A Message from the Rabbi
Tehillim (Psalms) 8:5
מָה־אֱנ֥וֹשׁ כִּֽי־תִזְכְּרֶ֑נּוּ וּבֶן־אָ֝דָ֗ם כִּ֣י תִפְקְדֶֽנּוּ׃
What are human beings that You have been mindful of them,
mortals, that You have taken note of them?
Psalm 8 is often recited at the unveiling ceremony of a loved one’s grave marker (matzevah) . This verse captures the heart of the human condition—the tension between our physical frailty and our extraordinary spiritual potential. We are made of the same flesh and blood as other mammals. We age, we suffer, and eventually, our bodies fail us. Yet we possess something more: intellect, memory, and a shared consciousness that allows our thoughts—and the impact of our lives—to reach far beyond our physical limits.
When we lose someone dear, we confront this tension directly. Though they are no longer with us in body, their presence endures in our hearts and minds. Jewish mourning rituals, rooted in Torah and shaped by generations of rabbinic wisdom, help us integrate the intellectual understanding of our loss—something we grasp almost immediately—with the emotional reality, which unfolds over time and often takes years to process fully.
The metaphor of grief as a tear in the fabric of our lives is powerful. That is why formal mourning begins with kriah—the tearing of a garment or ribbon—symbolizing the rupture we feel inside. Each stage of mourning—kriah, shiva, sheloshim, and, by an adult child for a parent, eleven months of saying Kaddish—offers a way to begin mending that tear. Just as repaired cloth can even become stronger at the site of a rip, our traditions guide us toward healing and resilience.
The Hebrew word for funeral, levayah, means “accompaniment.” Levayah expresses our sacred responsibility: to accompany our loved ones to their final resting places, just as we cared for them during life. Whether tending to them in illness, holding their hand, or surrounding them with love, we now continue that care—through burial and beyond—as an act of unbroken devotion.
In that spirit, Cantor Scheinman and I are here to accompany you, to answer questions, to hold your hand, and to be at your side on this sacred journey. Together with your clergy, your community is here to comfort and hold you over this journey.
It’s important to correct a common misunderstanding rooted in the language we use about mourning. We often hear that “so-and-so”—is “sitting shiva for someone.” Sometimes, out of love and a desire to protect us, our elders even say, “Don’t sit shiva for me.” But this reflects a mistaken belief: that shiva is something we do for the deceased. In truth, we don’t sit shiva for the person who has died—we sit shiva to create space and support for ourselves and our loved ones who are living as we begin to process the grief, and emotional weight of loss. It’s a time to mourn, remember, and begin healing within a community.
What we can do for those who will survive us is take practical steps now that will ease their burden later. We can clearly communicate our wishes about end-of-life decisions—such as organ donation (a mitzvah!), power of attorney, medical directives, and more. We can pre-arrange our funerals, purchase family plots, and ensure that funeral costs are covered, so our loved ones aren’t left with uncertainty or financial strain in the midst of their grief.
Mourning begins with shiva, which starts after burial (or, in rare cases, when we first hear of the death, after the levayah or funeral has already occurred). Shiva allows us to retreat into the embrace of our home, surrounded by family and community. Even when death is anticipated or experienced as a release from suffering, nothing prepares us for the finality of absence—the realization that we can no longer care for them, whisper to them, or feel their hand in ours. The rabbis, with profound insight, taught: if this must be so, then let us not face it alone. Let us begin this journey surrounded by those who love us most.
The mourning period continues through sheloshim—the first thirty days after death—and for the death of a parent, extends to eleven months. These periods are marked by continued rituals, even as we re-enter daily life. Chief among them is the recitation of Kaddish, which we are guided to say each day.
Though Kaddish is a hymn of praise to God written in Aramaic, its emotional power comes from its context and the way it is spoken. In one context, a familiar melody might signal the arrival of Kabbalat Shabbat, so we know Shabbess dinner is only moments away. Another arrives only at the 25th hour of our Yom Kippur fast, telling us we have made it to the end of this powerful and exhausting day. For mourners, Kaddish gives voice to sorrow, love, and memory—even without articulating specific thoughts. Its rhythm and tone speak the unspeakable. Here again, the rabbis gave us words and structure to hold us when our own words fail.
Time and again, I’ve witnessed the comfort these rituals provide. Mourners have told me—after shiva, sheloshim, or eleven months of Kaddish—how meaningful these traditions have been in helping them process and move through their grief. We owe deep gratitude to the generations of sages who shaped this path—and to members of our community, Fran Hamermesh and Michael Malbin, for creating this invaluable guide to support us all.
Shalom,
Rabbi Joshua Ben-Gideon
