A Teenage Mitzvah

The chevra kadisha (“Holy Community”) is a geographically-organized group responsible for all Jewish matters pertaining to death, including arranging people to sit with and guard the body (shemira), and preparation of the body for burial (tahara). The 7th of Adar, which falls this year on March 3rd, is the date the Rabbis assigned to Moshe’s death (Talmud Bavli Kiddushin 38a). Because God prepared Moshe’s body for burial Personally, the chevra honors this date as a day of reflection on the work they do. Different chevras and members have various approaches to balancing modesty with a desire to spread knowledge regarding death rituals to make them less obscure.  In the days leading up to and following Zayin Adar, chevra members from across the country will be sharing their stories.  You can read past entires from this year and years past by clicking here.


When I was 14, in that weird liminal state between being a Jewish adult and a legal child, I picked up a hobby of light graverobbing. I would find the corpses of possums, birds, or stray dogs in the woods near our house and carefully stash them where nature could take its course in peace. Once the flesh had rotted away sufficiently and the tendons had dried, I would take the body home and soak it in bleach to clean the bones.

I’d always had a desire to participate in the chevra kadisha with my mother, but my ambitions would have been to see a dead body, not a dead person. It felt like an inappropriate mindset to bring to a funeral practice, so I never outright asked.

So. Fourth of July weekend, 2002. I’m out in the blazing 90 degree weather, which given it’s Knoxville, Tennessee counts as mildly balmy, weeding my mom’s garden. There’s dirt caked under my nails and around my knees.

My mother steps out onto the porch and says, “Sarah R____ just passed away. Do you want to do the chevra kadisha with us? Everyone’s out of town for Fourth of July. We don’t have enough people here to do it. Can you come with me?”

(Full confession: I don’t actually remember her name, so we’re going with Sarah.)

I scrub down and get dressed in the cleanest sneakers I can find and a blouse that manages to pass my mother’s discerning tastes. An hour later, we’re standing in the waiting room of Rose’s Mortuary with my mom’s synagogue friend M___ and her daughter L___, also fourteen and just a few months past her bat mitzvah. 

The nice young men in their tasteful suits show us into the back room. We pass the threshold, from comforting fresh flowers and pamphlets on handling grief into glaring fluorescent lights illuminating a tile floor and a large metal table. Buckets and sponges are on one side near a big metal sink, the kind you see in the back end of kitchens.

On the table is a long wooden board, and on the board is Sarah in her hospital gown.

Sarah doesn’t look dead. She looks old. I can’t imagine she was younger than 80, and maybe that’s why it’s easier for me to imagine she’s just asleep. Her hair manages to still be nicer than mine.

We wash our hands before putting on paper aprons and latex gloves, because thousands of years of tradition doesn’t mean we toss germ theory out the window. I don’t know what she died of, besides chronology. My mother passes out battered printouts for our call-and-response prayers.

I’ve been saying the same roster of prayers in synagogue for over a decade, internalized to the point that I sometimes sing them in the shower, but my tongue stumbles over this new one. At that time, there’d never been a death in my family that I was old enough to care about. The worst we’d ever had was the loss of a hamster, and nobody really recites Yizkor for a hamster.

M___ takes out a pair of scissors and cuts off the hospital gown, and then we are standing in a cold gleaming room with a naked dead person.

I was warned about this, but it doesn’t make the situation any less awkward. We say the next prayer, again unfamiliar to me. I busy myself with distributing paper towels because I can’t figure out where to put my eyes. Bare guts and muscle are fine, but when there’s skin on top of it I feel uncomfortable. I picture myself, Chanah bat Tuviah v’Lvana, naked and unresponsive while I’m being worked over by a quartet of strangers, and the part where I don’t have my pants on is more unnerving than the part where I’m dead.

We start our washing at her head and move down from there. Where there are band-aids stuck to thinning skin we remove them and tuck them next to her. Sarah’s body was deteriorating long before she died, and when we disturb a scrap or scab that paper towel is also tucked next to her. 

At each stage we lift and pour one of the buckets of water down her body, with the water flowing down through grooves in the old wooden board to the sink at the end of the table. The board itself must be almost as old as Sarah, because the synagogue name carved on it, Heska Amuna, is spelled with a CH and they changed it to start with an H decades ago. I wondered how many dead people have been on top of this slab and how they managed to sanitize it between corpses.

“She is pure, she is pure, she is pure,” we recite, the older women with practiced comfort and L___ and I hurrying to catch up. When my mother accidently drops one of Sarah’s hands she murmurs an apology, nearly laughing. M___ takes on the patter of a hairdresser, speaking to Sarah as she runs a comb through her hair.

I’ve never talked to my corpses before. The bird was not told it was a pretty bird as I dipped it in bleach and watched the sinew melt away in patches.

With that conversation going it’s much harder to conceive of Sarah as just an object.

We dry her off and M___ arranges the loose strands of Sarah’s hair next to her ears. My mother delicately unfolds the white linen clothing resting on a nearby table. At Sarah’s age, perhaps she was used to having someone else dress her every morning, to help her with what her body could no longer accomplish.

We start with the bonnet, then the pants, lifting each limb carefully. For the shirt I put her hand through the sleeve and reach in through the opening at the cuff to pull it through. Something about me is like catnip to empty-nested Jewish old ladies, and I’ve held enough cold bony fingers with drooping skin during Shabbat services that this one feels no different. For the moment when both our hands are out of sight, I have the sudden vision of her hand coming to life to grasp mine. When it doesn’t, I’m almost disappointed.

We do the jacket, then the belt around her thin waist. In the final step, we cover her face with a white cloth and wrap the burial sheet around her body, swaddling her like an infant.

The nice young men in the tasteful suits come in, silent and polite, and lift Sarah from the table into the plain pine box.

Our final recitation isn’t directed to God, but to Sarah. The four of us apologize for any indignity we may have visited upon her during the process, and then pause as if to wait for any possible complaints she may have wished to offer. As the box is closed, we stream out one by one. The drive home with my mother is quiet. A year later I’ll do the same thing again, for another person who I barely knew and whose name I’ve long forgotten.

I’m still an atheist. I don’t believe in a God, or an afterlife, and while I’m not always successful I do my best not to believe in ghosts. I’m definitely not cured of graverobbing—my prized dog skull and leg bones were later turned into accessories for a Mad Max themed costume party.

I can’t put my finger on what in that room felt so sacred to me.

In Jewish culture, tending to the dead is considered one of the highest mitzvot. You are offering favors that the recipient cannot possibly return. Your personal beliefs don’t matter.

It matters that you’re there to wash the grime from her skin when you will be the last person to ever see her face, that you behave as if she still has authority over her own body after she’s no longer there to enforce it, that you show up when there’s no one else left to do it in your place.

I don’t believe in souls that linger before burial. I don’t want to be buried with all my parts if some of them can go to help others. And I still hope that there’s a little quartet of strangers there to see me when I go off.

But I may put it in my will that I get to keep my pants on.

Elliot is a Tennessee transplant living, working, and cross-stitching in Chicago. Their written and storytelling works focus on queer issues, Jewish identity, the inherent folly of conflicting cultural norms, and being a giant nerd. 

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