Stories of Love and Death

Written by Jess Winter, Photography by Casey Gordon

Portland’s Jewish burial society fights to keep tradition alive as rituals are altered to assimilate to American customs.

“It’s another way of being in love!”  The words gracefully dance from Susan’s lips.  Her eyes, previously hidden by rose tinted glasses are revealed.  Susan’s skinny frame, leans forward, arms outstretched, embracing the world.  She has no boundaries on love, because for her there is only equality, especially in death.    “The person who has died, right to the very last moments… is in contact with the people that love them or who knew them.”

Susan Cummings-Lawrence works for the Maine Historical Society and preserves Maine’s Jewish community.  She speaks with fervor about the Jewish population.  Sweeping her peppery, curly hair from her face, she says, “It’s really important for Jews to hang onto their history and who they are… I think when you are from a group of people that is under constant siege, which has been the history of Jews around the world, community is what saves you.  I mean, yes, your Jewish practice saves you, the Torah saves you, Shabbat saves you, all of those trite phrases that are part of the tradition stories, but that implies in your community… I think the importance of community to Jews is the same importance to any other ethnic community.”

After burial, the bereaved say Kaddish, the mourner’s prayer, like a memento remembering the dead.  For seven days friends and family sit shiva, a mourning period, recollecting stories of the deceased.  Eggs are eaten, their roundness symbolizing the circle of life and the dead’s journey back to the earth.

Wrapped in the process of death is the Tahara, the purification and cleansing ceremony performed prior to burial.  Those who make up the burial society, the Chevra Kadisha, prepare the funeral arrangements for the family.  In Portland, the burial society also has a non-profit called Tzedakah, meaning charity, which financially supports families unable to pay for funeral expenses.

Portland’s Chevra Kadisha is made of 60 members, whom are volunteers that try to remain anonymous.  They do not with wish to be recognized for conducting Tahara or for being part of the Chevra Kadisha.  Members are not looking for honor in what they do.  The dead cannot repay the actions of the Tahara practitioners thus being part of the Tahara is considered a chesed shel emet, the ultimate act of kindness.   There are a total of 15 people who practice Tahara.  It is tradition for women perform on women, and men on men.  The Portland Chevra Kadisha is an Orthodox organization; however, Jews can receive Tahara regardless of what sect of Judaism the person belongs to.  Jewish Orthodoxy is stricter, thus Orthodox Jews must receive Tahara, but the ritual is optional for Reform Jews, a more liberal sect of Judaism. Tahara is a choice because it is not law, but custom.  Tahara also cannot be practiced during high holidays or Shabbat.

Tahara begins with a prayer and is followed by bathing the body, and cleaning the nails, arms, and legs.  The person is then wrapped in shrouds made of linen.  The deceased is placed in a plain wooden casket which is marked with the Star of David.  The ceremony signifies the transition between life and death.

One member, D. Cooper, is part of Portland’s Chevra Kadisha.  He practices Tahara and is part of Tzedakah, the charity group.  To the left of him a display of pamphlets, an advertisement of necklaces and various mementos, hide the dark wood of the cabinet.  Sitting against the table, Cooper rests his hands on his belly.  As always, he wears a freshly starched blue suit with a matching shirt and tie.  D. Cooper is the Jewish Liaison for the Jewish Funeral Home and Chevra Kadisha Chapel in Portland, Maine.  He speaks slowly and with compassion, “The whole process starts with the underlying philosophy that you respect the dead as you would respect the living.  But you go one step further.  And that is the dead can longer help themselves.  So we have to help them go to their eternal rest.”

There is revitalization in the Jewish community to preserve stories and support families who do have the financial resources for a funeral.  Though the community is close knit, there has been a watering down of tradition which threatens the survival of the Chevra Kadisha and Tahara as they continue to change.  The futures of the Chevra Kadisha and Tahara remain uncertain, especially if the community does not gain new members.  There is a possibility that it could cease to exist.  Susan brings her hand down to her side almost as if she is in pain.  “Loosing Tahara… just seems like taking a chunk out of the side, like big bite out of the side…I think those of us who feel that way see it as so essentially part of Judaism, as Tahara.”

Entrance into the Chevra Kadisha is not as difficult as it once was.  Cooper is somber.  His voice lowers a half octave and becomes a steady drone, as if it too is being lost.  “The original bylaws required you to be observant, meaning to go to the synagogue, but to keep a kosher home, and every week you had to give a certain amount of money to charity.”  The old bylaws would have excludes Cooper.  He does not keep a kosher home.  Even though he would be excluded, Cooper seems to miss the prestige the burial society once had.  Entry is now based on anyone who shows willingness to participate in Tahara; however, it is difficult to find community members who are comfortable with death.

