Jewish tradition offers a path, not of easy answers, but of profound understanding.
Ecclesiastes 3:11 tells us, "He has made everything beautiful in its time." But what about death? Where's the beauty in that? Rabbi Berechiah, in the name of Rabbi Jonathan, offers a stunning reinterpretation. He suggests we don't read "shem" – name – but rather "olam" – world. “For God has placed the world in their hearts.” Think about that. God has placed the entire world within us. It’s a vast and intricate gift, filled with joy, sorrow, and everything in between.
Then comes this image: A king with two sons. The older, well-behaved and respected. The younger… a bit of a troublemaker. Yet, the king loves the younger son more. It’s a surprising, even unsettling, analogy. Perhaps it speaks to the fierce, protective love we feel for those who need us most, for those who challenge us, for those who, in their very imperfection, reflect the messy, beautiful reality of life.
Rabbi Jonathan offers another explanation: God placed the fear of the Angel of Death in our hearts. It sounds bleak, doesn’t it? But is it? Fear, in this context, isn’t just about terror. It's about awareness. It’s about the preciousness of each moment, the fragility of life, and the urgency to love and connect while we still can.
Rav Berya, quoting Rabbi Samuel, draws our attention to Genesis 1:31: "And God saw all that He had made, and behold, it was very good." But then he throws a curveball: This "very good" includes the yetzer hara (יֵצֶר הָרַע) – the evil inclination. Wait, what? The evil inclination is good? It seems paradoxical, but hear him out. Without that inner drive, that yearning, that sometimes misguided passion, would we even strive? Would we build families, create homes, and populate the world? "For if it weren't for the evil inclination," he says, "a man would not marry a woman, nor would he bear children, and the world would not exist nor would homes be built." It's a provocative idea, suggesting that even our darker impulses can, paradoxically, serve a greater purpose.
And finally, there's the idea that God conceals from us the day of our death, and the day of judgment. As we find in Midrash Rabbah, David said, "Because You have hidden them from me, I sing about You." (Psalm 119:54). Why? Perhaps because if we knew our expiration date, we’d be paralyzed by fear. The uncertainty, the mystery, forces us to live in the present, to cherish each breath, each relationship, each experience.
So, what does all this mean when facing the death of a loved one? It means acknowledging the pain, the grief, the void. But it also means recognizing the enduring beauty of the world, the profound connections that bind us, the bittersweet understanding that even in loss, there is a strange and powerful kind of love. It means, perhaps, finding a way to sing, even when our hearts are breaking.