limits on the amount of money spent on the funeral may
have been widely ignored[2]. (Sadly, today there is a growing trend amongst many Jews to bury
the dead in a most elaborate fashion). Something more powerful was needed, and that came in the
form of Rabban Gamliel, the Nassi, the undisputed leader of the Jewish people, and an
exceptionally wealthy person. Leading by example is the best and often the only way to initiate
change.
That it was Rabban Gamliel who led by example is doubly significant. Not only was he the leader
of the people, not only was he blessed with extreme wealth, but this was, in many ways, an act of
personal teshuva. Rabban Gamliel was appointed Nassi in the aftermath of the destruction of the
Temple, as the centre of Jewish life moved from Jerusalem to Yavne. He was tasked with the
rebuilding of Judaism in a new world. Such a task required strong leadership to ensure the unity
and even the continuation of the people. But it was those same qualities necessary for such
leadership that caused him to lack a certain degree of sensitivity to others.
Having publicly humiliated Rabbi Yehoshua on three separate occasions (see Brachot 27b),
Rabban Gamliel was impeached from his position. And as he entered Rabbi Yehoshua’s home to
ask forgiveness, and noticing how the walls were blackened, he exclaimed, “from the walls of your
home, I see that you are a blacksmith” (ibid 28a). To which Rabbi Yehoshua sighed in response,
“Woe onto the generation that you are its sustainer”. Rabban Gamliel, never having experienced
material needs, was incapable of appreciating the difficulty the poor went through just to scrape
by. It really is most difficult for those blessed with plenty to understand the struggles of the less
fortunate.

22
Yet Rabban Gamliel overcame this difficulty, and was the one to usher in new, affordable funeral
arrangements. From his time to ours, rich and poor alike are to take leave of the physical world in
the simplest of ways.

[1] See here as to why the Levite may be part of the vulnerable.
[2] One needs only to look at how rabbinic attempts to control spending on weddings have been ignored. Unless and until the
wealthy lead by example, it is doubtful any changes will be forthcoming in the need people feel to spend more than they can afford
on a wedding.

Healing the Trauma of Loss

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes:10

It took me two years to recover from the death of my father, of blessed memory. To this day,
almost twenty years later, I am not sure why. He did not die suddenly or young. He was well into
his eighties. In his last years he had to undergo five operations, each of which sapped his strength
a little more. Besides which, as a rabbi, I had to officiate at funerals and comfort the bereaved. I
knew what grief looked like.

The rabbis were critical of one who mourns too much too long.[1] They said that God himself
says of such a person, “Are you more compassionate than I am?”

10
https://www.rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/chukat/healing-trauma-loss/

23
Maimonides rules, “A person should not become excessively broken-hearted because of a person’s
death, as it says, ‘Do not weep for the dead nor bemoan him’ (Jer. 22:10). This means, ‘Do not
weep excessively.’ For death is the way of the world, and one who grieves excessively at the way
of the world is a fool.”[2] With rare exceptions, the outer limit of grief in Jewish law is a year, not
more.

Yet knowing these things did not help. We are not always masters of our emotions. Nor does
comforting others prepare you for your own experience of loss. Jewish law regulates outward
conduct not inward feeling, and when it speaks of feelings, like the commands to love and not to
hate, halakhah generally translates this into behavioural terms, assuming, in the language of
the Sefer ha-Hinnukh, that “the heart follows the deed.”[3]

I felt an existential black hole, an emptiness at the core of being. It deadened my sensations, leaving
me unable to sleep or focus, as if life was happening at a great distance and as if I were a spectator
watching a film out of focus with the sound turned off. The mood eventually passed but while it
lasted I made some of the worst mistakes of my life.

I mention these things because they are the connecting thread of parshat Chukat. The most striking
episode is the moment when the people complain about the lack of water. Moses does something
wrong, and though God sends water from a rock, he also sentences Moses to an almost unbearable
punishment: “Because you did not have sufficient faith in Me to sanctify Me before the Israelites,
therefore you shall not bring this assembly into the land I have given you.”

The commentators debate exactly what he did wrong. Was it that he lost his temper with the people
(“Listen now, you rebels”)? That he hit the rock instead of speaking to it? That he made it seem as
if it was not God but he and Aaron who were responsible for the water (“Shall we bring water out
of this rock for you?”)?

What is more puzzling still is why he lost control at that moment. He had faced the same problem
before, but he had never lost his temper before. In Exodus 15 the Israelites at Marah complained
that the water was undrinkable because it was bitter. In Exodus 17 at Massa-and-Meriva they
complained that there was no water. God then told Moses to take his staff and hit the rock, and
water flowed from it. So when in our parsha God tells Moses, “Take the staff … and speak to the
rock,” it was surely a forgivable mistake to assume that God meant him also to hit it. That is what
he had said last time. Moses was following precedent. And if God did not mean him to hit the rock,
why did he command him to take his staff?

What is even harder to understand is the order of events. God had already told Moses exactly what
to do. Gather the people. Speak to the rock, and water will flow. This was before Moses made his
ill-tempered speech, beginning,“Listen, now you rebels.” It is understandable if you lose your
composure when you are faced with a problem that seems insoluble. This had happened to Moses
earlier when the people complained about the lack of meat. But it makes no sense at all to do so
when God has already told you, “Speak to the rock … It will pour forth its water, and you will
bring water out of the rock for them, and so you will give the community and their livestock water
to drink.” Moses had received the solution. Why then was he so agitated about the problem?

24
Only after I lost my father did I understand the passage. What had happened immediately before?
The first verse of the chapter states: “The people stopped at Kadesh. There, Miriam died and was
buried.” Only then does it state that the people had no water. An ancient tradition explains that the
people had hitherto been blessed by a miraculous source of water in the merit of Miriam. When
she died, the water ceased.

However it seems to me that the deeper connection lies not between the death of Miriam and the
lack of water but between her death and Moses’ loss of emotional equilibrium. Miriam was his
elder sister. She had watched over his fate when, as a baby, he had been placed in a basket and
floated down the Nile. She had had the courage and enterprise to speak to Pharaoh’s daughter and
suggest that he be nursed by a Hebrew, thus reuniting Moses and his mother and ensuring that he
grew up knowing who he was and to which people he belonged. He owed his sense of identity to
her. Without Miriam, he could never have become the human face of God to the Israelites, law-
giver, liberator and prophet. Losing her, he not only lost his sister. He lost the human foundation
of his life.

Bereaved, you lose control of your emotions. You find yourself angry when the situation calls for
calm. You hit when you should speak, and you speak when you should be silent. Even when God
has told you what to do, you are only half-listening. You hear the words but they do not fully enter
your mind. Maimonides asks the question, how was it that Jacob, a prophet, did not know that his
son Joseph was still alive. He answers, because he was in a state of grief, and the Shechinah does
not enter us when we are in a state of grief.[4] Moses at the rock was not so much a prophet as a
man who had just lost his sister. He was inconsolable and not in control. He was the greatest of
the prophets. But he was also human, rarely more so than here.

Our parsha is about mortality. That is the point. God is eternal, we are ephemeral. As we say in
the Unetaneh tokef prayer on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we are “a fragment of pottery, a
blade of grass, a flower that fades, a shadow, a cloud, a breath of wind.” We are dust and to dust
we return, but God is life forever.

At one level, Moses-at-the-rock is a story about sin and punishment: “Because you did not have
sufficient faith in me to sanctify Me … therefore you shall not bring this assembly into the land I
have given you.” We may not be sure what the sin exactly was, or why it merited so severe a
punishment, but at least we know the ball-park, the territory to which the story belongs.

Nonetheless it seems to me that – here as in so many other places in the Torah – there is a story
beneath the story, and it is a different one altogether. Chukat is about death, loss and bereavement.
Miriam dies. Aaron and Moses are told they will not live to enter the Promised Land. Aaron dies,
and the people mourn for him for thirty days. Together they constituted the greatest leadership
team the Jewish people has ever known, Moses the supreme prophet, Aaron the first High Priest,
and Miriam perhaps the greatest of them all.[5] What the parsha is telling us is that for each of us
there is a Jordan we will not cross, a promised land we will not enter. “It is not for you to complete
the task.” Even the greatest are mortal.

25
That is why the parsha begins with the ritual of the Red Heifer, whose ashes, mixed with the ash
of cedar wood, hyssop and scarlet wool and dissolved in “living water,” are sprinkled over one
who has been in contact with the dead so that they may enter the Sanctuary.

This is one of the most fundamental principles of Judaism. Death defiles. For most religions
throughout history, life-after-death has proved more real than life itself. That is where the gods
live, thought the Egyptians. That is where our ancestors are alive, believed the Greeks and Romans
and many primitive tribes. That is where you find justice, thought many Christians. That is where
you find paradise, thought many Muslims.

Life after death and the resurrection of the dead are fundamental, non-negotiable principles of
Jewish faith, but Tanach is conspicuously quiet about them. It is focused on finding God in this
life, on this planet, notwithstanding our mortality. “The dead do not praise God,” says the Psalm.
God is to be found in life itself with all its hazards and dangers, bereavements and grief. We may
be no more than “dust and ashes”, as Abraham said, but life itself is a never-ending stream, “living
water”, and it is this that the rite of the Red Heifer symbolises.

With great subtlety the Torah mixes law and narrative together – the law before the narrative
because God provides the cure before the disease. Miriam dies. Moses and Aaron are overwhelmed
with grief. Moses, for a moment, loses control, and he and Aaron are reminded that they too are
mortal and will die before entering the land. Yet this is, as Maimonides said, “the way of the
world”. We are embodied souls. We are flesh and blood. We grow old. We lose those we love.
Outwardly we struggle to maintain our composure but inwardly we weep. Yet life goes on, and
what we began, others will continue.

Those we loved and lost live on in us, as we will live on in those we love. For love is as strong as
death,[6] and the good we do never dies.[7]

[1] Moed Katan 27b.

[2] Maimonides, Hilchot Avel 13:11.
[3] Sefer ha-Hinnuch, command 16.
[4] Maimonides, Eight Chapters, ch. 7, based on Pesachim 117a.
[5] There are many midrashim on this theme about Miriam’s faith, courage and foresight.
[6] Shir ha-Shirim 8:6.
[7] See Mishlei 10:2, 11:4.

26
 Rethinking periods of stringency with excessive mourning, fasting

Shammai Engelmayer writes:11

This coming Monday evening not only begins the gruesome 25-hour fast known as Tisha B’Av
(the Ninth of Av), it also marks the beginning of the end of two distinct but congruent periods of
mourning — the “Three Weeks” and its final “Nine Days.”

Should these mourning periods even be on our calendar?

The Three Weeks, with its proscriptions against listening to music, going to celebrations, cutting
hair and shaving and such, began on the Fast of the 17th of Tammuz (Shivah Asar b’Tammuz).
The Nine Days, which involve even more stringent mourning rituals, began last Sunday at
sundown, at the start of the month of Av. These additional rituals include refraining from eating

11
https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/rethinking-periods-of-stringency-with-excessive-mourning-fasting/

27
meat or drinking wine, except on Shabbat; bathing, except under very strict guidelines; doing
laundry; and wearing new clothes (or even pressed ones, according to some communities).

The Three Weeks marks the time between the breaching of Jerusalem’s walls and the destruction
of the Temple. According to tradition, the breach occurred on the 17th of Tammuz, leading to the
Temple’s destruction exactly three weeks later, on Tisha B’Av. Each day during this period
brought us closer to great calamity. Thus, the entire period is designated for public mourning.

According to Jeremiah 39:2 and 52:6, however, the walls of Jerusalem in the First Temple period
were breached on the Ninth of Tammuz, not the 17th. (That is when the walls were said to have
been breached before the Second Temple’s destruction.) As for Tisha B’Av, according to II Kings
25:8-9, the First Temple was destroyed on the seventh of Av, while Jeremiah 52:12 claims it
happened on the tenth. No biblical source claims the ninth, however.

(The Jerusalem Talmud supports the 17th of Tammuz as the day the walls were breached in the
case of the First Temple. A Tosafot in the Babylonian Talmud Tractate Rosh Hashanah
18b explains that the Jerusalem Talmud believed the two verses in Jeremiah were corrupted.)

The Torah, as I noted in my pre-Tisha B’Av column last year, says nothing about mourning
calamities of the past. The lifestyle the Torah prescribes celebrates life; it does not burden life by
establishing memorials to the catastrophes of yesteryear. It does not ask us, for example, to mark
the horrific mass murder of the newborn male children in Egypt, or the murderous attack Amalek
launched against our elderly, infirm, and very young during the march to Sinai.

The Torah does not memorialize catastrophes. They will not be forgotten because they are on
record, and that is considered to be enough in the Torah’s view.

28
On the other hand, elsewhere in the Tanach, we are told of four public fasts (see Zechariah 8:19),
as well as private fasts (see, for example, II Samuel 12:22–23), and one-time fasts following
calamities (see Judges 20:26, I Samuel 7:6 and 14:24, and II Chronicles 20:3.) There also were
fasts meant to thwart calamities, the most famous of which were the spontaneous fasts that broke
out throughout Persia after Haman’s plot was revealed, and the three-day fast Esther ordered in
Shushan before she approached the king. (See Esther 4:3 and 16; note that there is nothing in the
Book of Esther that ordains a permanent annual fast, however.)

All this leads to question whether the Three Weeks should be abolished, and whether the restrictive
rules relating to the Nine Days should be refined. To do both would seem to be consistent with the
Torah’s view, and in keeping with the views of our Sages of Blessed Memory.

To begin with, the Sages believed that excessive mourning can have fatal consequences.
(See BT Moed Katan 27b.)

