The call came on a Sunday night, which is when these calls often come. A woman I’d met once at a Shabbos meal – quiet, polite, not someone who calls rabbis – was apologizing before she’d even said why she was calling.
“My father is in hospice,” she
said. “He signed up with a cremation society years ago. He’s not religious, he
never was, and he’s been very clear. I don’t even know why I’m calling you. I
guess I just want to know, am I allowed to bring it up? Or is that a terrible
thing to do to a dying man?”
I have been asked some version of
that question many times, in hospital corridors, in prisons, at kitchen tables,
and over the phone at hours when most people are asleep. And I want to begin
where I began with her, because it is the most important thing I can tell you:
“Yes. You are allowed to bring it
up. Not only allowed. If you are asking the question at all, it is probably
because you love this person, and love is a perfectly good reason to have a
hard conversation.”
In preparing this piece, I
consulted on a forum with fellow Chabad rabbis around the world, colleagues who
sit with families at these moments far more often than any of us would like,
and I asked them to share their experiences. Several of their stories and
insights have been woven into what follows.
Why This Conversation Belongs at the Table
Sometimes a conversation about
burial wishes reveals something painful: The person you love wants to be
cremated, and you were hoping for something different. If that’s your family,
you are far from alone. The National Funeral Directors Association projected
that nearly two out of three Americans who died last year (63.4 percent) would
be cremated, roughly double the share who would be buried, and it expects that
figure to climb past 80 percent within 20 years. Jews have followed the wider
culture. The National Association of Chevra Kadisha (NASCK), which tracks this
closely, estimates that about half of American Jews are now cremated.
What surprises many people is who
those Jews are. They are not only the unaffiliated or the angry. Yael
Davidowitz, who directs NASCK’s outreach effort, has pointed out that many
proud, identified Jews, people active in Jewish causes, people who wear a magen
David, will be cremated simply because nobody ever raised the subject with
them. Most were never taught why Jewish burial matters. Their choice is often
less a rejection of Judaism than a default.
That changes how we should feel
about the conversation. We are not confronting someone. We are offering them
something they may never have been offered.
Jewish tradition gives this kind
of care a special name. When our forefather Jacob was dying in Egypt, he asked
his son Joseph to bury him in the land of his fathers, and he described the
request as chesed v’emes, kindness and truth. From that phrase comes the
term the Jewish world uses for caring for the dead: chesed shel emes,
the truest kindness, because it is the one kindness the recipient can never
repay. Raising the subject of burial, gently, early, and with love, is the
first step of that kindness.
One more thing before we begin: In
my experience, these conversations fall into two very different situations, and
they call for different approaches. The first is talking with someone during
their lifetime, while the decision is still theirs to make. The second, and
much harder, is talking with the family or executor after someone has
died and left instructions for cremation. I’ll take them one at a time.
Part One: While There Is Still Time
Start with a question, not an argument: The instinct, especially
for those of us who care deeply about Jewish practice, is to lead with the
verdict: “You can’t do that. It’s forbidden.” I understand the instinct. I’ve
also watched it end conversations before they start.
The better opener is a question,
asked with real curiosity: “What makes
cremation feel like the right choice for you?”
Then listen. Really listen.
Because “I want to be cremated” is almost never the whole story. Underneath it,
you will usually find one of a handful of reasons:
·
Cost: A direct
cremation is usually cheaper and logistically simpler, and many people quietly
dread leaving their children a bill.
·
Not wanting to be a
burden: “I don’t want the kids to have to schlep to a cemetery.” “Who’s
going to visit anyway?”
·
The environment:
Many assume cremation is the greener choice.
·
Fear: Of the ground,
of decay, of something they can’t quite name.
·
Humility: “I don’t
want to take up space.”
·
Family history: For
some, especially children and grandchildren of Holocaust survivors, the reason
is tangled up in memory and grief.
·
Distance from religion:
Sometimes this is mild indifference, sometimes real anger at a parent, a
community, or G-d.
