It seems like a strange thing to worry about when, well, we're no longer around to worry about anything. But the story of Jacob, as he nears the end of his life in Egypt, gives us some fascinating insights into this very question.
In Genesis 47:29, we read that Jacob calls for his son, Joseph, and makes him swear an oath: "Please do not bury me in Egypt." But why Joseph? Why not Reuben, his firstborn, or Judah, the one destined for kingship? Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations of Genesis, explores this very question. It suggests that Jacob chose Joseph because he was the one with the power to actually carry out his request. He was in a position of influence in Egypt, capable of ensuring his father's wishes were honored.
Jacob’s request goes further: "Perform kindness and truth with me." Now, what's with the "kindness and truth" part? Is there such a thing as false kindness? The Rabbis, in their characteristic way, delve into the nuances. They bring up a folk saying: "If the son of your friend dies, bear with him, because he can repay the kindness. If your friend dies, cast off… because he cannot repay the kindness." In other words, kindness shown after death is a true kindness because there's no expectation of reciprocation. It's pure and selfless.
But why not Egypt? Jacob gives a few reasons, each layered with meaning. One reason is a bit…uncomfortable. He says he doesn't want to be buried in Egypt because the land will eventually be struck with lice, and, well, those lice would swarm his body. Yikes!
Another reason is far more profound. Jacob was concerned that the Egyptians might turn him into an object of idolatrous worship. The Rabbis in Bereshit Rabbah remind us that just as punishment is meted out to those who worship idols, so too is it meted out to the one who is worshipped. They bring examples like Daniel refusing worship from Nebuchadnezzar, and the downfall of Hiram, who declared himself a god.
Jacob also worried that his burial in Egypt might inadvertently grant the Egyptians merit they didn't deserve. They worshipped lambs, and Jacob was likened to a lamb ("Israel is a scattered lamb," says Jeremiah 50:17). The Egyptians' flesh was likened to that of donkeys (Ezekiel 23:20), and "the firstborn of a donkey you shall redeem with a lamb" (Exodus 34:20). The symbolism is complex, but the core idea is that Jacob didn't want his burial to somehow benefit a society steeped in idolatry.
So, why did all the patriarchs – Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – insist on being buried in the Land of Israel? Rabbi Elazar simply calls them "cryptic matters." But Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi offers an explanation: "I walk before the Lord in the land of the living" (Psalms 116:9). The Land of Israel, he says, is the "land of the living."
Rabbi Ḥelbo, cited in the name of our Rabbis, gives us two reasons: First, the dead of the Land of Israel will be the first to come back to life in the messianic era and enjoy those messianic years. Second, Rabbi Ḥanina adds that someone who dies outside the Land of Israel and is buried there undergoes "two deaths" – death and burial, as exemplified by the prophet Jeremiah's words about Pashhur (Jeremiah 20:6).
But what about those righteous people who do die outside the Land? Are they out of luck? Rabbi Simon offers a remarkable image: God makes tunnels and channels in the earth, and the bodies of the righteous roll through them until they reach the Land of Israel! Then, God breathes life back into them. As Ezekiel 37:12 states, "Behold, I am opening your graves, and I will take you up from your graves, My people, and I will bring you to the soil of Israel." Then, "I will place My spirit into you and you will live" (Ezekiel 37:14). Reish Lakish finds further support in Isaiah 42:5, "Who places a soul in the people upon it."
There's even a story about Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi and Rabbi Eliezer encountering a coffin being brought from outside the Land to be buried in Tiberias. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi wasn't impressed, suggesting the person had defiled the land in life and continued to do so in death. But Rabbi Eliezer countered that burial in the Land of Israel atones for their sins, citing Deuteronomy 32:43: "His earth will atone for his people."
Even on his deathbed, Rabbi Yoḥanan was concerned with appearances, asking to be buried in green garments, "so if I stand among the righteous we will not be shamed, and if I stand among the wicked we will not be disgraced." Rabbi Yoshiya, on the other hand, had no such qualms, requesting to be buried in white, "Because I am not ashamed to greet my Creator because of my actions."
The story of Jacob's request, and the Rabbis' interpretations, reveal a deep connection between the Jewish people and the Land of Israel, a connection that transcends even death. It's a connection rooted in history, destiny, and a profound belief in the power of the land to bring about redemption. It prompts us to consider what truly matters in life, and what kind of legacy we hope to leave behind, even after we're gone.