Then there is the matter of the four public fasts noted in Zechariah 8:19—”the fast of the fourth
month [Tammuz] and the fast of the fifth [Tisha B’Av] and the fast of the seventh [the Fast of
Gedaliah on the third of Tishrei] and the fast of the tenth [month, meaning the Tenth of Tevet].”
Zechariah, quoting God, says of those fast days that they will one day “become occasions for joy
and gladness, happy festivals….”

What is that supposed to mean? “Said [the Babylonian sage] Rav Papa: This is what it says: In
times of peace, [these days] shall be for joy and gladness; if [it is a time when] there is government
persecution, they shall be fast days; if there is neither government persecution nor peace, those
who wish to do so may fast while those who do not wish to do so do not fast.” (See BT Rosh
Hashanah 18b)

29
While Jews in most parts of the world are free from formal government persecution, the Jews in
Israel (and arguably in France and elsewhere) cannot be said to be living in total peace. The
Talmud, therefore, seems to suggest that these four fasts are optional at this time. The only
exception, according to Rav Papa, is Tisha B’Av, because so many other calamities occurred on
that date since Zechariah’s time (not to mention how many more have occurred since Rav Papa’s
day). It follows that if “the fast of the fourth month” is optional, there is no reason for the three
weeks that follow it to be days of mourning.

What of the eight days that precede Tisha B’Av? The Talmud (see BT Taanit 26b) does say that
“from the start of Av we decrease our rejoicing,” but it limits serious mourning rituals only to the
days leading up to Tisha B’Av in the week in which the fast actually falls, not from the First of
Av. This is repeated in BT Yevamot 43a: “During the week in which the Ninth of Av occurs, it is
forbidden to cut the hair and to wash clothes.” The most restrictive rules, according to BT Taanit
26b, relate only to the day before Tisha B’Av: “On Erev Tisha B’Av, one does not eat two cooked
dishes [during the same meal, because this suggests feasting; presumably, this is limited to the
final meal before the fast], and does not eat meat nor drink wine.”

Interestingly, Rambam (Maimonides) qualifies this. He avers that not eating meat is the accepted
custom in the week in which Tisha B’Av falls, but he seems to consider that an option. Of the rule
in BT Taanit itself, he says it applies only “when on Erev Tisha B’Av a person ate [the final meal
before the fast] after midday. If, however, he eats [that final meal] before midday…, he may eat
whatever he desires.” (See his Mishneh Torah Taanit 5:8.)

The period known as the Three Weeks is a stringency that does not appear to be supported by the
practice of our Sages, and even the Fast of the 17th of Tammuz would seem to be at best an option
in our day. While the Nine Days were seen by the Sages as a time of limited mourning, only the
days of the week leading up to Tisha B’Av were seen as restrictive by them, and the most severe
rules applied only to the day before Tisha B’Av, and on Tisha B’Av itself.

30
Perhaps, this is how we should approach these days, as well. How sad it is, then, that merely raising
such questions can get someone labeled a heretic. That certainly is a reason to fast on Tisha B’Av.

The Psychology of Grief and Mourning in Judaism

Gary S. Gerson writes:12

12
Journal of Religion and Health Vol. 16, No. 4 (Oct., 1977), pp. 260-274

31
32
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35
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37
38
39
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44
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46
 ‫אין להתאבל על הנפטר יותר מדי‬

‫‪13‬‬
‫מ א ת ה ר ה " ג ה ר ב יע ק ב ר וז'ה ש ליט " א ‪ ,‬ר ב יח יד ת זק " א ת ל א ביב‬

‫א‪ .‬חובה על אדם להתאבל במות אחד משבעה קרוביו‪ ,‬וכך פסק הרמב"ם )הלכות אבל פרק י"ג הלכה י"ב( "כל מי שאינו‬
‫‪".‬מתאבל כמו שצוו חכמים הרי זה אכזרי‪ ,‬אלא יפחד וידאג ויפשפש במעשיו ויחזור בתשובה‬

‫והוסיף על כך בשו"ת רדב"ז )חלק ג סימן תקנ"ה( שאלה‪ :‬על אחד מגדולי הדור שמת לו בן ולא הוריד עליו דמעה אחת‬
‫‪.‬אם זו מדה טובה או לא‬

‫תשובה‪ :‬זו מדה רעה מורה על קושי הלב ועל רוע תכונת הנפש והיא מדת אכזריות‪ ...‬אבל אנחנו מקבלי התורה יש לנו‬
‫להאמין ולדעת כי העולם הזה ענין נכבד מאוד למסתפקים ממנו כראוי ולמתנהגים בו כשורה ובו ישיג האדם חיי העוה"ב‬
‫והשארות הנפש כי הוא נקרא עולם המעשה ולכן אין ראוי לההביל ענייניו ולתלות צרותיו ברוע הנהגתו ולהתאונן על‬
‫הזמן כאשר עשו רוב המשוררים הראשונים‪ .‬אלא ראוי להתאונן ולהתאבל ולקונן על מעשיו דכתיב מה יתאונן אדם חי‬
‫גבר על חטאיו והבוכה ומתאבל ומוריד דמעות על קרובים וכ"ש על אדם כשר מדת חסידים ונביאים ואנשי מעשה היא‬
‫‪.‬ומורה על טהרת נפשו והכנעת לבו לפני קונו ויתאונן על חטאיו ויתאבל על עוונותיו אשר היו לזה סבה‬

‫‪.‬ב‪ .‬אולם חכמים קבעו כיצד‪ ,‬עד כמה‪ ,‬יש להביע צער על מת ואסרו להוסיף על כך‬

‫‪13‬‬
‫‪http://www.yadmeir.co.il/?CategoryID=314&ArticleID=1082‬‬

‫‪47‬‬
‫כך אמרו חכמים )מסכת מועד קטן דף כ"ז עמוד ב'(‪" :‬אל תבכו למת ואל תנדו לו‪ ,‬אל תבכו למת ‪ -‬יותר מדאי ואל תנדו‬
‫לו ‪ -‬יותר מכשיעור‪ .‬הא כיצד? שלשה ימים ‪ -‬לבכי‪ ,‬ושבעה ‪ -‬להספד‪ ,‬ושלשים ‪ -‬לגיהוץ ולתספורת‪ .‬מכאן ואילך ‪ -‬אמר‬
‫‪.‬הקדוש ברוך הוא‪ :‬אי אתם רחמנים בו יותר ממני‬

‫‪".‬ואמר רב יהודה אמר רב‪ :‬כל המתקשה על מתו יותר מדאי ‪ -‬על מת אחר הוא בוכה‬

‫ופסק הרמב"ם )הלכות אבל פרק יג הלכה יא(‪" :‬אל יתקשה אדם על מתו יתר מדאי‪ ,‬שנאמר אל תבכו למת ואל תנודו לו‪,‬‬
‫כלומר יתר מדאי שזהו מנהגו של עולם‪ ,‬והמצער עצמו יותר על מנהגו של עולם הרי זה טפש‪ ,‬אלא כיצד יעשה‪ ,‬שלשה‬
‫‪".‬לבכי‪ ,‬שבעה להספד‪ ,‬שלשים יום לתספורת ולשאר החמשה דברים‬

‫בספר החינוך )מצוה רס"ד( מסביר היטב את מטרת מנהגי האבלות‪" :‬בבוא אליו עונש מקרה מות באחד מקרוביו אשר‬
‫הטבע מחייב האהבה להם‪ ,‬תחייבנו התורה לעשות מעשים בעצמו אשר יעוררוהו לקבוע מחשבתו על הצער שהגיע אליו‪,‬‬
‫ואז ידע ויתבונן בנפשו כי עוונותיו גרמו לו להגיע אליו הצער ההוא‪ ,‬כי השם לא יענה מלבו ויגה בני איש כי אם מצד‬
‫חטאים‪ ,‬וזאת היא אמונתינו השלימה‪ ,‬אנחנו בעלי דת יהודית היקרה‪ .‬ובתת האדם אל לבו ענין זה במעשה האבילות‪ ,‬ישית‬
‫‪".‬דעתו לעשות תשובה ויכשיר מעשיו כפי כוחו‬

‫‪Rethinking Bereavement‬‬
‫‪Jewish Voices of Tradition at the Time of Death‬‬
‫‪Pirkei Avot as an Affirmation of Life After Loss‬‬

‫‪Rabbi Adam Ruditsky writes:14‬‬

‫‪14‬‬
‫‪https://www.academia.edu/66936932/Rethinking_Bereavement‬‬

‫‪48‬‬
 Reactions to Death from the Bible and Talmud

Jacob

When Jacob hears of Joseph’s death, he is deeply grieved. Still reeling from the loss of his
wife Rachel, his grief at the loss of his son is so profound that he cannot be comforted by his
remaining sons and daughters, grieving for many days and swearing he will mourn to his grave
(Gen. 37:32-35). Sfrono comments that Jacob “did not want to remove the worry from his heart,”
which is why Jacob fears sending his youngest son Benjamin to Egypt with his brothers. 15 Jacob
grieves both the loss of a son and the potential loss of another. Jacob feels tremendous guilt about
the death of Joseph. After all, he had allowed his son to go into the wilderness alone. He is not
going to make that same mistake with Benjamin. Jacob first encountered God when he left his
parent’s home and then did so again at Luz when he affirmed the covenant with Israel’s ancestors
(cf. Gen. 28 and 35). When Jacob finds out about his son’s death, he feels abandoned by God,
taken hostage by his own expectations that God would prevent anything bad from happening to
him or his family. As a result, Jacob appears to have severed his relationship with God; perhaps
out of hurt, grave disappointment or outright anger. In the end, it turns out that Joseph is still alive,
but for almost 20 years Jacob’s pain impacts every relationship he has.

King David

King David experiences anticipatory grief over the eventual death of his son with
Bathsheba (2 Sam 12:13-23). David fasts, prays to God to save the child’s life, and refuses to leave
his room or eat, but at the news of his son’s death, he gets up, cleans himself, and put’s on proper
cloths. David’s reaction could not be more different from Jacob’s. Where Jacob shows no interest
in God after his loss, David, in the anticipation of his son’s death and in its aftermath, actively
seeks out God. In Psalm 51, David’s words read as if he is seeking forgiveness from God for his
sin with Bathsheba, a sin he has embraced as the source of his personal tragedy. Even as he seeks
forgiveness for his sin, David’s desire of God in life is so strong that he implores God not to remove
the divine spirit from him (cf. Ps. 51:13).

Ima Shalom

In Bava Metzia 59b, Ima Shalom yells in agony when she realizes that her husband’s tears
have caused the death of her brother. The background to the story had to do with the majority
decision in establishing Halacha, rather than one person. In this case, the one person was Rabbi
Eliezer (the husband of Ima Shalom), who was excommunicated by Rabbi Gamliel (the brother of
Ima Shalom and leader of the Sanhedrin), for the sake of the whole. The greater teaching of this
section of Talmud is about how to treat other people, such as a convert and their children, or how
a husband should respond to his wife. So important is this teaching that the early Sages believed

15
Sfrono, p, 205, note on v. 35

49
that, for God, undeserved tears would bring on the judgement that was the root of Ima Shalom’s
concerns. Ima Shalom therefore seeks to prevent her husband from shedding tears after being
excommunicated, tears which would normally come while reciting tacahnun during daily prayer.
Yet on one certain Rosh Chodesh (when tacahnun is not said), she feels felt safe leaving to answer
a knock at the door, but she errs by confusing her days. As such, it is not Rosh Chodesh, so her
husband prays tacahnun and his tears fall, which causes her brother’s death. Ima Shalom cannot
blame God, who is justified to avenge the hurt, and she simultaneously cannot blame her husband,
as he did not knowingly do anything wrong. While she possibly wrestles with her view of her
brother’s death as an unwarranted punishment upon her husband, her brother was the leader of the
Sanhedrin, so she feels she cannot question a leader’s judgement. Her anger underscores her own
self-blame for failing to prevent something that was out of her control in the first place.

Abba bar Ahavah

In Berachot 42b-43a, we find a general conversation about saying a blessing before eating.
The issue is the intent of those gathered to eat, the question: did they as a group have the mind to
eat with one another, or were they random individuals who just happened to be sitting together at
mealtime? If the intent was for all to sit and eat together, then only one bracha for the whole was
needed, but if not, each must say their own. After Rabbi Akiva dies his disciples, returning home
from his funeral, stop by a river to eat. Since the intent of that day was not necessarily eat together
but go to a funeral, they ask how the blessing should be said before eating. At that point Rabbi
Abba bar Ahavah, a student of Rabbi Akiva, stands up, twists the top of his garment, which he had
already rent at the funeral, and rents it once more. When asked why, Abba bar Ahavah says he
mourned twice, first at the death of his teacher and second the loss of his teachings. While Ima
Shalom blames herself because she fails to avert something that is really out of her control to begin
with, Abba bar Ahavah regrets his attention as a student for not learning more while his teacher
was still alive.

