A Mitzvah Hidden in Plain Sight
By Rabbi Jonathan Jaffe Bernhard
Almost every culture, across time and geography, has understood that a human body deserves care at the end of life. From ritual washings to anointing, from burial garments to vigil-keep ing, societies have long marked death not only with grief, but with tenderness. These practices vary widely in outer form and underlying theology, yet they share a common intuition: that a body should not be treated as mere remains, but as something worthy of attention, respect, and love.
Judaism is no exception. Our tradition, too, developed rituals that honor the body at the end of life—rituals grounded in the belief that dignity does not end with death. We call this kavod ha’met/honoring the dead, and it holds a central place within our tradition and guides many different practices.
And yet, within contemporary Jewish life, particularly in North America, one of the most profound expressions of this belief, has quietly faded from view. It is not lost because it no longer matters, but because it became misunderstood. The work of the chevra kadisha—the sacred fellowship that tends to the dead—was never meant to be secret. It was meant to be humble. Anonymous. A mitzvah shelemet, a “true mitzvah,” performed without expectation of thanks or recognition, because the recipient can never repay the kindness.
But somewhere along the way, anonymity curdled into silence. Si lence morphed into secrecy. And secrecy slipped into absence.
Aided and abetted by our culture’s deep discomfort with death—its medicalization, its euphemisms, its banishment from everyday conver sation—the sacred work of caring for the dead drifted to the margins of Jewish consciousness. Even within Jewish communities that pride themselves on engagement, values, and ritual creativity, death often remains something handled “elsewhere,” by professionals behind closed doors, far from communal life.
The result is not just a lack of knowledge. It is the loss of a mitzvah that once stood at the very heart of Jewish living.
Death as a Communal Responsibility
Jewish tradition is clear that caring for the dead is not only an act of kindness but a communal obligation. The Talmud teaches that when a met mitzvah—a person with no one to care for them—is encountered, even a High Priest on his way to serve in the Temple must stop and tend to the burial (Berakhot 19b). No one is exempt. Not status, not role, not spiritual ambition. Death collapses hierarchy and summons responsibility. The implication is profound: the dignity of the dead is not the concern of the family alone. It belongs to all of us. To be Jewish is to accept that when someone dies, we do not look away. We show up.
For most of Jewish history, this responsibility was assumed. Death happened within the rhythm of communal life. Neighbors washed the body. Friends stood watch. Burial followed quickly, carried out not by strangers but by people who understood themselves to be part of a sacred chain of care. The work was quiet, unadorned, and deeply relational.
What has changed is not the value, but our distance from it. In a culture that fears death and prefers it hidden from view, the rituals that once anchored us to one another at the end of life have slowly slipped into the background. The chevra kadisha did not disappear because it became irrelevant, but because we lost the language—and perhaps the courage—to remain close to death. Yet at its core, this work continues to ask the same ancient question: who will take responsibility for one another when words and agency are gone?
The chevra kadisha emerged not as a specialized institution, but as an expression of a fundamental Jewish conviction: that dignity does not end with death, and that caring for the dead is among the highest forms of kindness a community can offer. This was not morbid work. It was holy work. It was a way of walking with someone to the final threshold and refusing to abandon them there.
Over time, particularly in North America, these practices became outsourced. Funeral homes assumed tasks once performed by communities. Efficiency replaced ritual. Distance replaced touch. And slowly, quietly, many Jews came to believe that these traditions were either relevant, overly religious, or simply not meant for them.
Yet something essential was lost in the process—not just ritual knowledge, but a way of being present to death that teaches us how to live.
Shmirah: The Power of Presence
One of the least understood practices of the chevra kadisha is shmirah—the act of sitting with the deceased between death and burial. Historically, shmirah served a practical purpose. In times before refrigeration or secure facilities, a body required guarding. But Jewish tradition rarely preserves a practice solely for pragmatic reasons. Over time, shmirah came to embody something deeper: the refusal to leave the dead alone.
To sit shmirah is not to “do” much of anything. One may recite psalms, read quietly, or simply sit in silence. The task is not productivity. It is presence. It is the simple, radical act of being with someone who can no longer speak, move, or respond—and affirming that they still matter.
I remember once walking into a room in a mortuary. The space was quiet, dimly lit, with a casket toward one side of the room. Alone. Empty of people. I stopped short, struck by a sudden sadness I hadn’t expected. Here was a body that had carried a soul through this world for a lifetime. A person who had loved, worked, worried, hoped. And in that moment, there was no one there simply to be with him.
I want to believe he was loved deeply. I want to believe family and friends would come later, that grief would soon fill that room. But standing there, I couldn’t escape the feeling that, at least for that stretch of time, he was cared for by no one. Not watched over. Not accompanied. Just… left.
Shmirah exists to answer that ache. It is Judaism’s insistence that no one should be abandoned at the end—not even for a moment.
Tahara: Washing the Body, Honoring the Soul
At the heart of the chevra kadisha’s work is tahara—a ritual whose name refers not simply to washing, but to purification. In practice, tahara is a carefully structured ritual composed of multiple stages, each carried out with intention, reverence, and restraint. It is physical work, spiritual work, and relational work all at once.
The ritual begins with an initial physical washing, often called re chitzah. This is a gentle, hands-on washing of the body with warm water. The goal is straightforward: to clean the body respectfully, removing any dirt or residue from illness or death. Those performing this step move slowly, deliberately, and with great care, continually mindful that this body once held a living soul. Throughout the process, the deceased is spoken to directly. Each action is explained. Apologies are offered for any inadvertent discomfort or disrespect. Nothing is rushed.
Only after this physical washing is complete does the ritual move into what is more precisely called tahara itself. This second washing is distinct and symbolic. Water is poured in a continuous, uninterrupted flow—traditionally three times—over the body. Unlike the first washing, this one is not about cleanliness in the everyday sense. It is about spiritual transition. The water flows without pause, echoing the imagery of mikveh, signaling a movement from one state of being to another.
It is this second washing that gives the entire ritual its name. Tahara is not simply something done to a body; it is a moment of accompaniment, marking the passage from life to death with holiness rather than haste.
Following tahara, the body is dressed. Traditionally, this is done using tachrichin—simple white burial garments. Rabbinic tradition teaches that these garments mirror those worn by the High Priest, a powerful reminder that in death, every person stands equal. Wealth, status, and accomplishment fall away. What remains is the human being returning to God.
Not every chevra kadisha requires tachrichin. In some communities, burial in simple street clothes is permitted, often in response to family wishes or communal norms. Yet even when tachrichin are not used, the underlying symbolism remains the same. Dressing the body is not about appearance. It is about dignity. It is about acknowledging that this person’s life mattered—and that their death does too.
Tahara is not preparation for viewing. It is preparation for release.
It is one of the most intimate ways Judaism affirms that death, while painful, is not chaotic or meaningless. It is a transition worthy of care, presence, and prayer.
Why This Matters Now
In a society that prizes youth, control, and autonomy, death is often framed as failure. Something to be postponed, hidden, or sanitized. Jewish tradition offers a different language—one that does not deny grief or fear, but refuses to let them have the final word.
The work of the chevra kadisha teaches how we treat the dead reflects how we understand life itself. Do we see human beings as useful only while productive? Or do we believe that dignity is inherent, enduring, and communal?
For liberal Jews in particular—those deeply committed to values, ethics, and intentional living—the revival of chevra kadisha work is not a return to the past. It is a reclaiming of something urgently needed now. A countercultural practice that insists on slowness in the face of speed, presence in the face of avoidance, and holiness in the face of fear.
This is not secret work. It is sacred work. And it belongs, once again, at the center of Jewish life.