One morning, leaving shul after Shacharis, I noticed the familiar tableau: a small plastic container of herring, a few crackers, and a napkin serving as the “signage.” On it, in hurried pen scratches, was a single first name ben another first name. No last name. No context. No relationship. No explanation. Just a lone name, as though the act itself required nothing more.
We all know the scene. It is a minhag,
and therefore – by communal reflex – holy, untouchable. And yet, the more one
thinks about it, the more absurd it can feel. If a stranger scribbles a name
and leaves herring under it in memory of another stranger, what exactly am I
participating in? Am I meant to compare this to “today’s learning is l’zechus
so-and-so,” where the person is equally unknown to me? As Rabbi Moshe Heineman
once asked with admirable clarity: “What’s
the zechus?”
* * *
There is a vast difference between an
actual act of merit and the assumption that any ritualized behavior,
however casual, automatically counts as one.
Consider, for a moment, what Chazal
actually say about a yahrzeit. The Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chaim
568:7) mentions fasting on the yahrzeit of a parent. Fasting – not putting out
herring. A day of introspection, not a day of culinary sampling.
So how did we land here? How did we get
from a somber day of reflection to the “tikkun” table? How did we get
from a yahrzeit as a day of introspection to the idea that placing food in a
public space, prompting someone to make a bracha, somehow “elevates the neshama”?
At some point, the belief developed that every bracha uttered in
proximity to a name – no matter how hurried, unthinking, and detached from the
person’s life story – creates a spiritual credit in the Heavenly accounts of
the deceased. A kind of celestial mechanism, where your cracker becomes their
merit. But what does this really mean? Is a bracha mumbled on autopilot
by someone rushing out the door truly a zechus? And even if one
accepts such metaphysics, does a stranger’s snack meaningfully reflect the
life, legacy, or values of the person whose name is scrawled on that napkin?
And then there is the way we
participate in this minhag. Let’s be honest: What actually happens at
that little table is not dignity, not kavod ha’meis, and certainly not kavod
haTorah. It is people standing around, hovering over a plastic container,
fressing. Not eating a seudah, not sitting, not practicing derech
eretz, but forcing down
a cracker smeared with herring while half-turned toward the exit. Is this what
the Shulchan Aruch had in mind for how a Jew conducts himself in public?
Is this how a mentch eats? A baal habayis? An adult? It’s not even achilas
array. It borders on
gluttony. Where are the manners, the basic kavod for food, for a bracha,
for the moment itself? How did a gesture meant to honor the departed become an
exercise in hurried, undignified consumption?
* * *
Many Jews feel intuitively that the
living can do something for the dead – that prayer, charity, Kaddish, or
Torah study can somehow “raise” a soul. That intuition is not invented in the
19th to 20th century; it is rooted in Midrash and
Talmudic aggadah, given a metaphysical framework by the kabbalists
(notably the Arizal), and was practicalized by medieval and later halachic
authorities, who recommended Kaddish, tzedaka, and Torah study l’iluy
haneshamah as ways to help the departed. Over time, these rabbinic
teachings became communal practice: The son recites Kaddish, the
community studies Mishnayot, and families give charity – all intended as merit-bearing acts on
another’s behalf.
It’s worth remembering that the whole
idea of doing something l’iluy nishmas someone was never meant to be a
label you can slap onto any old act. The sources that speak of helping the
departed describe substantive actions: charity, where real money
changes hands and someone’s life is improved; Torah learning, and specifically
extra learning, something that would not have happened otherwise; or Kaddish, where the mourner
publicly affirms the greatness of Hashem precisely at a moment of personal
pain. Even the yahrzeit candle, for all its symbolism, is a concrete ritual of remembrance,
a visible act tied to memory. These are the kinds of deeds that
Chazal, the Rishonim, and even the kabbalists framed as carrying merit for a neshama.