Our intent is not to dissect or interpret the meaning of each story above, but to reflect on
the reaction of the bereaved to their loss. As such, Jacob is deeply hurt and angry, primarily at
God but also toward himself. David feels shame and guilt, after all, if he had not sinned with
Bathsheba perhaps his child’s fate would have been different. Ima Shalom has not only the normal
emotions of loss, but she also blames herself for not preventing it, hence the bulk of her blame is
self-directed. And finally, Abba bar Ahavah mourns both the loss of his teacher and the loss his
teachings, speaking to Abba bar Ahavah’s regret based in his own religious commitment. Anger,
guilt, shame, blame, and regret, all normal human emotions at death, are encountered in the above
four stories. Lisa had those feelings; anger that her husband died when he did, guilt that she felt
anger toward him now that he was dead, shame that she could not be a better support to her
daughters, and she blamed the doctors, who she thought had not done enough to save her husband.
The most troubling of these emotions was her regret. Was she a good wife, mother, and friend?
Did she do or say enough to support him and show him care? Lisa’s response to death was varied
and very normal. This begs the question: What might be the underlying foundation to such
reactions?16

16
Later in chapter 3 we will explore therapeutic theories regarding such reactions.

50
Humankind and the death experience

Though each of these four encounters are unique in themselves, they share a commonality,
both human and spiritual in an appeal to God.17 This thesis will not address why people die, how
they die, and when they die, but rather the human need to understand these unanswerable
questions.18 Later, we will examine the life of Job and see how his own sense of healing lay in his
ability to accept what could not be answered.19 With that, our concern will be not be why a person
dies, but why a mourner reacts, both humanly and spiritually.

Proverbs 20:27 tells us, “the soul of a man is the lamp of the Lord.” What does that mean
and why does it matter? The 16th century Italian Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto teaches that the
soul was created to enter into the physical body, thus the transcendent soul is restored every day
by God when it comes to live inside the body here on earth.20 The Lithuanian based Chofetz Chaim,
who died in the 20th century, taught that “the soul’s only desire is to fulfill its Maker’s will – to
learn his Torah.” 21 The study of Torah is a living pursuit, so “the primary time … for learning
Torah is now, here in this lowly material world.”22 The Chofetz Chaim taught that “when the soul
leaves the body and immediately returns to its Source and Maker… it can no longer gain anymore
Torah.”23 The study of Torah is a time-bound activity of “this world.” It allows the soul of a person
to connect with God above. Both Rabbi Luzzatto and the Chofetz Chaim teach that the soul, which
lives in the physical body, is connected to the transcendent God, hence both Rabbis essentially
affirm Proverbs 20:27: “the soul of a man is the lamp of the Lord.”

If the soul lives within the physical body and the soul comes from God and is transcendent, one
could infer that a soul of a person is the epicenter of what connects a person to what is beyond the
physical boundaries of this world. For the mourner, if both life and death are connected to God,
seeking to establish or reaffirm that person-God connection might be the very desire of the soul.
When a person dies, mourners often verbalize their desire for the soul of the departed to return to
God and rest in peace, but what of the mourner’s? The soul of the mourner likewise has been
greatly impacted by the death experienced, therefore it only stands to reason that their soul would
also seek to connect with God. Rabbi Maurice Lamm joins together the mourner’s reaction to death
with the act of repentance in two categories.24

The first, based on the mourner’s relationship of regret with the deceased, is associated with
negative feelings such as anger, fear, regret, and shame. The second is based on the mourner’s
relationship to God. Ima Shalom and Rabbi Abba bar Ahavah fit into the first category, their
relationship to the deceased provoked feelings of blame and regret. Jacob and David fit into the
second category, as Jacob’s anger was aimed at God, while David’s feelings of guilt and shame
were processed through his relationship to God. Lamm suggests that a person’s own religious

17
Just as it was with Lisa.
18
Again, concerning Lisa, she needed to know, “why my husband,” a question that will probably never be answered to her
stratification even long after her loss is accepted. Knowing why a human need and itself is based in Torah.
19
See how Job and his wife responded to their own loss, pp. 58ff.; see season of avelut
20
Luzzatto, p.75, Also from the Siddur, the Modeh Ani/Elohai Neshma gives thanks for the daily return of the soul
21
Chofetz Chaim, Deuteronomy, Ha’azinu, p. 327
22
Ibid.
23
Ibid.
24
Repentance here should not be seen as the Christian understanding that our very soul and eternity are tied up in “fixing” a
relationship with God. Here, it is about “teshuva, or retuning to God’s ways as we live int his world. Kaplan, p. 106.

51
commitment, conviction of consciousness, and spirituality act as a personal self-diagnostic of
Godly “ethical living.” This allows the mourner to take a “moral inventory.” Lamm contends that
his two categories speak to the mourner’s sense of lack—realized or not, sought after or emergent.
This lack creates the need to repent, either from their feelings for the dead or the mourner’s
ruptured connection to God, thus one loss is human and the other spiritual.25 This fragmentation
of the mourner after a death is a matter of coherence, and the brokenness of the mourner propels
them to seek God, who makes the soul “whole again.”26 While we will return later to this idea of
coherence in our discussion of bereavement in Chapter 3, here we will explore the impact of
“related brokenness” on a mourner. Therefore, we must consider the following question: if a
mourner maintains a partnership of physical and spiritual, is their brokenness also jointly physical
and spiritual or is it formed from a tension between the two?

Broken Vessels and the Human Condition

Psalm 27 says, “My father and my mother have forsaken me, the Lord will gather me.” In
his Commentary on the Psalms, Benjamin Segal describes the writer as an orphan, thus the psalm
“implies a helplessness, as even the very symbols of protection, his parents, are not there for
him.”27 The psalmist’s fear is tied into the brokenness of his humanity. Given the idea of
brokenness, we will briefly look at the Jewish mystical tradition of the Lurianic Kabbalah called
Shevirat ha Kelim, or the shattering of the vessels, to better understand the mourner’s condition.

Shevirat ha Kelim is connected with the Eyn-Sof, who vacated the space where he would
create the universe and all that it contains, and action of the Eyn-Sof called tzizum, or contraction.28
The result left the vacated universe simultaneously balanced and vulnerable, so that the primordial
lights of the Eyn-Sof could not be contained by the vessels of the lower emanations of God, the
Sefirot. The brilliance and power of the lights broke six of the lower Sefirot and cracked the lowest.
The by-product, a “cosmic catastrophe,” became the basis of a broken universe that called for a
tikkun, “the restoration of the universe to its original design in the mind of its Creator”29 Kabbalah
teaches that the restoration of the universe to its proper place with the Creator is accomplished
through keeping the mitzvot of Torah. Like the vessels of the Sefirot, humankind was broken and
demands restoration just like the cosmos, meaning that humans also need a tikkun (correction). If
the universe between God, Adam, and Eve was not “disrupted by sin,” the “divine will” would
have remained unbroken with Adam and his family. That perfect harmony would have allowed for
an “uninterrupted communion” between God and all the affairs of humankind.30

For Kabbalah, that broken human connection was repaired by Torah, the root of tikkun,
which took place when the 613 mitzvot (commandments of God) were united with the middot
(human character), reaffirming that human restoration was foundationally spiritual.31 Adam’s sin
“smashed [his soul] to pieces,” something that would effect “the bulk of the souls that were in
Adam,” who would also require tikkun. While this is nothing like the Christian teaching of Original

25
Lamm, pp. 235-237
26
ibid. 152-152
27
Segal, p. 123
28
E. Klein, p. xxxvi.
29
For fuller account beyond this thesis see Kabbalah, Scholem, pp. 128-140
30
ibid, pp. 153-145, Klein, pp. 260-261
31
Scholem, pp. 162-164, Etkes, pp. 289ff,

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Sin, Judaism recognizes the need for human repair (see FN 9 above). Maimonides Hilchot
Teshuvah asserts that repentance is not just about one’s deeds, “but he must repent from anger,
hatred, envy, frivolity, the pursuit of money an honor, the pursuit of gluttony, and the like.”32

Rabbi Israel Salanter, the 19th century founder of the Mussar movement, approached the
broken human condition that stems from Adam in terms of tikkun ha-middot, or character
restoration. Salanter taught that the “reshaping to fundamental contents of the soul [involved]
uprooting negative qualities of anger, severity and pride … developing such good qualities as
patience and modesty.”33 For Salanter, Torah is more than “the realm of mitzvah and transgression
[but] of character training … [hence the] underlying physiological motivations” of a person are
repaired through connection with God. We can learn from the story of Adam in the garden that the
transgression of a faulty character must be restored if a person is to respond correctly. In this case,
when Adam heard God walking in the Garden, we read, ‫ויאמר לו איכה‬, “and God said to him (Adam)
where are you?”34 It is worth noting that ‫ איכה‬is a similar root to the word ‫איך‬, which means how.35
So when God asks Adam, “Where are you” (‫)איכה‬, it was not so much about location as it was
about self-awareness, or in Avot, “know where you come from and know where you are going”
(Avot 3:1). It is better to understand “where are you” in terms of “how (‫ )איך‬are you dealing with
life now?” Adam went from a free, unashamed life to one of fear, shame, blame, and anger, all
negative traits that Rabbi Salanter would say has to do with tikkun ha-middot. Adam’s necessary
correction lay in his need of a tikkun to address the flaws in his own soul that caused him to respond
to his situation of personal loss the way he did. The question, “where are you,” asks Adam (and
in the end us) to take honest personal stock of his life in that moment.

What might have happened if Adam said, “God, I was wrong, and I am sorry?” This
question reflects the nature of tikkun ha-middot. Salanter taught that the tikkun of the soul helped
the development of good qualities such as “patience and modesty,” qualities that would allude
Adam in the garden. Sin allowed for the distortion of his character, which in turn caused him to
improperly respond to God, as Adam’s instinct was to respond in defiance. We learn from Adam
that the death of the “garden’s innocence” sprang from his negative reaction, not from the fact that
he reacted to his loss in the first place. Adam’s response sprang from the brokenness inherent in
all humanity, thus the “sin” committed here is the disruption of a person’s ability to respond
correctly to life-moments, reflecting choices that are made pertaining to self, others and God. This
is what Maimonides and Salanter mean when they speak of the function and repair of the character.
Adam’s behavior to his reaction of loss has the capacity to teach a mourner about their own loss.

Spirituality and Religion

The National Interfaith Coalition taught that spirituality is about “life in relationship to
God, self, community and environment.” Now while there are many ways that can be broken
down in general it means that the human experience to every facet of life in this world and beyond
is interconnected, further meaning for our purposes, that bereavement touches the human soul on
a deeply spiritual level, something we will see throughout. Religion, and in our case Judaism, is

32
Rambam MT Hilchot Teshuvah, p. 689
33
Etkes, p. 290
34
Genesis 3:8
35
BDB, p. 32

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the outer garment that covers the internal make up that is connected to all of “life in relationship
to God, self, community and environment.” More than that, back to the above, Adam’s innate
behavior that lead to his sin was reflective of his broken spiritual condition (as defined there) and
his religion (don’t eat of that tree) acted as the means to help repair what had been broken, again
Adam was connecting to a life-moment. Put that another way, Israel Salanter taught that “ethical
perfection is expressed in the maximal response to the commandments of Torah,” the
commandments supporting human growth. Human need reflects a soul’s yearning to cling to Torah
itself. Through this lens, we can examine Lisa’s spiritual response to her husband’s death, in which
she ultimately sought the wisdom of Pirkei Avot. For Lisa her life was now in connection with a
relationship of death and all that goes with it. This life-moment for Lisa was a time of bereavement
that falls under the category of Spirituality since death and its aftermath is a part of our
environment. This exemplifies what I have dubbed the relationship between spirituality and
religion.

Spirituality and religion are not separate categories of belief but rather internal and external
expressions of faith. Rashi teaches that the breastplate worn by the High Priest in Exodus 28:4 was
to be done so ‫( כנגד הלב‬c’neged halev), or opposite the heart.36 While Rashi did not define precisely
what ‫ כנגד הלב‬means, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik says that the Breastplate is worn “upon” the heart
as opposed to Rashi’s translation of “opposite.”37 Upon the heart would mean that the outer
garment of the Breastplate was upon the heart by being external to it, as external is opposite of
internal. Rashi teaches that the heart of the priest must be pure in order to put the Breastplate upon
himself. Rabbi Noah Farkas describes religion as “an imaginative process that bridges the chasm
between the way the world is and the way the world should be,” meaning religion—that works
in the world—and spirituality—the way our heart wants things to be—need to be understood as
the internal heart of a person expressed externally through a religious practice, or ‫קדושה‬.38

Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein, the son-in-law of Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, offers insights
both on the relationship between spirituality and religion and between spirituality and the Halachot
(Jewish Law).39 Per Lichtenstein, the basic spiritual nature of a person is a triad of existence,
culture, and the physical. “Existence” is purely existential in terms of being, although the highest
form of existence is connected to God. The “cultural” is connected to the traditions that frame a
person—religious, values, ethics or behavior - whereas the “physical” means that, like all animals,
we must eat and drink, although as people we are qualitatively different, being “B’zelem Elohim,”
in the image of God.40 Lichtenstein says that a “spiritual life… seeks to advance the distinctly
human aspect of personal and communal existence… of man as a moral and intellectual being.”
Lichtenstein argues that mankind’s highest form of spirituality is connected to God, which then
translates into practice and lifestyle.

A person is not only spiritual, but lives life in response to the “halakic linchpin” of Jewish
law in relationship to self, and as such experiences day-to-day life as spiritual. Genesis Rabbah
41a says, ‫לא ניתנו המצוות אלא כדי לצרך את הבריות‬, the mitzvot were just not given, rather as mankind
would be helped by them, which Lichtenstein interprets to mean that the mitzvot are

36
Rashi, Exodus 28:4
37
Ibid., Soloveitchik, pp. 248-249
38
Rabbi Farkas blog on Parashat Vaykahel, https://noahfarkas.com/2019/02/
39
Mintz, pp. 1-33
40
Gen. 1:26

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“unquestionably spiritual.” As such, the Mitzvot “ennobles and purifies human personality,” and
“brings a person closer” to God, helping people reach the spiritual heights of their existence. The
relationship between the mitzvot and the spiritual nature of people is like the relationship between
clothes that cover a body, the former works with the later, not separate from it. Lichtenstein writes
that the “Halacha enriches spirituality” by “purposely limiting and guiding human interaction”
when dealing with life in general, and “in a positive and substantive vein” in relationship to God.
The mitzvot are the extension and therefore expression of the outward human encounter with their
inward spiritual voice. In the Psalms we see this relationship:

Both Psalms exemplify the human relationship of spirituality and religion in our pleas to God. The
human sense of living in a challenging, broken world causes the psalmist to call out to God because
of his or her “heart is faint.” Likewise, the human instinct to seek guidance by religious values and
traditions is borne from that same heart, thus the psalmist asks: “Grant me understanding so that
I may cherish your Torah and keep it with all of my heart.” Spirituality and religion are equal
partners in the human journey although they may seem like counter-opposites at times. In tandem,
they speak to the totality of human nature.