Each of these deserves a different
response. And the person’s Jewish identity may matter to them in a very
different way than it matters to you. That’s fine. You’re not trying to win an
argument about their identity. You’re trying to understand what they actually
care about, because that is where the conversation can go.
Some years ago, I was sitting with
a man in his seventies whom I’d been visiting for months. When the topic
finally came up, he didn’t hesitate. “My grandparents went up the chimneys in
Auschwitz,” he told me. “There are no graves for them. Why should I have one?”
There was no argument to make against that, and I didn’t try. I asked him about
his grandparents instead, what he knew about them, what their town was like. It
was a long conversation. Toward the end of it I said, as softly as I could,
that the people who murdered his grandparents burned their bodies precisely so
that nothing of them would remain, no grave, no name, no place for a grandson
to stand. “You can’t give them back their burial,” I said. “But you can refuse
to finish what was done to them.” He was quiet for a long time. Then he asked
me how one goes about buying a plot.
Explain what burial means, not just what is forbidden: It is true
that Jewish law requires burial in the earth and prohibits cremation. The Torah
commands, “You shall surely bury him” (Deuteronomy 21:23), and from the very
beginning of Genesis, we are told that we came from the earth and will return
to it. But if all we offer is a prohibition, we’ve offered very little.
What stands behind the law is an
idea most people already believe without having the words for it: kavod
hames, honoring the dead. The body is not a container we throw away once we’re
finished with it. For a lifetime, it was the instrument through which a soul
did everything it ever did: every hug, every word of comfort, every act of
kindness, every bit of good. It carried the person. It deserves dignity.
The Talmud makes a striking
comparison. It teaches that standing at the moment a person passes away is like
witnessing a Torah scroll being burned. Think about what that means. A Torah
scroll is parchment and ink, yet no Jew would stand by while one was burned,
because of what it holds and what it has been. Our sages say a human being,
body and soul together, is no less than that.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi
Menachem M. Schneerson, zt”l, addressed this question directly in a 1983
letter answering a woman who asked how a son could explain to his father why he
should not be cremated. The Rebbe’s answer was to say plainly and simply that
the body retains a form of life even after the soul departs, and that as long
as the body has not fully returned to the earth, part of the soul remains bound
to it. Cremation, he wrote, is not something done only to the body. The soul feels
it.
That is a hard idea to hear. It is
also, I have found, a deeply comforting one, because it tells families that
their loved one is not simply “gone.” The connection continues, and what we do
for the body matters to the person.
Make the alternative real: Once you understand the reason, you can
often address the actual problem. This is where many conversations quietly
turn.
If the concern is money,
offer to get an itemized price for a simple Jewish burial. Traditional Jewish
burial is, by design, plain: no embalming, simple white shrouds, and a plain
wooden casket with no metal. Burial societies across the country, along with
organizations like NASCK’s Last Kindness initiative, work to help families who
cannot afford burial, and Maryland’s Department of Human Services runs a Burial
Assistance Program through local social services offices for families in need.
Confirm real costs and eligibility before promising anything, but don’t assume
the money can’t be found.
If the concern is the environment,
the facts are often the opposite of what people expect. Cremation is an
industrial process that burns fossil fuel and releases emissions. Traditional
Jewish burial, with no chemicals, biodegradable shrouds, and a plain pine box,
is about as close to a natural “green burial” as it gets. As for land, author
Doron Kornbluth calculated that even if every American chose burial, it would
take roughly ten thousand years to use one percent of the country’s land.
If the concern is being a
burden, offer to help arrange everything now: the plot, the burial society,
the paperwork. Pre-planning is one of the kindest gifts a parent can give
children, and it can be done quietly.
Write it down: NASCK’s Last
Kindness project offers a free, state-specific My Burial Wishes document
that lets a person record their choice of Jewish burial and name someone to
carry it out. In Maryland, the law allows a person to designate their own “authorizing
agent” in writing, and that agent is bound by the person’s valid written
instructions. A conversation at the kitchen table is beautiful; a signed
document is what protects the decision.