“I think that one of the ways the Jews implicitly look at history… is with a certain amount of circularity.”  Susan leans forward and continues in fervor, “There is the history that happened, the history that is happening now, and there’s the history that is going to happen… It’s really important for Jews to hang onto their history and who they are.”

Like a time capsule, stories from generations past spill out of Cooper.  It’s as if he has become part of this history as he fondly recalls the past reputation of being part of the burial society.  Remembering his childhood, he says that being in the Chevra Kadisha was like joining an “exclusive country club.”  His voice slows into a decrescendo of sorrow, knowing that the burial society does not hold the same prominence as it once did.  The Chevra Kadisha held admissions by invitation only.  In Bangor, those who were part of the Chevra Kadisha were buried in what were called “Chevra Rows.”  It was considered a privilege to be buried in a separate section of the cemetery, one row for women and one for men.

Cooper attributes the changes of the Chevra Kadisha and Tahara to assimilation.  He explains that, like any other community or culture customs evolve.  “I think as Jewish generations become more Americanized, there is less focus on the Jewish community… After awhile, from generation to generation, the ties to the Jewish community become less and less.”

The cultural modifications were not ideal, but a necessity for survival.  If change had not occurred, the Chevra Kadisha would have most likely disappeared.  Cooper says, “I think it would be suicidal to go back to the old ways… The change was made in order to perpetuate the Chevra Kadisha.  I think if it had adhered to the old ways, we would be having a very, very difficult time finding people… times change and with that customs change…We’re part of everything else.  We’re part of social change.”

Reciting stories from the past, as if they were old bedtime tales, Cooper is like a father reading to his child.  He slowly begins to narrate an old tale of Jewish ancestry.  “And people used to be dressed in their finery when they were buried, or beggars were just kind of wrapped up… They were buried, but not with the same respect and attention as the wealthy.  And then one day, the great Rabbis of Europe said, ‘We are all equal.  I want to be dressed in a white shroud, with no pockets.’  In other words, you can’t take it with you.  And from that point on, every Jew was buried in a white shroud regardless of their position in life.  So, you come in this world equal, and you go out equal.”  The story dates back to the second century when Rabbi Simeon ben Gamliel II asked to be buried in linen.  The shrouds are without pockets, again signifying equality because the dead should be remembered by their deeds and not by their wealth.  Cooper says, “It’s kind of a circle of life.  When we came into this world we were washed, we were bathed, and we were all equal.”

Cooper tries to preserve Tahara through community education. He is filled with passion when he talks about death.  He has a seminar called, “You Only Die Once,” which encourages families and individuals to preplan their will and funeral arrangements.  Cooper also informs the community about burial rituals, including Tahara.  “At some point in everyone’s life, they are going to be impacted by the death of a relative or friend.  Be prepared, as the Boy Scouts always said.”

He carries out the ideas of equality within the Jewish Funeral Home and Tzedakah was created. It gives money to Jewish families who are unable to afford the expenses of a funeral.  A committee reviews the applications case-by-case.  The family is requested to contact the welfare office for financial assistance.  “Whatever the welfare department gives is fine.  And the difference we will pick up.”

The charity helps between four to five families a year.  The money goes toward the cost of the funeral and tombstone.  If a member of the Jewish community dies who is 18 years-old or younger, the Jewish Funeral Home will cover all expenses.  Cooper explains that Tzedakah acts as a way to remember Jewish stories.  “Regardless, I think everyone is entitled to a perpetual memory… And hopefully someday, somebody will know that this person existed.”

The funeral home meeting room seems spacious, but is cramped with old memories that linger in the corners waiting to be revealed.  Cooper flattens his fading gray hair and begins to recall the first tombstone Tzedakah erected.  The previous funeral home director had picked up a girl from Pineland, a home for the mentally disabled.  They buried her.  The girl’s plot was left unmarked.  Five years ago, when the non-profit first started, this girl’s grave was the first to receive a tombstone.  “We’re created in God’s image…out of respect to God, it’s important to commemorate the person, every person.  Not everyone has a fulfilling life and they take a turn in the road… Today, we are much more compassionate.”

Like Tzedakah, Tahara offers congregants the chance to care for other Jews.  Susan explains that if the Tahara and Chevra Kadisha are not preserved, Maine Jews will lose a part of  their history, potentially altering the community and the burial services that are offered.  “One of the other traditional stories is that performing Tahara… is one of the highest mitzvahs [deed]… because the person that you are doing this for can’t thank you.  I think that the idea is that it’s completely voluntary and it’s your own congregation members, your own community members who are performing the service for you.  What could define community better than that?”