Final Thoughts

Above we asked the question: If a mourner is both physical and spiritual, is their
brokenness also both physical and spiritual or is it a result of the tension between the two, or
physical and spiritual? Psalm 61 spoke of a person who is faint of heart from the challenges of this
life, whereas in Psalm 119 the author seeks Torah upon the path of the heart’s spiritual yearnings.
Fear, anger, weariness, and loneliness are foundational to the physical being. The spiritual is a
foundational part of a person that seeks God. The mourner’s relationship to both the spiritual and
religious appear to be fluid and after death death can be understood as follows. The feelings
associated with death—as we saw above with Jacob, King David, Ima shalom and Aba bar
Ahavah—are physical, so, like the psalmist whose “heart is faint,” a mourner will be faint of heart.
Conversely, since death is a spiritual matter, the spiritual existence of the mourner will not relate
to death with a “faint heart,” but connect with Torah, as the spiritual nature of mankind identifies
with God existentially. Is it any wonder that the spiritual part of humanity seeks out Torah whereas
the physical part, per Lichtenstein, is constrained by it?

Considering the physical nature of mankind as the root of emotions that make the heart
“faint,” is it any wonder that the spiritual part of mankind contends with the limited nature of the
physical? The emotions that accompany the mourner during a time of grief are both spiritual and
physical. This awareness of a person’s complexity is what Carl Jung refers to when he says that

55
for the modern person, “living” in the present does not make them aware but being “fully conscious
of the presence does.”41 This type of self-awareness is needed to comprehend the following. The
spiritual seeks to reconcile death through the ways of God but is pained because it cannot fully
commune with God given the physical limitations of the body in which it is housed. Conversely,
the physical that attempts to process the prevailing feelings is pained because it is not inclined to
seek the spiritual given the body’s physical and temporal limitations. This is not a gnostic
separation of body and spirit, but rather recognition of the inherent tension between the two. As a
result, the mourner must contend with the struggle between the two, which springs from the
conflict within a person’s spiritual nature. In answer to our question, mourning is both a physical
and a spiritual experience, and as such the dual voices of tension coexist. The grief experience is
therefore an expression of our multilayered humanity.

Stop Saying "I'm Sorry for Your Loss"

Grief attacks everyone, but there are better ways to address it when it happens.

41
Jung, p. 197

56
Jamie Cannon writes:42

Why do we consider death to be a loss? When someone dies, we haven’t lost them. Death is so
much greater than loss. It is a reorganizing of life’s framework. It involves brutal emotions with
no option for escape. How can we possibly think that “I’m sorry for your loss” could come close
to covering that?

Grief has been much researched and thoroughly defined. We have tried to conceptualize it in
stages, in the fluidity of the way it ravages us, and in equations to stop its torment. Despite our
best efforts, it remains elusive.

Grief is one thing we have never learned to predict. It is one thing we are unable to prepare for, to
conquer, to subdue. We have learned to master weather patterns, fight ravaging diseases, and
barricade what is most precious to us against untold dangers. When it comes to grief, we have been
continually beaten down and devastated.

Grief Does Not Equal Loss

When grief strikes, it does not just lead to a loss. It leads into a valley, where life is forever altered,
and beginnings have to be carved out afresh. Grief robs us of the innocent warmth that comes with
knowing where we are headed. It leaves us exposed, vulnerable, and desolate. Grief has a way of
creating a vacuum of air around us that steals our ability to take a deep breath.

In trying to heal from grief, recognize that there is no way to replace core elements of your life
that are no longer with you. You cannot find new hobbies, travel like you always wanted to, or
reconnect with old friends in hopes of dimming the blinding pain of grief.

When someone is formed as part of you, there will eternally be a space in your life that fits only
them. Our lives are comprised of countless distinctive shapes that orbit our everyday atmosphere.
When grief extinguishes one of them, we will never be the same. If the sun was decimated
tomorrow, Earth would have to rebuild in order to exist. We are the same. Grief forces us to reshape
our reality.

Looking at Grief in a New Way

Many people work very hard to convince us that grief can be overcome. A different perspective in
the healing process is that grief will always be present. There will never be a day when we wake
up and forget the missing elements of our lives. Eventually, the pain that accompanies this
remembering will dull and be less acute when it hits.

42
https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/stress-fracture/202002/stop-saying-im-sorry-your-loss

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Ultimately, we will find other outlets into which we can pour our devotion and energy. Perhaps
one of the most unfair aspects of grief is that we are forced to change the direction of our love. We
are forced to shift a fundamental part of who we are, at the very moment we are not ready and are
unprepared. Loving a person who can no longer receive it is heartbreaking.

Tough Love

RICHARD HIDARY WRITES:43

The Talmud, which we begin anew this week after having just completed the seven-and-a-half
year cycle of reading it one page at a time, opens with a blast. In its very first pages, it raises the
same question anyone comforting a loved one battling with cancer, say, is asking themselves
urgently: Why do bad things happen to great people?

The longest Talmudic discussion about how people react to pain is found near the opening of the
Talmud Bavli in tractate Berakhot 5a. Drawing from the image of the suffering servant in Isaiah
53, the fourth century CE sage Rava explains the paradoxical concept of “suffering of love.” Such
chastisement is not punishment for a misdeed but rather a test directed to the innocent: “whomever
God finds desirable, he afflicts.” In this view, undeserved Jobian oppression presents an
opportunity reserved for the ultra-righteous to deepen their commitment by persevering in their
faith even in the face of tribulation. An early midrash from Rabbi Akiva and his students glorifies

43
https://www.tabletmag.com/sections/news/articles/tough-love

58
suffering as, “beloved,” “better than receiving good,” and an expression of closeness to God, “as
a man chastises his son.”

This may sound too archaic and harsh to us, but remember that Rabbi Akiva and his school thrived
within a philosophical Greco-Roman culture that they shared with early Christianity and that
expressed similar teachings. Consider, then, the wisdom of Seneca (4BCE – 65CE), the Roman
Stoic philosopher, who, when asked to address the same topic, wrote:

Do you not see how differently fathers and mothers indulge their children? How the former urge
them to begin their tasks early, will not suffer them to be idle even on holidays, and exercise them
till they perspire, and sometimes till they shed tears—while their mothers want to cuddle them in
their laps, and keep them out of the sun, and never wish them to be vexed, or to cry, or to work.
God bears a fatherly mind towards good men, and loves them in a manly spirit. “Let them,” says
He, “be exercised by labours, sufferings, and losses, that so they may gather true strength.”

This solution to suffering may not resonate well with modern scientific and humanist sensibilities,
but if we can suspend our disbelief and enter the ancient world of magic and miracles, then we can
more successfully journey into the Talmudic mind and return safely to the 21st century, hopefully
gaining worthwhile souvenirs along the way.

To do that, we’d do well to begin with Rabbi Akiva, whose martyrdom remains the most moving
story about the glorification of suffering. As the Romans were raking his flesh for the crime of
teaching Torah, Rabbi Akiva prepares to recite Shema, provoking the astonishment of his students:

His students said to him: Our teacher, even now, as you suffer, you recite Shema? He said to them:
All my days I have been troubled by the verse: With all your soul, meaning:

(Berakhot 61a)

This story at the end of the tractate exemplifies the ability to accept and even look forward to
torture and martyrdom as a means to express total devotion and love of God. This approach may
fulfill a zealous temperament like that of Rabbi Akiva. However, can this reaction be expected of
everyone who experiences undeserved misery? What if someone in their pain rejects the test and
opportunity that God sends through these affectionate afflictions?

Before analyzing the Talmud’s response, let us first turn to a midrash, or ancient commentary on
the Bible, that likely served as the source material for the Talmud here. Song of Songs Rabbah 2,
16 questions the value of suffering through the experiences of two Galillean sages, Rabbi Hanina
and his student Rabbi Yohanan:

59
When Rabbi Yohanan complains about his disease, Rabbi Hanina encourages him to accept them
with faith. Rabbi Hanina applies his healing powers only after he deems that Rabbi Yohanan has
suffered sufficiently. With the tables turned, however, Rabbi Hanina finds it difficult to follow his
own advice and prefers to be healed immediately and forego his rewards. Rabbi Yohanan cannot
or does not want to magically heal his colleague. He instead gives Rabbi Hanina a taste of his own
non-medicine: your great suffering indicates that God recognizes your great righteousness, so be
proud that God loves you so.

The explicit moral of both stories remains consistent: the suffering of the righteous is a sign of
God’s loving guidance so accept it with redoubled commitment. It is natural to complain, but a
good friend will root you on until the powers that be decide you have completed your treatment.
However, the doubling of the story with the roles reversed highlights that this advice is easier said
than done. The irony that Rabbi Hanina cannot heal himself nor follow his own advice subtly
satirizes this approach, especially when a healthy person imposes it on the suffering patient. One
may accept pain upon oneself with perfect faith if one chooses; but the duty of a visiting friend is
only to sympathize and do anything one can to relieve the patient from their symptoms.

With the Song of Songs text, Rabbi Akiva, and Seneca in mind, we can move from the Roman
Empire back to Persian Babylonia and Bavli Berakhot 5b, where the limitations on the Akivan
approach becomes bolder. Rava, cited above, continues his teaching regarding “suffering of love”
with a caveat that affliction cannot be forced upon the righteous recipient. The test requires the
willing acceptance of pain by the recipient, an idea not expressed explicitly in texts from the Land

60
of Israel. The Bavli dramatizes this lesson in its alternate, likely reworked, version of these
narratives. Here is the text based on a Cairo Geniza fragment (the printed Talmud presents the two
stories in opposite order):

A prisoner cannot free himself from prison

The Bavli’s truncated version of the story not only incorporates a third character, Rabbi Hiyya the
student of Rabbi Yohanan. It significantly omits the encouragement by each colleague to continue
to endure their pain with faith and perseverance. Instead, both visiting sages simply heal the sick
the moment they complain, without a hint of negativity for rejecting God’s tough love. The story
as preserved in Song of Songs Rabbah includes only an implicit criticism of Rabbi Hanina for
imposing acceptance of suffering upon his colleague rather than healing him immediately. The
Bavli narrators, in contrast, alter the story to unequivocally downplay the value of suffering
considering that even the greatest sages opted-out of this opportunity to prove themselves and
straightaway healed by their teachers.

Rava describes suffering of love as affliction without any fault, purely to test a person, but therefore
completely optional. The Bavli editors feel free to modify the original stories about Rabbi Hanina
and Rabbi Yohanan because they transmitted them not as historical records but rather as moral
tales. Rava’s qualification and the updated versions of the stories are part of a larger Bavli trend
to admit that not all suffering results from deserved punishment (Shabbat 55a-b) but sometimes
can simply be a matter of bad luck (Moed Katan 28b) or mistaken identity by the angel of death
(Hagiga 4b-5a). Babylonian rabbis may have been more open to such possibilities because they
lived in a culture further removed from Christianity and instead dominated by Zoroastrian dualism
where suffering is understood to derive from forces of evil, thereby exculpating Ahuramazda, the
god of the good.

Modern society understands the concept of “no pain, no gain” when it comes to working out or
building a career. But we do not tend to glorify suffering per se as a religious or moral value, much
preferring painkillers and the miracles of modern medicine. In that sense, the Bavli viewpoint
resonates best for most of us, “not them and not their reward.” When treatment fails, or when we
struggle with physical, financial, or emotional difficulty, we may choose to contemplate the
redemptive possibilities of suffering with Stoic courage. As Victor Frankel wrote:

61
Nevertheless, both the versions of the story in Song of Songs Rabbah and that in the Bavli agree
that when we confront the suffering of others, our role is not to moralize but to empathize, extend
a hand, and help lift them up in any way we can out of their suffering.

Grief and Faith: The Relationship Between Grief and Belief

UNDERSTANDING GRIEF :

LITSA WILLIAMS WRITES:44

I have had several people tell me recently that well-intentioned friends and pastors have thrown a
little quip at them when they are grieving, aimed at helping them ‘move on.’

“Those who believe need not grieve.”

Needless to say, they have been feeling some frustration and conflict about this comment. I was
considering what the source of this anecdote might be, and it seems it could be connected to the
Bible passage 1 Thessalonians 4:13:

44
https://whatsyourgrief.com/grief-and-faith-grief-belief/

62
“Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so
that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope.”

In the Qu’ran we find the similar passage:

“Those who have attained to faith, as well as those who follow the Jewish faith, and the
Christians, and the Sabians—all who believe in God and the Last Day and do righteous deeds—
shall have their reward with their Sustainer; and no fear need they have, and neither shall they
grieve.”

Regardless of where this phrase came from, its oversimplification of grief and faith can
undoubtedly cause pain to grievers and, hence, is worth a post.

Religion and spirituality are complex but important topics in the wake of a loss. Religion can be
an incredible comfort in times of loss. But losses can also cause us to question our faith, as we
struggle to make sense of the death. And, in cases like the quote above, grief can confuse our
feelings about our faith… and our faith can confuse feelings about our grief.

