Life after Loss

Sermon on Life after Loss
Yom Kippur 2006-5767
Rabbi David Jay Kaufman

“If some messenger were to come to us with the offer that death should be overthrown, but with the one inseparable condition that birth also cease: if the existing generation were given the chance to live forever, but on the clear understanding that never again would there be a new child, or a youth, or a first love, never again new persons with new hopes, new ideas, new achievements; ourselves for always and never any others—could the answer be in doubt?”

I will utter these same words again this afternoon during our memorial service. They are a well reasoned attempt to assuage us of our grief. How could we deny that new life is essential? Yet, how could we deny that loss is painful? Would not we love to have just a bit more time with those dear to us? Would not we ask the messenger from the depths of our hearts, “But what if life could be longer? Healthier? Would that be so bad?”

Sometimes, it is not the adult level and intellectual discourse that is helpful, but that at the level of a child. One such source of help is a book written for children called simply, “Sad isn’t bad,” by Michaelene Mundy.

The first page of that book reads:

It’s okay to cry.
When someone you care about dies, it’s very sad. There will be tears, but tears can be good. Sad isn’t bad.
You might feel like you are too big to cry. You’re not.

You might even notice yourself crying at things that didn’t use to bother you—a shoe that won’t tie, a toy that breaks, homework that seems too hard…. Tell yourself it’s okay to cry when you’re sad. You have a good reason.

This advice is as appropriate for adults as it is for children. Children may not know that crying is okay. They might not understand that other things may cause them to get angry and cry, things that normally would not bother them. Adults often forget that crying is okay. They feel embarrassed perhaps, or that they must “be strong” for others. The fact is that the advice holds, “It’s okay to cry. “And though “you might feel like you are too big to cry, you’re not.”

Mourning is a process, a journey, that begins without our consent. We are cast out upon a path unknown, cold and dark. Yet as we walk the path of mourning, warmth and light appear along our way: a kind word, a hug, a shoulder to cry on, a fond memory that makes us smile. Over time there may be quite a bit of light on the path and more warmth than not, but there will always be times when the chill of mourning will return, if for only a short while.

These chills amid the warmth may well be memories, thoughts about a parent, a spouse, a child, absent from our lives: perhaps memories of playing catch, riding a bike, eating cake, playing music, cooking, sewing, singing, dancing, a season, a sunrise, a sunset, a rainbow… It is also possible that there will be chills amid the warmth that are sorrows for memories never made, joys not shared.
Harold Schulweis wrote a poem about the mourning process and how it changes over time:

The yahrzeit candle is different, announcing neither Sabbath nor festival. No benediction recited. No song sung. No psalm mandated.

Before this unlit candle without a quorum, I stand, unstruck match in my hand.

It is less distant now, the remembrance ritual of parents deceased. I am older now, closer to their age than before. I am older now, their aches in my body, their white hairs beneath my shaved skin, their wrinkles creased into my face.

It is less distant now. This ritual once made me think of them, now makes me think of me.

Once it revealed relationships to them, now it ponders on my children’s relationship to me. Once I wondered what to remember of them, now I ask what will my children remember of me: what smile, what grimace, what stories they will tell their children of me.

It is less distant now. How would I be remembered? How would I be mourned? Will they come to the synagogue? Light a candle? Recite the Kaddish?

It is less distant now. Once yahrzeit was about parents deceased, now it is of children alive. Once it was about a distant past, now it is about tomorrow.

A part of our mourning process is, in fact, about us and those who will mourn for us. It is the realization that, as we say in our liturgy, “all of us must trod the same path, though we know not when that hour may come.” We may wonder to where the path leads. Where does it all end for us? What happens to our soul? Though we have no specific answer, because God is good and cares for us, we can expect that what will become of us will be the best that it can be.

Among my favorite poems about death, if one can have a favorite poem about death, is “When I am Dead” by Christina Rossetti. It is short and sweet.

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt—remember, And if thou wilt—forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise, nor set,
Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.