Even though Tahara is the ultimate act of kindness, it is still difficult to find volunteers who will perform the ritual.  This year, Cooper has had two people contact him about joining Tahara.  Prior to entrance, the two women will observe the ritual and decide whether they can emotionally handle the process.  If able, the women will begin to practice.

Over the years, D. Cooper has noticed that most of the members of Tahara are doctors or nurses, like the two interested women.  “We have a number of female nurses and we have several doctors that assist.  And that is helpful, quite frankly.  Sometimes if you got a situation with bleeding or a medical apparatus that has to be removed, it’s good to have somebody that’s knowledgeable.”

The men and women who currently practice Tahara are in their 50s and 60s.  “We have these fabulous… men and women who actually perform the ritual, who are determined to keep it going. This is what they do.  But they’re old.  So what happens remains to be seen,” says Susan.  Younger individuals have shown little interest in joining Tahara, although there is a 17-year-old who is interested in practicing the ritual.  She has to wait until she is 18 because of state regulations (one has to be 18 years and older to handle a dead body).  There is no guarantee she will stay interested.

Cooper understands that there are a select few who volunteer for Tahara. It is not an ideal job for most.  He shakes his head and looks down at his hands, studying them.  He lets out a sigh before he speaks.  “I think it’s a natural tendency that people are uncomfortable being in the presence of a dead person.  I think that is a major obstacle and just human nature.  Quite frankly, I don’t think there is a way of overcoming it.”

Some are more comfortable sitting with those who are in mourning, during a period called shiva.  It is a time when friends and family can remember the dead and to revel in grief.  Like the Chevra Kadisha and Tahara, it is communal.  One can grieve with loved ones and support is offered.  Susan says, “Obviously far more people would feel as though they could sit shiva, or go to shiva at someone else’s home than could [practicing] the Tahara.  It’s one of those things that if people don’t do anything else they’ll go to someone’s home who is sitting shiva.  It’s something that still really draws people and signifies Jewish community.”

Susan is one of the many who cannot perform Tahara.  “It’s too emotionally costly in some way… It would be too hard.  I don’t know how else to say it.  I just couldn’t do it.”  Even though Susan knows she could not perform Tahara, it is part of her Jewish identity.  “I think it also appeals to my particular way of being a Jew, which is I’m very attracted to the mystical aspects of Judaism, of [the] religious belief and in general that it’s a way… the mystical way… of sort of embracing your incomprehension.”

Prior to the performance of Tahara, a common practice was guarding the body.  In ancient times, the body guard, called a shomrim, would protect the deceased from thieves. Bodies no longer need to be guarded because funeral homes are staffed. While in practice the shomrim, traditionally done by a family member or friend, sings love songs to the dead.  Reciting Psalms, it is as if the shomrim is reading God’s words of comfort, and the deceased is reminded there is refuge from darkness.  Susan says, “We’re telling love stories and singing love songs to people in our community… It doesn’t have to be that song.  It can be any song that conveys that purpose.”

Like the Chevra Kadisha and Tahara members, singing love songs was a voluntary position.  A shomrim is now paid, and is not as common as it once was.  A family needs to request the presence of a shomrim by contacting Cooper, who will then find a community member to sit with a body.

Cooper recalls being the shomrim when his father passed away.  He took turns with his sister.  He is melancholy as he remembers the experience.  “I guess it was, to a certain extent, kind of surreal, which I think is understandable.  I think to another extent it was comforting because I was able to have some quality time with him alone, and I don’t think I said prayers. I think I just sat with him.  In a way it was just the opportunity to just be with him even in spirit, one-on-one.”

Even though the future of Tahara and the Chevra Kadisha is unknown, the need to preserve the tradition and its stories runs deep in Jewish tradition.  Without recording the history, educating the Jewish community and gaining new members to perform Tahara, it risks extinction.  The Chevra Kadisha also impacts the community through the charity, Tzedakah.  Without it, some families would be unable to afford burials and tombstones for their deceased.

D. Cooper laments over the idea of losing the Jewish burial traditions of the Chevra Kadisha and Tahara.  “I mean it would be devastating to not see it be preserved…I would hate to see that tradition be eliminated so to speak… We’ve talked about this, a watering down of tradition, we no longer sit with the body unless somebody requires it…Those were traditions… So this is something we’ve held onto and it’s near and dear.  I think it’s something that is very important to preserve.  It is our heritage.”