(There’s a separate discussion to be had about those who grieve without belief in God or an
afterlife, but that is a post for another day!)

I have absolutely no doubt that—in nearly every case the expression ‘Those who believe need not
grieve’ is uttered—it is with the best of intentions. Just like, “He’s in a better place” or “It’s all
part of God’s plan,” these platitudes are shared with the hope that they will bring comfort to the
griever.

What becomes complicated is when one internalizes these quotes and starts to feel that the depth
of their grief is somehow reflective of their faith. This can leave believers questioning why they
are still feeling the pain of grief when someone they love is now with God.

Grief is our natural reaction to a loss. We feel a deep and aching pain when someone we love is
no longer with us. When someone we love is gone, we feel the dozens of emotions that come
with grief: sadness, anger, guilt, fear, loneliness, blame, and more than I can possibly list. Though
faith that someone is in a better place or that you will see them again can be a comfort, this
does not remove the pain that the person is gone. It does not change the trauma that can come
from watching someone suffer from a prolonged or painful illness. This does not eliminate
the anger, blame, guilt, regret, or countless other feelings that can come up following a death.

It is not that your grief and your faith should be separate. It’s that you must remember that the
depth of your grief does not imply a loss of faith. The problem with the statement “Those who
believe need not grieve” is that one is made to feel that the reverse must be true: Those who do
grieve do not believe. What we are here to say, for all of you who have felt that their faith should
be enough to eliminate their grief is this:

Experiencing grief DOES NOT indicate a loss of faith.

63
Let me say it one more time: Experiencing grief DOES NOT indicate a loss of faith.

When a person of deep faith loses someone, it’s important to remember that grief is about their
own experience of loss. It’s perfectly reasonable for someone to believe that their loved one is in
a better place, and still to feel overwhelmed with the pain of being separated from them.
Furthermore, a person can believe in a greater plan—all while still experiencing the pain of
absence. It’s not selfish to grieve, and it’s definitely not a loss of faith. It’s a normal reaction to a
devastating situation that can coexist with the comfort of one’s faith and spirituality.

Faith communities should be a place of comfort and support in times of loss. Thankfully, for many
they are. But, the longer I work with grievers, the more I learn that not every faith community
brings this support. In fact, some bring judgment and criticism for the emotions of grief, fixating
on the idea that grief and faith cannot coexist. This leaves grievers feeling as though their grief has
been minimized or misunderstood. If you have felt this way, I encourage you to consider that
grieving the separation from someone you love can exist along with a faith that they are in a better
place and that you will see them again.

If you are not finding the support you need in your congregation, it may be worth reaching out to
others with a similar faith background who have also experienced loss. We have said it a thousand
times before and we will say it again today:

You have permission to grieve. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise! It is so important to find the
people and place that allow you to do that.

Now, Rick and Kay Warren and I don’t see eye-to-eye on a lot of issues, but a few months ago
Kay posted on Facebook that she was getting frustrated with people pushing her to move on after
the suicide death of their son. Though she doesn’t specifically address the internal conflict
discussed above, she does give her perspective as a grieving mother and Evangelical Christian. It’s
safe to say this is one area that I couldn’t agree more with Kay. In case you missed it, here are the
words she shared on Facebook:

As the one-year anniversary of Matthew’s death approaches, I have been shocked by some subtle
and not-so-subtle comments indicating that perhaps I should be ready to “move on.” The soft,
compassionate cocoon that has enveloped us for the last 11 1/2 months had lulled me into believing
others would be patient with us on our grief journey, and while I’m sure many will read this and
quickly say “Take all the time you need,” I’m increasingly aware that the cocoon may be in the
process of collapsing. It’s understandable when you take a step back. I mean, life goes on. The
thousands who supported us in the aftermath of Matthew’s suicide wept and mourned with us,
prayed passionately for us, and sent an unbelievable volume of cards, letters, emails, texts, phone
calls, and gifts. The support was utterly amazing. But for most, life never stopped – their world
didn’t grind to a horrific, catastrophic halt on April 5, 2013. In fact, their lives have kept moving
steadily forward with tasks, routines, work, kids, leisure, plans, dreams, goals etc. LIFE GOES
ON. And some of them are ready for us to go on too. They want the old Rick and Kay back. They
secretly wonder when things will get back to normal for us – when we’ll be ourselves, when the
tragedy of April 5, 2013 will cease to be the grid that we pass everything across. And I have to tell
you – the old Rick and Kay are gone. They’re never coming back. We will never be the same again.

64
There is a new “normal.” April 5, 2013 has permanently marked us. It will remain the grid we
pass everything across for an indeterminate amount of time….maybe forever.

Because these comments from well-meaning folks wounded me so deeply, I doubted myself and
thought perhaps I really am not grieving “well” (whatever that means). I wondered if I was being
overly sensitive –so I checked with parents who have lost children to see if my experience was
unique. Far from it, I discovered. “At least you can have another child” one mother was told
shortly after her child’s death. “You’re doing better, right?” I was asked recently. “When are you
coming back to the stage at Saddleback? We need you” someone cluelessly said to me recently.
“People can be so rude and insensitive; they make the most thoughtless comments,” one grieving
father said. You know, it wasn’t all that long ago that it was standard in our culture for people to
officially be in mourning for a full year. They wore black. They didn’t go to parties. They didn’t
smile a whole lot. And everybody accepted their period of mourning; no one ridiculed a mother in
black or asked her stupid questions about why she was STILL so sad. Obviously, this is no longer
accepted practice; mourners are encouraged to quickly move on, turn the corner, get back to work,
think of the positive, be grateful for what is left, have another baby, and other unkind, unfeeling,
obtuse and downright cruel comments. What does this say about us – other than we’re terribly
uncomfortable with death, with grief, with mourning, with loss – or we’re so self-absorbed that we
easily forget the profound suffering the loss of a child creates in the shattered parents and
remaining children.

Unless you’ve stood by the grave of your child or cradled the urn that holds their ashes, you’re
better off keeping your words to some very simple phrases: “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Or “I’m
praying for you and your family.” Do your best to avoid the meaningless, catch-all phrase “How
are you doing?” This question is almost impossible to answer. If you’re a stranger, it’s none of
your business. If you’re a casual acquaintance, it’s excruciating to try to answer honestly, and you
leave the sufferer unsure whether to lie to you (I’m ok) to end the conversation or if they should
try to haltingly tell you that their right arm was cut off and they don’t know how to go on without
it. If you’re a close friend, try telling them instead, “You don’t have to say anything at all; I’m
with you in this.”

None of us wants to be like Job’s friends – the pseudo comforters who drove him mad with their
questions, their wrong conclusions and their assumptions about his grief. But too often we end up
a 21st century Bildad, Eliphaz or Zophar – we fill the uncomfortable silence with words that wound
rather than heal. I’m sad to realize that even now – in the middle of my own shattering loss – I can
be callous with the grief of another and rush through the conversation without really listening,
blithely spouting the platitudes I hate when offered to me. We’re not good grievers, and when I
judge you, I judge myself as well.

Here’s my plea: Please don’t ever tell someone to be grateful for what they have left until they’ve
had a chance to mourn what they’ve lost. It will take longer than you think is reasonable, rational
or even right. But that’s ok. True friends – unlike Job’s sorry excuse for friends – love at all times,
and brothers and sisters are born to help in time of need (Prov. 17:17 LB).The truest friends and
“helpers” are those who wait for the griever to emerge from the darkness that swallowed them
alive without growing afraid, anxious or impatient. They don’t pressure their friend to be the old
familiar person they’re used to; they’re willing to accept that things are different, embrace the

65
‫‪now-scarred one they love, and are confident that their compassionate, non-demanding presence‬‬
‫‪is the surest expression of God’s mercy to their suffering friend. They’re ok with messy and slow‬‬
‫”‪and few answers….and they never say “Move on.‬‬

‫מצעד החיים" ביום השואה‪ ,‬מנהג שלילי‬

‫?האם אין טעם לעורר זכרם של הקדושים‪ ,‬וללמוד את הלקחים התורניים הראויים‬
‫‪45‬‬
‫ה ר ב מ ש ה צ וריא ל‬

‫חז"ל לא הזכירו לשמור יאהרצייט ליום פטירת אב ואם‪ .‬כן הרמב"ם ושאר ראשונים‪ ,‬ואף ר' יוסף קארו בשו"ע לא‬
‫מועד ( הזכירו מנהג זה‪ .‬רק קצת לפני תקופת רמ"א התחילו באשכנז מנהג זה‪ .‬לכאורה מנהג זה מנוגד לנאמר בגמרא‬
‫אל תבכו למת יותר מדאי וכו' יותר מכשיעור‪ .‬הא כיצד? ג' ימים לבכי‪ ,‬ז' להספד‪ ,‬ל' לגיהוץ ותספורת‪ .‬מכאן " )‪:‬קטן כז‬
‫ואילך אמר הקב"ה‪' :‬אי אתם רחמנים בו יותר ממני?!'"‪ .‬וכבר העיר רמב"ן בספר "תורת האדם" )דבריו הובאו בט"ז‬
‫לשו"ע יורה דעה‪ ,‬סוף סי' שמד( "אין מנהג ולא דרך ארץ להזכיר המת אחרי י"ב חודש" עכ"ל‪ .‬ומפורש אמרו חז"ל‪ :‬ג'‬
‫כלומר על החיים לטפל בצרכי החיים‪). ,‬פסחים נד ע"ב( דברים עלו במחשבה ליבראות וכו' על המת שישתכח מן הלב‬
‫להתקדם ולפתח את בנין העולם‪ ,‬ולא לעסוק בנבכי העבר‪ .‬ושמא מפני שהצד הרגשי גובר על בני אדם והם נוטים להגזים‬
‫‪.).‬באבלותם‪ ,‬קבעו חז"ל כי בכל מחלוקת להלכה בדיני אבלות "הלכה כמי שמיקל באבלות" )מו"ק יח‬

‫גם כאשר אנו מתאבלים על חורבן ירושלים‪ ,‬אין הטעם כדי להרבות בכי על ההרוגים בעת ההיא‪ .‬כך מחנך אותנו הרמב"ם‪:‬‬
‫"יש שם ימים שכל ישראל מתענים בהם מפני הצרות שאירעו בהם‪ ,‬כדי לעורר הלבבות לפתוח בדרכי תשובה ויהיה זה‬
‫זכרון למעשינו הרעים‪ ,‬ומעשה אבותינו שהיה כמעשינו עתה‪ ,‬עד שגרם להם ולנו אותן הצרות‪ .‬שבזכרון דברים אלו נשוב‬

‫‪45‬‬
‫‪https://www.yeshiva.org.il/midrash/7346‬‬

‫‪66‬‬
‫להיטיב" )רמב"ם‪ ,‬הל' תעניות‪ ,‬פ"ה ה"א(‪ .‬ותמוה‪ ,‬הרי הרמב"ם כתב ספר הלכה למעשה‪ .‬בשביל מה לערב כאן דברי‬
‫מוסר? ]כי דרכו לכתוב מוסר רק בסוף כל ספר וספר שבארבעה עשרה חלקיו[‪ .‬אלא רצה להציל משגיאה נפוצה‪ .‬אין‬
‫‪.‬לבכות על מה שכבר עבר‪ .‬ואם לא היתה תועלת כדי לעורר אותנו לתיקון מעשינו‪ ,‬לא היו חז"ל מנהיגים צומות אלו‬

‫גם מרן הרב אברהם קוק מגנה מי שמגזים בבכיה על מתים שכבר עברו מזמן‪ ,‬אלא אם כן יש תועלת מעשית לבכיה זו‪.‬‬
‫כאשר התנגד לפעולותיהם של ציונים חילוניים בתקופתו‪ ,‬שרצו להקים מדינה בלי כל קשר לתורה‪ ,‬וטענו לשחזר תפארת‬
‫עצמאותינו מתקופת העבר הרחוק‪ ,‬לעג להם הרב‪ .‬זו לשונו‪" :‬באפס )תעודה( ]ייעוד[ נכונה ונצחית וכו' אין ואפס הוא‬
‫אצל השכל הטהור‪ ,‬רגש הצער הנפרז הזה‪ .‬יעשה הדבר רק רושם של בוז‪ ,‬כמו הרושם שעושה ֵאם פתיה שעשרות שנים‬
‫אחרי שמת אחד מילדיה תעיק לכל הבא עמה בדברים‪ ,‬עם דמעותיה ויללותיה‪ .‬וכו' כי המות הוא גלגל החוזר בעולם‪,‬‬
‫והחיים חיים הם‪ ,‬וצריכים לחיות‪' .‬אל תבכו למת יותר מכשיעור' וכו'" )מאמר אפיקים בנגב‪ ,‬מובא ב"אוצרות הראי"ה‪,‬‬
‫מהד' תשס"ב‪ ,‬ח"ב עמ' ‪ .(118-119‬הרב קוק מלמד במשל שתיאר כי אין ערך לשאיפה להקים מדינה רק מפני שבתקופת‬
‫ימי קדם היתה לנו כזאת‪ ,‬אלא אם כן מפני שאנו רוצים לממש אידיאליים תורניים‪ .‬המעורר על כך אבלות ישנה דומה‬
‫‪.‬למעורר תוגה מפני זכרון מת ישן נושן‪ ,‬ויש בכך פתיות‬