Just as is our hope on this Day of Atonement, that God will look upon us, remembering the good and forgiving the not so good; we hope that our loved ones will, when the time comes, remember the good about our lives, and forget the not so good. This is also the hope of the second of the blessings in the Priestly Benediction. “Ya’eir Adonai Panav Eleikhah vi-hu-nekha,” “May Adonai shine God’s light upon you and be gracious unto you.” We dearly want God to pay attention to us, to remember us, to shine the light of the divine presence into our lives. Yet, with attention, with remembrance, with light shown into the darkness, it is not only those things of which we are proud that are seen. We ask God to pay attention to us, but to be gracious in so doing because in shining the light upon us, God surely sees the good and the bad. In our remembrance of our loved ones, may we light the candle of memory and let its radiance shine, but let us be gracious, remembering the good and, perhaps, forgetting the not so good things in the story of our lives.

Atem Nitzavim Hayom Lifnei Adonai. Today, we all stand before Adonai with the light of God’s presence shining down upon us, into our hearts, into our past. What is it that we wish for that light to reveal about us? How could we live our lives better?

Our tradition teaches us that we should NOT live each day as if it were our last. That seems at bit surprising at first. Why should we not live and enjoy? Why not cherish every moment? Instead, our tradition tells us that we should do that regardless. If death should be far away, we should cherish every moment, we should enjoy life. Yet, we should also plan for tomorrow. The rabbinic tradition tells us, “The day of death is concealed, so that people might build and plant.”

Harold Kushner points out that:

Sometimes the anticipation of death can invest our days and our decisions with meaning. People can respond to the inevitability of death in one of several ways. We can choose the path of self-indulgence, saying to ourselves, “Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow I may die. “ We can respond with despair, thinking, “What is the point of doing anything since nothing lasts?” like the author of the book of Ecclesiastes, or like Woody Allen’s recollection of himself as a child who proclaims, “What’s the point of doing homework?” after learning that the sun is going to disappear and all life will end in six billion years. Or we can choose to say to ourselves, “Since my days are limited, let me make the most of them.”

The tapestry of our lives will be colored by the choices we make, the indulgences, the kindnesses, the despair and the hope, the times we wasted and the times we made the most out of life. The places that our tapestry will hang when our life is finished will tell of our impact in the lives of others. Who will remember us, for what good that we have done? Will it be our loved ones alone gazing at the colors and patterns we have woven? Or will our tapestry be remembered by the community, admired for generations? Will those standing before it be thankful for having contributed a part to its artistry? Will they, not having had the opportunity, wish to have been a part of its creation? Will they think to themselves, if only he or she had cared more, had given more of themselves, reached out to help more, we would be so much better off? Or will they cry tears of thanks for generosity and kindness that made a difference, for trees planted in old age that bear fruit for the generations to come?

What we do in our lives, with our lives, through our lives does this. The greater the impact someone has upon us, the greater the emptiness their passing leaves behind with us. For many in this sanctuary, death has come recently to their home, to their family, and the emptiness is profound and clear. For some, age and illness have brought it near. Others find that loss and sadness are more distant, but emptiness remains.

We say yizkor elohim, may he or she be remembered by God. Even after decades, WE could never forget. We ask that El Malei Rachamim, God full of compassion grant our loved ones perfect rest; and that Shalom, our rest, our wholeness, descend upon us, even as we remember those without whom, our lives are not whole. As we sing, “Oseh Shalom Bimromav,” standing arrayed before the light of memory, tears come to the edges of our eyes. We try to halt them. We are, after all, older now.

Yet perhaps something within us will remember a bit of advice told to us or even the words written in a child’s book:

It’s okay to cry.
When someone you care about dies, it’s very sad. There will be tears, but tears can be good. Sad isn’t bad.
You might feel like you are too big to cry. You’re not.

Then our tears water the grass that never withers, the flowers that never fade, and “if thou wilt—remember and if thou wilt—forget.”

May we all be blessed with abundant Shalom, peace, well-being, and wholeness in our lives. May the new year be one filled with sweet memories.

L’shanah Tovah Tikateivu,

May you be inscribed and this day sealed in the book of life for a good and happy new year.