Remove the shame: Many
people who choose cremation carry a quiet belief that they haven’t “earned” a
Jewish burial. They didn’t keep kosher. They didn’t go to shul. They married
out or walked away or did things they’re not proud of. I spend my days with
people who feel that way about far more than their burial. And I tell them that
a Jewish burial is not a reward for a life lived well. It is a right that
belongs to every Jew, without exception. NASCK built its Last Kindness
initiative around exactly this principle, to help every Jew choose Jewish
burial regardless of how he or she lived.
One man I visited in a recovery
program told me he wanted to be cremated because, in his words, “Nobody’s going
to come stand over my grave. Why waste the space?” He wasn’t making a
theological argument. He was telling me what he thought he was worth.
I shared with him something a
colleague of mine once told a deeply humble woman who didn’t want to “take up
space.” Think about a canvas, my colleague said. While a painting is being
created, the canvas has to be humble. It can’t have its own color or texture or
opinion, because anything it expresses would get in the way of the art. But
once the painting is finished, nobody would dream of throwing the canvas away.
The humility is precisely what made it into something precious.
“Your body has been the canvas for
everything you’ve done,” I told him. “Including the hardest work of all, which
is what you’re doing right now.” He didn’t decide that day. But a few months
later he told me he’s naming me as the contact in his form.
Bring in someone they trust:
You do not have to do this alone, and sometimes you shouldn’t. Ask whether your
loved one would be willing to speak with a rabbi they respect or with someone
from a burial society. Share honestly why this matters to you, while
leaving plenty of room for their questions. And keep the whole conversation
free of threats, guilt, or judgments about whether they are a “good Jew.” Those
words have never once, in my experience, brought someone closer to burial.
Warmth has.
Part Two: When the Decision Has Already Been Made
The second situation is far
harder. A person has died. They left clear instructions for cremation, maybe in
writing, maybe in years of firm statements. And now a son, a sister, a spouse,
or an executor is standing in the middle, burdened by grief and a feeling of
urgency, pulled between loyalty to the person they lost and the pleading of
another relative, often the more religious one, whom the rest of the family may
quietly regard as “the radical.” Sometimes there is no such relative at all,
and the pull comes from within: a feeling they can’t quite name or explain that
this is not how it should end.
Jewish law takes the wishes of the
dead very seriously. The Talmud teaches that there is a mitzvah to carry out a
person’s final instructions, mitzvah l’kayem divrei hames, and it
governs everything from how an estate is divided to what is written on a
tombstone. But that same body of law is clear that a request which contradicts
the Torah’s own command to bury is not one we are bound to follow. Knowing
that, however, rarely settles anything for a grieving family. They don’t need a
ruling or a lecture. They need a way to make peace with what they’re about to
do.
Honor the wishes, and then look more closely at them: A colleague
of mine shared a difficult case. The man who had died had grown up in an
observant family, but the relationship had been marked by years of tension and
real animosity. He had turned his back on religion entirely and made it
absolutely clear that he wanted to be cremated. His wife, who is not Jewish,
had lived alongside that pain for their entire marriage. She was now the one
who had to decide, and she had every reason to want nothing to do with her
in-laws’ Judaism.
My colleague did not begin by
arguing. He began by agreeing: honoring a person’s wishes matters enormously,
and her loyalty to her husband is beautiful. Then he asked her to think about
how often we all change our minds completely without changing our values at
all.
“When we were children,” he said, “we
all had firm rules about the kind of parents we would someday be – what we’d
allow, what we’d never do. Then we grew up and had children of our own, and
many of those rules turned upside down – not because we loved our children any
less but because we finally saw the situation from where a parent stands.”
“Your husband has just gone
through the biggest change a person
can go through,” my colleague told her. “He sees
everything differently now, with a clarity none of us have. If we really
want to honor him, we have to think about
what he wants from where he stands today.” It is the same truth the Rebbe
wrote about: A person who has passed on is not watching from a distance.
Whatever is done to his body, he feels.
She eventually agreed to a burial.
Find the value they held: The
most useful work in these situations is often done long before anyone passes
away, in those earlier conversations where you listened carefully for what the
person truly cared about. Because when the moment comes, a family can often be
helped to see that burial is not a betrayal of their loved one’s values. It is
an expression of them.