‫אבל יש לשאול‪ ,‬האמנם? האם אין טעם לעורר זכרם של הקדושים‪ ,‬וללמוד את הלקחים התורניים הראויים? ודאי שכן‪.‬‬
‫וכאן ההבדל בין המגונה והמשובח‪ .‬אם האדם מתאונן על מר גורלם של הרוגי השואה‪ ,‬ואיננו לומד משם שום לימוד‪,‬‬
‫שום תיקון‪ ,‬הרי זה בכי של פתיות‪ .‬ויכול להיות שגם יגיע לכפירה בה'‪ .‬יכול להיות שמרוב צער יגיע למסקנא של "אין‬
‫דין ואין דיין"‪ .‬ויגיע למבוכה של‪ :‬הנה עוד דוגמא של "צדיק ורע לו"‪ ,‬ומי אומר שיש השגחה פרטית של ה'? אדרבה‪,‬‬
‫מרוב סיפורי תלאות עמנו בתקופה חשוכה ההיא‪ ,‬יש ויגיע מקצת העם לדכאון ואף לעצבות כה עמוקה עד שיכחישו‬
‫מעלתנו כיהודים‪ .‬אבל דרכה של תורה היא דוקא לרומם ולהלל את דרגתם של קדושי השואה שנהרגו על קידוש השם‪,‬‬
‫שעינו אותו וייסרו אותם מפני שהם יהודים‪ .‬והללו זכו אל מעלה הנשגבה ביותר‪" .‬הרוגי מלכות אין כל בריה יכולה‬
‫הללו הם יושבים בגן עדן סמוך לרבי עקיבא וחבריו! ואם סגנון הדברים הם ‪).‬בבא בתרא י ע"ב( "לעמוד במחיצתם‬
‫‪.‬כך‪ ,‬הרי טוב ומשובח לעורר זכרונם‬

‫כן כאשר אנו מתאבלים על חללי צה"ל )ביום שהוקבע לזכרונם‪ ,‬שבוע לפני יום עצמאות( בשום אופן אין לראות אותם‬
‫כ"מסכנים"‪ .‬ברור שהללו שחירפו נפשם למען הצלת עמם‪ ,‬הללו שנתנו את המקסימום למען בנין ארצנו‪ ,‬הם הם‬
‫‪).‬סנהדרין מז ע"א ‪",‬המוצלחים בחיים‪ .‬וגם כל עוונותיהם נמחקו ונמחלו )"כיון דלאו כי אורחיה מיית‪ ,‬הויא ליה כפרה‬
‫הללו זוכים לאושר נצחי‪ ,‬למדריגה רוממה‪ .‬והכל תלוי אם השיחה על ענינם בנויה על יסוד תורני‪ ,‬או אם מבוססת על‬
‫‪.‬דברי שוא ותוהו‪ ,‬כמנהג הכופרים שבין האומות‪ ,‬ביום זכרון שלהם‬

‫כך בענין הזכרון לקדושי השואה חייבים להעמיד על נס את מדריגתם הנפלאה‪ ,‬שהמשיכו במסורת ישראל לכל הדורות‬
‫שמסרו נפשם על יהדותם‪ .‬כי בכל נוראות מצוקותיהם‪ ,‬לא המירו דתם ולא כפרו ביהדותם‪ .‬רבים מהם הלכו לכבשנים‬
‫ובשפתותיהם שיר "אני מאמין באמונה שלימה" או בהכרזת "שמע ישראל"‪ .‬ולכן לנהוג מנהג סרק של קריאה בקול של‬
‫רשימת שמותיהם )"לכל מת יש שם"(‪ ,‬או בארגון נסיעותיהם של בני הנוער לראות את מחנות ההשמדה; ובלי לצרף לכך‬
‫את הלימוד והחינוך המתבקש ממה שאירע‪ ,‬הרי אלו פעולות שלא ע"פ התורה‪ .‬התוצאה למעשה מזכרון השואה צריכה‬
‫להיות‪" :‬תראו מה שהאומות עוללו לנו! תראו שאין להגרר אחרי תרבותם‪ .‬גם כאשר מתעורר בקהל יצר ה"לינץ'"‪ ,‬רובם‬
‫של אלו שהיו בעבר מכרים וידידים של יהודים‪ ,‬הצטרפו אל הרודפים והמציקים‪] .‬וכן גם אירע בפרעות חברון‪ ,‬בשנת‬
‫‪.‬תרפ"ט‪ ,‬משכינינו הערבים[‪ .‬צריכים להחדיר בתלמידינו סלידה מהגוים‪ ,‬לבל ירצו לבקר בחו"ל‪ ,‬וכל שכן לא לגור שם‬

‫כל שכן כאשר יש מאיתנו המארגנים נוער ארץ ישראלי לצאת מהארץ ולנסוע למקומות שהיו שם מחנות השמדה‪ ,‬כלום‬
‫זה מותר ע"פ ההלכה? יעיינו בדברי רמב"ם )הל' מלכים פ"ה ה"ט(‪ .‬לא יכולה להיות מצוה אם היא נובעת מתוך דבר‬
‫"!עבירה‪ .‬אנו צריכים לצעוד בכיוון הפוך‪ ,‬לשתול בתוך תודעת תלמידינו "יותר לא חוזרים לאירופה‬

‫‪67‬‬
‫נחזור לשיטת הרמב"ם‪ .‬כל מה שחז"ל הנהיגו לנו עניני תעניות לזכר חורבן המקדש‪ ,‬היה למען נתקן את מוסריותינו‪,‬‬
‫ולתקן את מעשינו‪ .‬מורנו ר' צבי יהודה קוק זצ"ל הציע כהסבר אחד )מתוך כמה הסברים( למה ה' עולל לישראל שואה‬
‫איומה זו‪ .‬כך רושם דבריו ר"ש אבינר )"עיטורי כהנים"‪ ,‬גליון ‪ ,64‬שנת תש"ן‪ ,‬עמ' ‪" :(3-4‬עם ישראל קשור לגלות‪,‬‬
‫בנפשו ובנשמתו‪ .‬עד היום מתקשה הוא להנתק ממנה‪ .‬גם גדולי ישראל התרגלו אליה‪ .‬בא הרגע הגדול להנתק מן הגלות‬
‫ולחסלה‪ .‬הופיע ניתוח אלוקי‪ ,‬אכזרי ביותר‪ ,‬אך הוא היה הדרך היחידה לפתח את העם ממוסרותיו‪ .‬השואה אינה עונש!‬
‫איננו יכולים ורשאים להבין ולבדוק עונשים של אנשים שמתו על קידוש השם‪ .‬אלא יש להתיחס לשואה כאל תהליך‬
‫היסטורי‪ ,‬ולבחון עובדות‪ .‬עם ישראל אהב את הגלות והתחבר אליה‪ ,‬כאותו עבד המכריז 'אהבתי את אדוני'‪ ,‬ואי אפשר‬
‫לנתקו‪ .‬הניתוח האלוהי הזה ענינו להשמיט את קרקע הגלות מתחת רגלי העם‪ .‬מטרת זוועות הגלות היתה לזעזע ולעורר‬
‫את העם ולעזוב את הגלות‪ ,‬ולעלות לארץ ישראל" עכ"ל‪ .‬קדם אותו בזה הרב יהודה אלקלעי שבשנת תר"ח כתב‪" :‬כיון‬
‫שלא התעוררו ישראל לשוב לארצנו ולנחלת אבותינו‪ ,‬התחילו הגזירות הגירושין והשמדות‪ ,‬מפני שהדבר תלוי בתשובה‪,‬‬
‫שישובו ישראל לארץ" )"כתבי הרב יהודה אלקלעי"‪ ,‬הוצ' מוסד הרב קוק‪ ,‬ח"א עמ' ‪ .(277‬וכן סבור המקובל הגאון ר'‬
‫מרדכי עטייה זצ"ל )בחוברתו "סוד השבועה"( והארכתי בזה ב"אוצרות התורה"‪ ,‬מהד' תשס"ה‪ ,‬עמ' ‪ .1002‬במלים‬
‫אחרות‪ ,‬הסבל האיום של השואה היה מכוון מלמעלה כדי שיתעוררו היהודים בחו"ל ויבינו‪" :‬נמאס לנו כאן!" ואם נאמנים‬
‫אנו להדרכה זו‪ ,‬מה שוה "מצעד החיים" אם לא מדגישים זאת שוב ושוב‪ ,‬לעצמנו ולאחרים‪ ,‬כי "אין לנו חלק עם אומות‬
‫העולם"‪ .‬אמנם קשרי מסחר‪ ,‬כן‪ .‬יחסים בינלאומיים מנומסים ומתוקנים‪ ,‬כן‪ .‬אבל לא לבקר שם משום חמדת התיירות‪.‬‬
‫‪]].‬וגם בזה עוברים על "לא תחנם"‪ ,‬לא תתן להם חן‪ ,‬עיין שו"ע יו"ד סי' קנא ס"ק יד‬

‫חוששני שיש גם איזה אלמנט של "תיירות" כאשר בני נוער שלנו נוסעים לפולין‪ ,‬ובדרך נסיעתם מבקרים בעוד מדינות‬
‫אירופה‪ .‬במקום שתתעורר סלידה נפשית בהיותנו בארצות בם המיתו באכזריות נוראה את אבותינו ]וה"טובים" שבאומות‬
‫עמדו מנגד‪ ,‬ולא נתנו מחסה ומפלט ליהודים[‪ ,‬יצר הרע עוד מעורר בנוער רגשי נועם מנימוסיהם החיצונים של אוה"ע‬
‫שבימינו‪ .‬אמנם אלו שהם בעד הביקור במחנות ההשמדה טוענים טעמי "חינוך"‪ .‬אבל באמת החינוך האמתי צריך להיות‬
‫‪.‬דוקא בכיוון אחר‪ ,‬שאין לעזוב את הארץ‪ ,‬ושיש לגנות מי שבוחר לגור בחו"ל‬

‫אבות אבותינו גורשו מספרד‪ .‬מסורת ביד הדורות שאין לבקר שוב בספרד‪ .‬ושמעתי מפי מו"ר ר' שמואל טולידנו זצ"ל‬
‫כי מסורת במשפחתו מהו הבסיס לשם המשפחה? כאילו שאלה ותשובה‪" .‬לחזור לטולידו? )עיר מוצאם שבספרד( לא‬
‫‪.‬ולא!" )בלשונם "נו" הוא מתורגם בעברית "לא"(‪ .‬טולידנו‬

‫‪.‬אין לעסוק במעשים ללא תנובה מחשבתית‪ .‬וכך ניכר מי הוא בן תורה‬

‫‪68‬‬
 Experiencing the Mortificatio:
Jung on Grief, Grieving and Mourning

Sue Mehrtens writes:46

No new life can arise, say the alchemists, without the death of the old. They liken the art to the
work of the sower, who buries the grain in the earth: it dies only to waken to new life.

Jung (1946)[1]

… When a person dies, the feelings and emotions that bound his relatives to him lose their
application to reality and sink into the unconscious, where they active a collective content that has
a deleterious effect on consciousness…. a persistent attachment to the dead makes life seem less
worth living, and may even be the cause of psychic illnesses. The harmful effect shows itself in the
form of loss of libido, depression, and physical debility….

Jung (1920)[2]

… thinking which is a mere equation,… is the working of the intellect. But besides that there is a
thinking in primordial images, in symbols which are… inborn in him from the earliest times, and,
eternally living, outlasting all generations, still make up the groundwork of the human psyche. It

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is only possible to live the fullest life when we are in harmony with these symbols; wisdom is a
return to them. … One of these primordial thoughts is the idea of life after death. … The
ancient athanasias pharmakon, the medicine of immortality, is more profound and meaningful than
we supposed.
Jung (1930)[3]

Mortificatiois experienced as defeat and failure. Needless to say, one rarely chooses such an
experience. It is usually imposed by life, either from within or from without….

Edinger (1985)[4]

Mourning is caused by the loss of an object or person who was carrying an important projected
value. In order to withdraw projections and assimilate their content into one’s own personality it
is necessary to experience the loss of the projection as a prelude to rediscovering the content or
value within. Therefore, mourners are fortunate because they are involved in a growth process.
They will be comforted when the lost projected value has been recovered within the psyche.

Edinger (1992)[5]

The origins of this essay go back to an email I received several months ago that came with
an attachment: multiple people wrote of their experience of death—the loss of family, friends and
acquaintances. This email also came with a request: that I share my thoughts on this topic. What
follows is an amalgam of my own thoughts, my personal experience of losing friends, family
members and a fiancé, along with the ideas and experiences of Jung, his best American interpreter,
Edward Edinger, and Joan Didion, an eloquent author and observer of grieving. We’ll begin with
a discussion of the meanings and etymologies of the words in the title, then discuss the key
archetype related to death and dying, the mortificatio, followed by experiences of this archetype,
in my own life and in Jung’s life. The essay concludes with a discussion of what may seem odd,
perhaps even obscene: the benefits that can accrue through our experience of grief and mourning.

Meanings and Etymologies

“Grief” and its verb “grieve” come from the Latin gravis, “heavy, weighty” and its verbal
form, gravare, “to burden or cause to grieve.”[6] When we grieve we are burdened, weighed down
with sorrow and a sense of loss. “Mourn” has its origins in the Old English murnan, “to mourn, to
be anxious.”[7] When we mourn we feel anxiety in the sense of angst,[8] anguish, the foreclosure
of possibilities, the loss of the future we assumed we had with friend or family member.