They spoke of measurable, intentional actions, not arbitrary gestures. The
point was never to turn an everyday behavior into a spiritual elevator simply
by hanging a “l’zecher nishmas” flag on it. The point was to generate
actual good in the world, good that would not have existed without the
deceased’s memory inspiring it.
The common explanation is about
“elevating the neshama,” and we say it without further thought, an
expression that rolls off the tongue with ease but is rarely examined. And once
you do examine it, many questions follow.
* * *
Let’s start with the most basic one: What exactly is the real idea behind a tikkun
neshama?
In Tanach, the legacies that endure are
those earned through a lifetime of meaning. Yaakov gathers his sons and speaks
to them of their character; Moshe Rabbeinu leaves behind teachings and acts
that continue to shape the world; even the Nevi’im, when describing the great
figures of our past, speak of the principles they stood for and the
responsibilities they embraced. And Chazal repeatedly emphasize that a person’s
merit is carried forward through the impact they had on others – through
mitzvos, through tzedaka, through shaping lives – not through symbolic
gestures performed by strangers who never knew them.
Even Kaddish – perhaps the most
misunderstood ritual in Jewish life – is not a mystical incantation designed to
rescue souls from cosmic limbo. It is, as the Rambam and others explain, a
public affirmation of the mission statement
of the Jewish people: “Yisgadal
v’yiskadash shmei rabba:” The one who experienced loss stands before the
community and says: I am hurting, I am shaken, and yet I proclaim G-d’s
greatness. That
is the Kaddish prayer. Its power lies not in magical “elevations” but in
the moral courage of the living to reaffirm purpose after suffering.
* * *
So why would we encourage people to
believe they can manipulate the celestial plumbing of Heaven with crackers? Why
perpetuate the idea that the simple act of eating – often rushed, unthinking,
with no manners and no meaning – is somehow spiritually transformative for a
soul they never knew?
If G-d knows exactly who the neshama
belongs to, and if G-d is not dependent on your cracker consumption, then what
exactly is the point?
Let’s grant the benefit of the doubt.
Let’s imagine the most generous scenario: Charlie was a man who devoted his
life to protecting children – advocating for safe streets, pushing for better
signage, fighting reckless driving. Then tragedy struck, and his life ended too
soon. At his memorial, a man named Harry – wealthy, unrelated, uninterested in
safety – heard about Charlie’s work. Inspired, Harry started a company
producing safety devices. His products saved lives; hundreds of people found
employment; communities were safer. Charlie’s influence, posthumously, led to
real-world impact.
That is a zechus. That is a
legacy. That is a true tikkun of something.
Now imagine Emily, a grandmother. Her
name ends up on a napkin next to herring. Louie, rushing out the door, grabs a
cracker, mutters a bracha, and leaves. He has no idea who Emily was. No
idea what her family needs. No idea what her life meant. No idea whether she
struggled, triumphed, suffered, or shined. Emily becomes not a person but a
prompt for someone to wolf down a piece of fish on the way to carpool.
* * *
Is that really the legacy we want? Is
this the vision we have for our own memory? That a stranger will see our name,
scribbled casually on a napkin, and perform a perfunctory gesture that we have
convinced ourselves will somehow move the cosmic needle? Or do we hope our
lives will matter in a way that truly affects others – like Charlie’s did for
Harry?
Instead, let us embrace positive,
productive ways to honor the departed. Dedicate extra Torah study to
their memory, perhaps delving into a sugya they cherished or teaching it
to others. Give tzedaka in their name, supporting causes they valued – education,
chesed organizations, or aid for the needy – ensuring tangible benefits that
ripple outward. Recite Kaddish with kavanah, transforming grief
into communal sanctification. Establish scholarships, volunteer initiatives, or
even simple acts like visiting the ill, all l’iluy nishmasam,
creating merit that aligns with their essence.
Ultimately, the greatest legacy is the
life we build, which is so resonant that it inspires others organically. May we
live with such purpose that our memory needs no napkin to endure – only the
enduring good we leave behind, elevating not just souls but the world itself.
