For the first three years of rabbinical school I felt like a fraud. I was a good student, got good grades, and took all the required classes, but I didn’t feel like I was becoming a rabbi. I could pars the grammar of a verb in Biblical Hebrew. I could explain a section of Talmud as well as any of my classmates. I even took a pastoral counseling class. But who would ever trust me to be their rabbi. I was convinced that my future congregants would see right through the façade.
And then that changed. The summer after my 3rd year, I participated in an interfaith chaplaincy internship at UCLA Medical Center. It was an eleven-week full-time program – 40 hours a week plus 4 overnight on-call shifts a month. Everything I had learned in the previous three years was put to the test every time I stood at someone’s bedside. And I learned more that summer about being a rabbi than any class could ever teach me (ironic, since most of my patients weren’t Jewish). And UCLA is no regular hospital. People come from around the country and the world for specialized care not available at most other hospitals. By and large, the patients there are very sick. So, working as a chaplain at UCLA meant confronting death on a daily basis.
Over those eleven weeks, I visited dozens of dying patients and their families and I learned a tremendous amount. I learned that as a rabbi, I can’t fix death. I can’t take away the pain. I can’t put the shatters pieces of people’s lives together. But I can be a companion on the journey. I can be what we used to call “a non-anxious presence” in the midst of chaos and anguish. And there is often so much chaos and confusion around death. In those moments, we don’t know what to do with ourselves. So often I would get that page and walk to a patient’s room to find a family huddled around a bed or pacing the hallways; and the look on their face was utter confusion. “What do we do now?” they would often ask. I learned that every situation calls for a different answer to that question, but often what I would find were family members and friends who desperately wanted to say something to their dying loved one, but they couldn’t get the words out. Sometimes all they needed was a little time and space. So in those situations I would ask everyone to leave the room. We would all walk out to the hallway and then I would tell them, “I want to give each of you an opportunity to spend a few moments with your loved one. I encourage you to speak to them… to have one last conversation.” And it was a very powerful experience for most of them. There is a power in saying the words out loud, even if you aren’t sure if they are being heard.
When the summer was over and I went back to school I told one of my mentors about my experience. When I told her about what I would do with some of the families of dying patients she was impressed but she corrected me. She said: Shlomo, the only thing you got wrong there is that it isn’t the last conversation. You see, my mentor, Reb Mimi Feigelson is a Hassid. She was a protégé of the late Reb Shlomo Carlebach. Reb Mimi – being a Hassid – believes very much in a personal God. And, when someone dies, Reb Mimi says “they left this world,” implying that there is another world. I’ve always had a hard time with that one. You see, I’m not a Hassid… I’ve always seen myself as a rationalist. But, Reb Mimi is more in line with the Jewish tradition than I am. The truth is our tradition is full of beliefs about an afterlife. The Talmud has countless stories of people communing with those who have – in Reb Mimi’s words – “left this world.”
Contemporary Jews and their rabbis are reluctant to talk about it, but it is absolutely central to our religion. The 11th chapter of Tractate Sanhedrin famously declares: “kol Yisrael yesh lahem helek la’olam ha-bah” – “Every Jew has a portion in the world to come.” What a relief! I was worried there for a second! There you have it, we’re all going to heaven! Oh, but wait a second. The next line in the Mishna goes on to explain the exceptions to the rule. Not quite every Jew has a place in the world to come. You have to be righteous; and, the number one thing that can get you locked out of Olam Habah, is not believing in Olam Habah. That’s the catch. You have a place in the world to come, so long as you believe in a world to come. And the truth is this idea is all over the place. We say it several times in different ways in our tefillot. Every time you say the Amidah, you are affirming the belief in the resurrection of the dead. So central is this idea that Moses Maimonides codified it in his 13 principles of faith, which we sing on Friday nights as “Yigdal.”
So, if belief in an afterlife is so central to Jewish theology, why do many of us balk at the idea? Perhaps words like “resurrection” and “a world to come” rub against the grain of our modern rational sensibilities. Perhaps generations of proselytizing has made these words seem - what my grandfather called - “goyishe.”
Yet, despite all that, many of us continue to yearn for a relationship with our loved ones who have passed on. That yearning I witnessed at the bedside of so many patients doesn’t go away. Now as a congregational rabbi I see another side of it. I see that yearning in the eyes of so many of you when you are sitting shiva, or marking a yahrzeit… I see it in the eyes of many of you today, as we prepare to davven Yizkor. I think I’m beginning to understand Reb Mimi’s point of view. I’m still not so sure about what happens to us when we die, but I have come to believe that the relationship with our loved ones does not end with their departure from this world. There is always an opportunity for another conversation. And just as it was in the hospital, I think it’s a powerful exercise whether you believe someone is “listening.”
In a few moments we will begin Yizkor. And just as I used to do with families in the hospital, I’m going to invite you to have a conversation with the loved ones you have come here to honor. If you’re willing, I invite you to close your eyes, sit comfortably in your seat, and take a few deep breaths… see yourself opening a door and walking into a familiar room. You feel safe, secure, at peace. As you look around the room, you find an open chair and take a seat. Sitting in the chair across from you is your loved one. Look into their eyes; see the details of their face that were once so familiar to you. What do you want to say that you didn’t say when they were alive? Perhaps there is a question you never got a chance to ask. Maybe you want to tell them about something important that has happened in your life this year. Or perhaps you simply want to say thank you or I’m sorry or I miss you.
And I invite you to take a moment to wait for a response. Listen carefully. While we davven Yizkor, I invite you to linger with your loved one; and, as Yizkor comes to a close, see yourself safely exiting the room. You return to this sanctuary knowing that by taking the time to remember and reconnect you have transformed an ordinary moment into a sacred encounter. This is the gift and the power of Yizkor.