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 Some psychologists claim that grief is not the same as mourning: Grief is passive, while
mourning is active.[9] We grieve, feeling burdened inwardly. We mourn, manifesting a wide range
of reactions in outer life, e.g. waves of forgetfulness, sadness, loneliness, regret, “magical
thinking” (that we might turn back the clock or the calendar) and inconsolability, along with
emotional lability, surprising responses to life situations, the upsurge of old memories we thought
we had let go of long ago, even concern that we might be losing our minds.[10]

All of these inward feelings and outer forms of mourning are aspects of a key archetype
we all experience repeatedly in life—what the medieval alchemists called
the mortificatio.[11]What’s meant by “archetype” and “mortificatio”?

As the concept of “archetype” and the specific archetype related to grief and mourning are central
to our topic, we must discuss them in some depth.

The Key Archetypes

In the third quote opening this essay Jung speaks of “primordial images” and “primordial
thoughts.” These were his early terms for what he later in his writings called
“archetypes.”[12] Jung came to recognize, from decades of immersion in the mythologies, legends
and fairy tales of cultures all over the world, that humanity has innate patterns of perceiving and
acting that are comparable, on the psychic plane, to what our instincts are on the physical plane.
Just as we naturally will withdraw a finger that hits a hot stove, so we will respond to certain
situations in life with innate responses that we don’t have to think about or try to figure out.

Anthony Stevens, a Jungian analyst, provides a succinct statement defining archetypes:

“innate neuropsychic centers possessing the capacity to initiate, control and mediate the
common behavioral characteristics and typical experiences of all human beings,
irrespective of race, culture or creed.”[13]

We can better understand what archetypes are by considering some of the words in Stevens’
definition. “Innate” means that every human being enters life with these “imprints” or “templates”
in both brain and psyche. This adjective calls to mind Noam Chomsky’s idea of “deep
structures”[14] that make possible our learning language. Just as everyone has the potential to
learn to speak a language, every person can access these “centers” regardless of when, where or
how he or she lives. Archetypes, in other words, transcend cultures, racial differences and creedal
dogmas.

By the phrase “possessing the capacity to initiate, control and mediate the common
behavioral characteristics …. of all human beings,” Stevens is noting another feature of archetypes
that is central to our discussion: Archetypes have intentionality. Every archetype wants to give rise

71
to some outer-life expression, either as a behavior, an attitude, a response to a situation etc. Some
examples will flesh out this idea:

§ the “mother” archetype has, as its intent, to nurture and protect young,
vulnerable life
§ the “father” archetype has, as its intent, to mediate the outer world for the child,
so as to build the child’s self-confidence and hone his/her capacity to function
in life
§ the puer/child archetype’s intent is to play, to enjoy carefree myriad
opportunities to explore and learn about the world by fulfilling his/her curiosity
§ the senex/old person archetype is all about responsibility, sober attention to
life’s duties, mentoring the young and passing on the heritage of the culture to
later generations

Just as there are archetypes carried by persons—mother, father, child, adult, artist, boss, servant
etc.—so there are archetypes that relate to change.

Since our culture has been dismissive of alchemy—regarding it as little more than the medieval
precursor of chemistry—we have ignored the alchemists’ understanding that living is change and
change has patterns.[15] For example, there are times when things that had structured our lives
(e.g. relationships, jobs, daily routines) dissolve (the solutio);[16] there are times when we are
forced to make choices, to carry out into physical reality some idea or vision
(the coagulatio);[17] there are times when we must discern, discriminate, or differentiate this from
that (the separatio).[18] All of these are archetypes of change, and there are a lot more of them.[19]

For our purposes in this essay, two archetypes are key: the putrefactio and
the mortificatio. Putrefactio conflates two Latin words: puter and facere, lit. “to make something
rotten or putrid.”[20] When we are experiencing the archetype of the putrefactio we often have
dreams of overflowing toilets, or toilets out of order, walking through piles of feces or rotten
messes[21]—not pleasant images. Something in life has rotted, lost its energy, needs to be thrown
out. The most vivid example in domestic life is the necessary periodic cleaning-out of the
refrigerator, but putrefactio situations occur in less tangible forms also, in life situations that
require us to take action to clean out old attitudes, beliefs that are sapping our energy, or
relationships that have lost their vitality.

Closely connected to putrefactio situations is the mortificatio. The Latin means literally “to make
(facere) a death (mors, mortis).”[22] Rarely do we “make” death: It befalls us. Nature does it,
taking away friends, family, and, eventually, our own lives.[23] The mortificatio is the most
negative of the alchemical “operations,” and the most painful to experience. Jung and his
followers, however, recognize that the mortificatio is also an essential part of the opus, or work of
life, the phase that is prior to rebirth, a time of life that is full of torment, to be sure, but at the same
time contains a “secret happiness”[24] lying in the unconscious.

In seeing happiness in the midst of grief Jung recognized the compensatory nature of the
unconscious:[25] If we are bitterly unhappy in outer life, there is an equally intense counter feeling
of joy in our unconscious. Jung spoke of times of mourning as times when we can become aware

72
of the benedicta viriditas, the “blessed greenness” of life,[26] when we can sense the vital force
living in Nature, even as we are pulled toward death in our bereavement.

As an archetype the mortificatio has intent: It seeks to give rise to certain actions or activities.
Some of these actions include :
§ to be still and wait, without hope and without thought
Waiting here means relinquishing the ego’s desire to making healing happen, to make things better,
to feel good now, when the reality of a time of grief is that it has its own form and timetable.
Thoughts and hopes, i.e. ego desires, are untimely, as T.S. Eliot reminds us, because, as enmeshed
as we are in the energy of the mortificatio, we would hope for the wrong things.[27]
§ to “mortify” our conscious ego attitude and power instinct so as to allow a new
center of our personality to emerge[28]
This emergence comes in kairos time, i.e. according to the timetable of the soul, not of the ego
mind (which tends to be very impatient).[29] The process is “mortifying” because the ego wants
to feel in control, and during a mortificatio phase, the ego is definitely not in control and it feels
impotent as a result.
§ to get us to “behold ourselves” and recognize the ephemeral nature of the
material world (and this means us, too, in our somatic form)[30]

Times of grieving provide opportunities for us to gain some objectivity about who we are, what
really matters in life, and just how transitory life is.

§ to become more conscious of our mortality, of our values, and

of true values[31]
Jung recognized that Western culture has become very confused in its collective values, and times
of loss can help us face the reality of death, that we too shall die, and in this realization, we can
reclaim what really matters in life (which is nothing material).
§ to get us to experience our existential aloneness, so as to discover our “inner
partner” and make its acquaintance[32]
Only when we allow ourselves solitude are we able to move into our “inner city”[33] and get to
know its inhabitants. One of the key such inhabitants is our “inner partner,” that contrasexual
energy that never dies or leaves us, but opens us up to new horizons of living and growing.
§ to sacrifice our old orientation to life
The old alchemical texts were full of references to the “death of the king,” symbolizing the killing
of the ruling principle or habitual orientation to life that years of living had developed in
us.[34] This is usually completely unconscious, but the experience of loss, especially loss of a
spouse or close family member, can help reorient us and, by so doing, offers us a new lease on life.
§ to take back projections we had (quite unconsciously) put on the departed friend
or family member

The quote by Edward Edinger on “mourning,” in the quotes at the beginning of this essay,
discusses this process.[35] When a close friend or family member (especially a spouse) dies, we
are bereft in part because we lose not only a loved one but the “hook” on which we were able to
hang our projections. The classic example is the traditional marriage where the wife projected her
competency with budgets, checkbooks, and bill-paying on to the husband, while he projected his
emotional life, feelings and social skills on to the wife. This is what Jung meant when he spoke of

73
wives “containing” their husbands, and it is the reason why most widows cope better with
bereavement than widowers.[36]
§ to experience disorientation, so as to “constellate” life in its depths[37]

Rare is the person who relishes feeling disoriented, but the death of someone important can leave
us feeling bereft not only of the person but of the compass by which we found our way. Now
lacking the old “compass” we must look elsewhere for direction, and in a rearrangement of the
“stars” we can find the new path we are to take.

§ to foster a shift in us from what Augustine called “evening knowledge”

(knowledge about the material world) to “morning knowledge” (knowledge
about the world of spirit that can awaken us to a new day, new life)[38]

The mystery that adheres in death presents us with the opportunity to open to things of the spirit.
This is not an opportunity that every grieving person takes up, but it is present for those who have
sensitivity to things spiritual.

§ to help us realize just how shallow our sanity is

This is an insight Joan Didion came to in the months after the sudden death of her
husband.[39] “Sanity” is how our society thinks of ego consciousness: being composed, rational,
“of sound mind,” mentally healthy. Jung’s concept of the human being’s psychic structure has ego
consciousness as a very thin veneer atop the personal and collective unconscious,[40] and when
hit with a major destabilizing event, like the death of a “significant other,” this veneer can peel off
very easily.
§ to foster a unio mentalis, a “union of mind and soul” that gets us out of our head
and into contact with our soul[41]

The alchemists were constantly striving for union, and Jung recognized that a major block to the
mind-soul union was our Western tendency to live in our heads, i.e. to be rational, logical, practical,
grounded, at the cost of our feelings, passions, imagination, and compassion—all qualities of soul.
By calling into question long-held values and habits of living and responding to life’s challenges,
grief can help us contact and live from deeper levels of our being.

74
Some Personal Experiences: Jung’s and My Own

Jung lived a long life, dying in 1961 just a few weeks shy of his 86th birthday.[42] Aside
from experiencing the deaths of his father (in 1896)[43] and his mother (in 1923)[44] he buried
his sister Trudy (in 1935),[45] his muse/mistress Tony Wolff (in 1953)[46] and his wife, Emma,
in 1955.[47] He was so bereft at Tony’s death that he could not attend her funeral. Emma’s death
was a more severe loss, as he had projected his financial security, as well as his psychosomatic
well-being on to her. When he wrote on how wives “contain” their husbands emotionally, he was
writing about his own experience of marriage, in the context of the relationship he had with Emma.
His words about having to take back projections after the death of someone came from his own
experience. Jung understood that death can also offer liberation: he had experienced this in his
father’s death,[48] which allowed Jung to take over as the head of the family, and to take up the
challenge of providing financially for himself, his mother and his sister.

Like Jung I have buried my parents, and, also like Jung, the death of my father served to
open my life to greater opportunities than I would have had if he had lived. In quite a different
way, my mother’s death was also a liberation. She had Alzheimer’s disease, and there are very

75
good reasons why they say, in the Alzheimer’s community, that there are two victims of that
disease: the person who has it and the person who is the primary caregiver. By the time my mother
died, after 11 years of caring for her, watching her disappear into dementia, coming to the point
where she did not recognize me, my sister, not even herself (!), it was nothing less than a liberation
for both my mother and me when she died.

How very different was the loss of my fiancé! When he appeared in my life (as if by magic!)
I had been working on my negative father complex for 10 years, each year reclaiming the promise
in my analyst’s words “as within, so without:” By working on myself, to develop a positive
relationship with my inner partner, eventually “Mr. Right” would appear. He did, but we had only
3 years together—enough time to dream dreams together of a future life, to make plans, to look
ahead to wonderful times. He died of a stroke, and I fell into a hole of grief that even now, 17 years
later, is still with me. All the phenomena of grieving are familiar—the waves of exhaustion, the
sighing, the feelings of emptiness and hopelessness, the shortness of breath, the seductive pull
toward the “other side,” to join him in his reality, the “magical thinking” of turning back the clock
and the calendar, to what might have been if only I had… (fill in the blank). I would see an article
of his clothing and succumb to paroxysms of sobbing. I was buffeted by memories that would
come up in places we loved to visit, activities we enjoyed doing. For months I was inconsolable,
kept alive more by my dream world (where he would visit me, come to me, touch me) than in any
outer reality.

I was fortunate in going through my intense interval of mourning to have the help and
guidance of my analyst, and I took to heart the warning Jung wrote about, quoted in the second of
the quotes opening this essay. Much as I thought about, dreamed about and focused on Hubie, I
realize that I could not maintain a “persistent attachment”[49] to him, lest I succumb to a “psychic
illness.” I had to take back what I had projected on to him, and find the meaning in this horrendous
experience.

Given my commitment to becoming conscious, I recognized that every experience in life

can be grist for the mill of personal growth. Even in the depths of my depressed state I wondered
just what I was to learn from my tragic loss. Over the years since losing Hubie I’ve discovered
multiple ways I was graced with this loss. Which brings me to the last section of this essay.

Benefits of the Mortificatio

finding greater inner strength[50]

Tempering made me stronger. A searing loss of someone dear is a tempering process which
can reveal to us inner strengths and resiliencies we didn’t know we had. I discovered that I could
cope, I could create the dream we had planned in moving to Vermont, I could grow and continue
on the spiritual path we both shared.

developing a relationship with the inner partner[51]

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 I had the opportunity to get to know and rely more on my inner partner. Where Hubie had
carried this energy for me in life, after his death I had to take it back and work with it in myself.
This helped me become more androgynous, more well-rounded, more whole.

savoring more consciously the vital energy in living things[52]

I became much more attuned to the vital energy in Nature—what the alchemists
called benedicta viriditas, the “greenness” or vegetative force that lives in all forms of life. Seeking
solace out in Nature in the months after Hubie’s death, I found the green leaves seemed greener,
the sky bluer, the flowers sweeter, as my being returned to living rather than grieving.
waking up to new possibilities and new horizons[53]

I awoke to new life—the resurrection or rebirth that is promised in the New Testament.
This was nothing intentional: I didn’t try to make this happen, but discovered at one point, a year
or so along in my mourning, that new opportunities were coming my way, new activities were
claiming my time, and slowly I healed, as a new center developed within me.

becoming more aware of the reality and support of a Higher Power[54]

Meister Eckhart speaks of suffering bringing us into the presence of God, that the Divine
is always close to those who grieve. I found this to be true in my own experience, not in a religious
way, but more in the stillness of meditation and the consolations provided by numerous
synchronicities that made me understand the benign nature of the Divine.

gaining maturity and developing character[55]

Looking back with the perspective of nearly two decades, I can say that the loss of my
beloved made me more mature. By testing my stamina and trying my faith, this experience
strengthened my trust and developed my character. The old saw that “suffering builds character”
has been true in my life.

becoming more compassionate[56]

I came to understand and develop in myself a bit of the bodhichitta, what Buddhists call
the compassionate heart. Having suffered, having known what it means to love and lose, I could
empathize with others’ grief.

on the collective level

Besides the benefits I found on the individual level, the process of grieving has benefits on
the collective level. Loss—be it an important person or one’s stock portfolio—can serve to reorient
us away from material “stuff” toward more lasting and imperishable values. As a society we had
a great opportunity in this regard right after 9/11, when so many lives were lost and our country
experienced collective grieving. As leaders like the Dalai Lama reminded us, we could have used
that time to rethink some of our collective assumptions. But, alas, our political leaders fell back
into the old materialism, urging us to get out and buy, get on airplanes and fly, and resume living
as we had.[57] What a waste of a crisis!

