In Judaism, we say that burying someone is the biggest mitzvah of all.

Why?

Because it is a kindness that cannot be repaid—like a gift.

In other words, it’s not transactional.

A mitzvah is enacted in order to bring us closer to God.

Another way to say it is that we bring God into the world through our actions.

Saying, “What do I get for it?” doesn’t figure into the equation.

When it comes to death, however, more often the feeling is one of being robbed—what kind of gift is that?

I did my first funeral last Friday.

It was a particularly difficult situation: youth, addiction, mental and physical illness, an ugly ongoing custody battle with an abusive biological father.

How can kindness, or the idea of gifts, be any part of this death?

If anything, it felt cruel, both the life that was, the fact that it was lost, and the untimeliness of it.

Her young son insisted on a traditional Jewish funeral for her, whatever that meant to him.

I went to the family’s house and spent hours talking and listening in their kitchen.

I looked at photos, heard of her brilliance, her sensitivity, her talent.

And her pain.

And their pain.

And their guilt.

How they’d fallen short as parents.

It was clear that they loved her dearly and had tried always to support her.

I sat alone with the teenage son for a while in the living room.

When I came back to the kitchen, his grandfather was waiting for me.

“Is he okay?” he asked hopefully.

I hesitated.

“Nnnooo?”

(Why would he be okay?)

(And what would be the purpose of pretending?)

His grandfather nodded, understanding. Perhaps he was grateful for my honesty in the face of his helplessness.

Later at the cemetery, we walked slowly behind the coffin, pausing along the way to show our reluctance.

We watched as it was lowered into the ground.

Just before giving instructions on how to proceed with the burial, I talked about the mitzvah of burying someone—the gift that can never be repaid.

Then I explained that, as a further show of our reluctance, we are to use the back of the shovel as we begin placing earth into the grave.

But I have to stop here for a moment.

Because I have to say that, in my experience, the most profound moment in a traditional burial is watching that coffin being lowered into the ground.

The next is hearing the echo of dirt, one shovel at a time, fall onto the coffin below.

It’s the ultimate wake-up moment; this is really happening.

We seem to need it, especially when we are in shock.

As painful as it is, it’s almost like a gift in itself.

As the mourners gathered round, taking turns with the shovel, I chanted, “Return again, return again, return to the place of your soul…”

I heard someone gasp behind me—a surprising acknowledgement that we are intimately connected to the Earth.

And another reminder that this person was truly dead.

I noticed that, to complete the task of the burial, there was a backhoe waiting nearby.

It almost felt like the mourners were being robbed of a sense of completion, of finiteness.

I resisted giving them permission; there wasn’t time.

The limos were waiting, and Shabbat was descending; it was a long trip home.

Yet people lingered nonetheless.

They were reluctant to leave, needed to stand around with each other, taking in the moment.

For me, not having known the family or her community at all, there was suddenly a deep connection between us.

Several people stopped to talk to me.

I offered a hug, and they gratefully accepted, holding on as though we’d known each other for ever.

In this week’s parsha, T’rumah, the people Israel receive instructions for the building of the Mishkan.

The Mishkan is the portable sanctuary they will carry with them through the desert over the next forty years.

It is, God says, “So that I may dwell amongst them.”

Or “within” them, depending on how you translate the Hebrew.

And “t’rumah” means gift.

The materials Israelites are to bring for the building of the sanctuary are gifts.

They get nothing in return.

Whether they bring pieces of wood, or precious stones and metals, animal skins, or various specially colored yarns to be woven into fabric that will be hung in the Tabernacle, all are valuable.

Like the gift of the funeral last week, each part was valuable.

The stories told, the songs sung, the tears shed.

The woman who died had been a gift to her parents.

Her son had been a gift to her, and her love had been a gift to him.

Each person that showed up at the funeral, or made the effort to drive out to the cemetery, was like a small jewel.

Each shovelful of dirt dropped into the grave was a tiny gem.

Each embrace and each hand held.

Each tear shed.

Each lingering person sharing their grief was a small piece of gold to another.

All these woven together by brightly colored threads made a beautiful fabric of human connection.

Over these past months, since the brutal Hamas attack on Israeli Jews, and the counter attacks on Gaza that have taken on such huge proportions, many people have closed themselves off to the grief of others.

Instead of grief, it’s anger and rage that overwhelm us.

Or I’ve heard people say, “My grief is so great, I don’t have room in my heart for the suffering of others.”

We’re not okay.

None of us is okay.

People on both sides have shut themselves off to the other.

Maybe it’s because we haven’t helped each other understand.

Or maybe we’re in the habit of not talking.

Or, more importantly perhaps, of not listening.

If we didn’t shut ourselves off and down, grief could be a healing that might bring us together.

If only we understood that grief is not something to possess, or feel possessive of, but rather a gift offering to others, to be shared, expecting nothing in return.

The Israelites are to bring gifts for which they expect nothing in return.

This is how they build the sanctuary.

And yet, there is a gift in return; God’s presence—among them and within them.

We also could build a sanctuary—woven out of the grief we share—for God to dwell among us.

May it be so.