“In the Jewish tradition, death is not the object of a cult”

A rabbi, like any minister of religion, is often called to the bedside of a sick or dying person. Entering the room of someone who is at the twilight of his life is a moment that intimates respect and recognition, humility and delicacy, one of those preliminary times when we feel that we do not control everything and that we must wisely accept that certain decisions are beyond us.

Yet at these very times, there are also decisions to be made, complex and difficult decisions, like ethical dilemmas that require consultation and listening. These decisions should never be taken lightly. The variety of human life, the uniqueness of each being, in his destiny, in his feelings and his emotions, make generalizations impossible. However, in every religious tradition and in Judaism in particular, little lights guide our way. They help us to ask questions so that we can better accompany each person in this passage from life to death, and perhaps towards a beyond, the ‘olam haba, the world to come according to tradition.

A gravely ill rabbi

Let’s start with a Talmudic story that I often tell to people who feel guilty for having left for a few moments the room where their loved one was who, precisely at that moment, passed away. A rabbi was seriously ill and his disciples surrounded his bed, saying prayers tirelessly for his health to improve. Her faithful servant entered the room and saw that the sincere prayers of the students were preventing the master’s soul from leaving. She came back with an amphora which she suddenly dropped and which broke on the ground. The faces of the students disturbed by the noise turned in one movement towards her and the prayers were suddenly interrupted. It was then that the rabbi’s soul could depart (BT. Ketuboth 104a).

Even though this story dates back almost two thousand years, even though medicine has evolved a great deal, it has often been interpreted in Jewish law as follows: it is permissible to remove an obstacle that prevents death, but it is not to cause death. This subtlety is often well understood by medical teams, and the difference is expressed in technical terms. Yet decisions are informed by other principles as well. Here are two.

Life, a precious gift

In Jewish tradition, life is considered a precious gift. The Talmudic adage “He who saves a life is as if he has saved the whole world” (M. Sanh 5:5) is well known, and most commandments can be broken to save a life, except except for incest, idolatry and murder. At the same time, death is not the object of a cult. It is recognized and accepted as a natural and inevitable part of life, just as trees lose their leaves in winter: “There is a time to be born and a time to die”, says Ecclesiastes (3, 2 ). The word “life”, hayim, is a plural referring to several lives.

We don’t know what happens after death, there is no pre-established doctrine about it, and it is for this reason that we must enjoy life every moment. However, from the most rationalist thoughts to the most mystical, death is not an end, we can survive by our works or by the survival of our soul. The burial is also called levaya, “accompaniment”.

The pain has no meaning

Albert Einstein said: “Isn’t there a certain satisfaction that life has natural limits so that in the end it can appear as a masterpiece? When we learn of someone’s death, we recite a blessing, because we thank God for life and for death. Yet even in the last prayer called the vidoui, or confession, while accepting death, we maintain hope for a possible cure.

The second principle that should guide us in decision-making is that of the meaninglessness of suffering. In the Jewish tradition, suffering is not a divine punishment. Physicians are seen as gardeners who must take care of plants and offer them attention, care and medicine to heal them or ease their pain (Midrash Samuel 4). According to some sources (Tos. Avoda Zara 27b), a certain degree of autonomy allows the patient to choose his treatment according to the risks incurred and what he can bear. Pain tolerance can vary substantially from individual to individual; no judgment should be made.

In this perspective, Judaism associates the recovery of the body and the soul considering the two as a whole. Both must be objects of attention, respect and care. From the Book of Job until today, the question of suffering has questioned people’s minds without finding satisfactory answers. For this subject as for the question of evil in general, the rabbis say: “Teach your tongue to say I do not know” (m. Ber. 4, 1).

A very old woman

Preciousness of life, acceptance of death, fight against suffering must therefore inform our nuanced decisions adapted to each story. I would like to conclude with a second rabbinical account from the third century. A very old woman went to consult a rabbi complaining that her life no longer had any meaning, that she no longer found any pleasure in it. The rabbi asked him what his secret was for having lived so long. She replied that she used to go to the synagogue very early every morning. The rabbi then said to him: “For three days, stay away from the synagogue. The woman left and followed the rabbi’s advice. On the third day she fell ill and died (Yalkouth Shimoni on Proverbs 943).

In a tradition that prefers communal prayer in the synagogue to private prayer, this story testifies to an immense listening and a deep wisdom, which should guide us in these difficult choices, at these times when life is like a flickering flame around which we must either place our hands to protect and rekindle it, or watch it go out with the greatest respect and the greatest humility. Delicacy and humanity must enlighten us, and we must recognize with Milton Steinberg that “one can cling to life and let it go at exactly the same time”.

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