77
 The tragedy of 9/11 also offered us the chance to reclaim from our history a proper
appreciation of the role of mourning on the collective level. Back in the 19th and early
20th centuries mourning was recognized as a part of life, as was death. Now death is regarded as
an obscenity, grieving is seen as maudlin, and mourning is glossed over, played down or treated
as an embarrassment by others. Joan Didion recognized this change when she set out to research
background for her account of her grieving process in The Year of Magical Thinking. Didiion noted
that the 1922 guide to manners written by Emily Post acknowledged grief as part of life, in a
cultural milieu that recognized and allowed for mourning. We need to return to this wisdom.[58]

Conclusion
A Jungian approach to the archetype of the mortificatio can provide insights, context and
a wider understanding of the role and value of grief, grieving and mourning. This can be helpful
as we experience the loss of loved ones, and also for our culture, as we recognize the emptiness of
materialism and work to reorient our society to what really matters in life.

Elgar and his moustache in 1917

78
 Elgar Cello Concerto
Kenneth Woods writes:47

Cellist Antonio Meneses and the Northern Sinfonia have just made a stunning recording of
Elgar and Gal’s cello concerti with his longtime friend and collaborator, conductor Claudio
Cruz. Although I wasn’t involved in the recording, Avie Records asked me to write the liner
notes for the CD, which I was very happy to do. The upshot of this project is that we’re very
happy to present expanded versions of the Gal and Elgar essays as special Explore the Score
features, including clips from Antonio’s new CD, due out in June. Today, we start with Elgar.

Composers who become cultural icons in their own lifetimes often have complex, fraught and
paradoxical relationships to the societies which celebrate them and venerate their work. Edward
Elgar is certainly a case in point. He was born the quintessential outsider- poor and Catholic, self-
taught as a composer, and a man who felt most at home in the backwaters of Worcester and
Hereford, rather than in Establishment London. Nonetheless, he rose to become a central cultural
figure, an icon of the establishment and Master of the Kings Musik. His music was the
embodiment of Edwardian pomp and imperial grandeur. Elgar’s public persona became so
completely that of the perfect upper-class English gentleman that in retrospect it seems to border
on self-parody. In private, however, this prince of British musical life could be eccentric,
vulnerable and moody. He could also be deeply ambivalent about British culture and English
music. In his lecture series “A Future for English Music,” given in 1905-6, Elgar struck a skeptical,
even critical tone: “An Englishman will take you in a large room, beautifully proportioned, and
will point out to you that it is white—all over white—and somebody will say what exquisite taste.
You know in your own mind, in your own soul, that it is not taste at all—that it is the want of
taste—that it is mere evasion. English music is white, and evades everything”

In spite of these contradictions, Elgar wore the mask of the proper Edwardian gentleman with
complete commitment and not a hint of irony, and he was deeply affected by the unravelling of
the Imperial order he had come of age in. He seemed to need to keep both sides of his personality
in balance, to be both insider and outsider, Establishment icon and bohemian rebel. This polarity
can be seen throughout his creative life- there are few more grandiose and public pages of music
than the close of the Enigma Variations, yet the piece is, at its heart, a very private collection of
miniatures. Michael Steinberg noted that First Symphony begins with “a great “imperial” tune”
which triumphs “only by the skin of its teeth,” but in other works, “triumph is not in the picture at
all.”

Elgar’s two concerti embody this conflict between public and private man perhaps most elegantly,
and in very different ways. The Violin Concerto, written in 1910, is an epic work, symphonic in
scope and idiom. Both the solo and orchestral writing are conceived on the grandest possible scale.
Yet, the work is, at its heart, desperately personal- a confession of private longing and moral

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torment, in which the cadenza, normally the high point of virtuoso showmanship, becomes instead
a moment of heartbreaking intimacy and fragility.

Written in the summer of 1919, the Cello Concerto embodies this conflict between public and
private man in a new way. Adrian Boult, Elgar’s greatest interpreter, noted the Cello Concerto
“struck a new kind of music, with a more economical line, terser in every way.” Although written
in four movements rather than the traditional three of the Violin Concerto, it is considerably
shorter- most performances come in well under 30 minutes, compared to, for example 58 for Nigel
Kennedy’s famous, but unusually broad reading of the Violin Concerto.

It is in the first three movements that this “new kind of music” is most obviously present. Gone
are the rich, Romantic textures and the grand orchestral tuttis of the Violin Concerto- the “big”
tutti in the first movement of the Cello Concerto is only 6 bars long, and instead of a long, grand
orchestral introduction, the work opens with a recitative for the solo cellist. This iconic opening
was something Elgar worked at extensively- in the sketch it was a bar longer, and he experimented
with placement of orchestral punctuation. The main theme of the following Moderato was one the
composer closely identified with. On his deathbed, Elgar “rather feebly” tried to whistle the
theme to his friend, the violinist William Reed. “Billy,” he said with tears in his eyes, “if ever
you’re walking on the Malvern Hills and hear that, don’t be frightened. It’s only me.” The Cello
Concerto has been a gateway to Elgar’s music for countless listeners, and its popularity makes it
hard to fully appreciate what a departure this theme was from anything in his previous works. Its
modal character, now considered quintessentially English, is something we associate more with
Vaughan Williams than with Elgar, and the stark simplicity with which he introduces it, first with
the viola section alone, the solo cello only sparsely accompanied, is typical of this new, terser and
more economical way of composing.

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 https://www.allmusic.com/album/hans-g%C3%A1l-edward-elgar-cello-concertos-
mw0002356957

The first movement ends with desolation rather than catharsis, with the cello carrying the tune
down to a low E’, which is then held through to the next movement by the orchestral celli and
basses. The Moderato is linked to the Scherzo by a mercurial accompanied recitative, in which the
moods swing precipitously between extremes of wit, tenderness and violence. Elgar’s decision to
include a Scherzo is inspired- it gives this most intimate of concerti an element of virtuoso display,
while maintaining its lean and understated character. It’s possible he got the idea from Brahms’
Second Piano Concerto, but Elgar’s concise approach shows how much he had moved on from the
influence of one of his heroes.

The private character of the work deepens in the Adagio. Elgar’s metronome marking of
quaver=50 ought to be ample warning to cellists would turn it in a late-Romantic dirge, but he was
just as emphatic that the movement not be rushed. In his own recording of the work, the
extraordinary cellist Beatrice Harrison can be heard pressing impetuously ahead, but Elgar, a fine
enough conductor to succeed Richter as director of the LSO, stubbornly tries to hold to the main
tempo. Michael Steinberg rightly underlines this movement’s “Schumann-esque qualities,” and
Elgar knew that a certain element of understatement would make it all the more moving. His
publisher, Novello, recognized the potential appeal of this movement when he first received the
score, and asked Elgar to compose a concert ending for stand-alone performance, since in the
Concerto the movement ends on the dominant. Elgar tried to accommodate, but finally wrote back,
saying “I fear I cannot think of another ending for the slow movement- it will do as it is…”

In the fourth movement, Elgar seems determined to re-assert his public persona. The orchestral
writing is far more symphonic and the cello writing more declamatory than in the rest of the piece.
The brusque, aggressive tone of the opening is a shocking contrast from the tenderness of the
Adagio, and there are harmonic shocks as well, as in just 8 bars, Elgar moves from B-flat minor to
E minor. There follows yet another recitative, this one more determined and extrovert than those
in the first two movements. This attitude of determination continues in the main Allegro, man non
troppo which follows, as Elgar implores the soloist to play “risoluto.” The main mood for the bulk
of the movement is one of heroic struggle, similar to the Finale of his First Symphony, the work
which marked the apex of his career. However, instead of the hard –won triumph which ends the
earlier work, in the last pages of the Cello Concerto the public rhetoric abruptly evaporates, and
there follows what may be the most moving page in the cello literature.

Elgar’s own place in British musical life had been eroding since the premiere of his Second
Symphony in 1911. By 1919, he was painfully aware that many considered him yesterday’s man.
He had also been deeply affected by the Great War, and had largely lost the urge to compose
between the completion of Falstaff in 1913 and the last great surge of creative energy in 1918-9
which gave us the String Quartet, Violin Sonata and Piano Quartet, as well as the Cello Concerto.
After this last burst of inspiration, he attempted nothing on a similar scale until beginning work on
a Third Symphony in 1932. Whether he intended it to be so or not, this last page was, in many
ways, his farewell. In comparison to the draft of the rest of the work, according to John Pickard,

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here “even the handwriting reveals something of the emotional excitement under which the music
was written.”

All his career, Elgar had jumped nimbly between his public and private worlds. Now, it is as if he
forces the public Elgar to remove the mask of Edwardian rectitude while standing in the public
eye. The outpouring of longing and vulnerability which follows makes this one of the most
touching passages in any work. Once all has been said, and all has been revealed, Elgar abruptly
takes up his Colonel Blimp disguise, but the listener now knows what effort it must have taken to
create the mask his culture had come to expect him to wear.

Photo by Jack Robinson

Remembering the inimitable Jacqueline du Pré, widely considered as one of the greatest
classical cellists of the 20th century.48

This year marks the 60th anniversary of Jacqueline du Pré’s Royal Festival Hall debut in London
(March 21st, 1962) when she was just 17. An event that shook the classical world, the performance
led to the legendary 1965 EMI recording that made the teenage cello prodigy, and Elgar for that
matter, a household name.

“A swan-song of rare and vanishing beauty. Those actually present were witness, on the first day
of spring, to an early blossoming in Miss du Pré’s playing, and such a beautiful blossoming as this
year, or any other year, is likely to know for a long time to come.”

So wrote The Guardian’s Neville Cardus the morning after cellist Jacqueline du Pré’s 1962 Royal
Festival Hall performance. In her concerto debut, with few performances under her belt and still a
teen, du Pré had not only roused one of the most important stages in London but managed to
astound Britain’s most distinguished music critic of the time. Other reviews were equally

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https://insheepsclothinghifi.com/jacqueline-du-pre/

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rapturous, confounding critics and the classical world with the question, “How could a young girl
so beautifully express the brooding despair of such an elegiac work?”

Some musicians stand the test of time. Their gifts and talents continue to resonate long after they
have ceased to perform, whether it be in recordings, filmed performances, or stored in the
memories of those lucky enough to sit in a concert hall and bear witness. Du Pré was one such
musician, and her first proper concert review couldn’t have been more accurate.

In the following years, du Pré caught the public imagination with follow-up performances,
returning to Royal Festival Hall under her soon-to-be-husband conductor Daniel Barenboim. Her
first US performance occurred at Carnegie Hall with the BBC Symphony Orchestra in 1965 under
the baton of Antal Doráti.

What set her apart despite her prodigious youth? For one, her talent and her raw enthusiastic
approach to performance. Her sheer passion elevated her unimaginably skillful playing. Helen
Wallace of BBC wrote, “For du Pré, it was an absolutely natural extension of herself. Just seeing
her face illuminated by pure inspiration, her long balletic bowing arm, the precision engineering
of that wrist, her tremendous long fingers snapping down on the fingerboard, or executing those
heart-stopping slides between notes – what she called her ‘sumptuous glissandi’ – makes you itch
to play: her enjoyment remains infectious; with her, everything seems possible.”

The cellist was radical and inspiring to watch; her unmatched emotive playing blew right through
the traditional stoicism of the era, and what a relief as well to finally see an extroverted woman
lead an (unfortunately, usually) all-male orchestra at this time. When the late 1960s social and
cultural revolution was in full bloom and expanding ideas in so many institutions, it also crept into
a place as traditional and conservative as a symphony hall. Her husband and collaborator
Barenboim, with whom she performed the Elgar piece repeatedly recalls, ‘She was so free,
emotional and carefree – not careless – that perhaps she represented what many people in England
wished they could be but didn’t quite manage to be.’ With each performance astounding audiences,
it became clear that a recording must be in order.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5J4eTWj0a0

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Jackie died in October 1987, aged 42, having suffered long and painfully from multiple
sclerosis

(pictured: playing the cello, she was considered one of the greatest cellists of all time)

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I was 17 when I first heard her play the Elgar, and weeped.
She died when I was 37 and I weeped again.

As a neurologist I realized how much she suffered with MS and how it robbed her
of her divine gift slowly agonizingly…

Yet our daf admonishes us to not mourn excessively, for ‫ִאי ַאֶתּם ַרְחָמ ִנים בּוֹ יוֵֹתר‬
‫……ִמֶמּ ִנּי‬

I am left only with questions, is human rachmonus different to divine?

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