One question works surprisingly
often, across nearly every kind of Jewish family. Set aside, for a moment how
religious the person was and ask how they would have acted in the presence of a
Torah scroll? Would they have shown it reverence? Could you ever picture them
allowing it to be lying on the floor? Could you picture them being okay with it
going up in flames?
Almost always, the answer is no.
Even people who never prayed, who rolled their eyes at the rabbi (I’ve been on
the receiving end of more than a few of those), would never have let a Torah be
burned. And that opens a door. Remember the Talmud’s teaching: A human being is
compared to a Torah scroll. The family is not overriding the person’s values.
They are applying the reverence their loved one already held for something holy
to something even holier, the body that carried their own soul for a
lifetime.
In fact, Jewish law states this
outright. The Magen Avraham, quoting the medieval Sefer Chasidim, rules that if
a fire breaks out and one must choose, the body of a person who has passed away
is rescued before holy books. That
ruling is cited by many later authorities and is codified in the Mishnah
Berurah. Our tradition does not merely compare a human body to sacred texts; it
places the body first. And notice
what the ruling does not say. It sets no condition on who the person was or how
they lived. It applies to every Jewish body, even that of someone who acted
utterly wickedly. The holiness belongs to the body itself, not to the résumé. A
family that would never let a Torah scroll be burned is, by its own instincts,
already halfway to understanding why their loved one should not be either.
For families where the concept of
reverence for a Torah scroll doesn’t resonate, another colleague has found the
same logic works with other examples. Would your father ever have burned an
American flag? The original Declaration of Independence? If he would have
protected a piece of parchment because of what it represents, would he really
want his own body – holier and more precious to the people who loved him than
any document – destroyed?
Act quickly: If a cremation
has already been scheduled, time matters more than anything else. In Maryland,
a cremation can take place as soon as 12 hours after death. Call NASCK right
away at 718-847-6280. Ask the person making the arrangements whether they would
agree to pause while options are explored. A pause is a much smaller request
than a reversal, and it is often granted.
It can also help to point out a
simple, practical truth: A burial can (at least technically) be undone. A
cremation cannot. If a family is torn or unsure, choosing burial keeps every
door open. Choosing cremation closes all of them, permanently, in a matter of
hours.
Be aware, too, that the law may be
on the side of the instructions. If the person signed a valid document
directing cremation or naming an agent, that agent may be legally bound by it.
If your family is in that situation, speak with an attorney immediately, and
with a rabbi.
When it doesn’t work: I won’t pretend these conversations always
succeed. They don’t. Sometimes a family listens with patience but decides to go
ahead anyway. When that happens, don’t let the decision become the end of the
relationship. A grieving family still needs comfort, and the door you leave
open today may matter enormously to the next person in that family who has to
face this choice. Ask a rabbi what can still be done in your loved one’s
memory. There is guidance, and there are mitzvos, charity, and learning that can
be done for the soul, which never stops being reachable.
And don’t measure your effort by
the outcome. Yael Davidowitz of NASCK put it well: We can’t control how these
conversations end, but we can control whether we try. In all my years, I have
never met anyone who regretted having one.
The Last Conversation: The
woman who called me that Sunday night did bring it up with her father. She didn’t
lecture him. She asked him why. It turned out his reason was simple: He didn’t
want to leave her a bill and a cemetery to visit. She told him she wanted
a place to visit. She told him she wanted to be the one to take care of him,
one last time. He was buried three weeks later, in a plain pine box, next to
his parents.
That is all this conversation
really is. Not a fight over a rule but a child, a spouse, or a friend saying: Let
me take care of you, one last time, the way our people have cared for each
other for three thousand years.
It is the one kindness that can
never be repaid. Which is exactly why it is worth offering.
Rabbi Sholom Reindorp
and his wife Mushki are the co-directors of Neshama, an affiliate of
Chabad-Lubavitch of Maryland, serving Jewish individuals and families in-crisis
and at-risk across the state. They can be reached through www.neshama.care.
