What I learned about life from preparing the dead
As a convert, I joined a chevra kadisha. It taught me that Jewish rituals aren’t only about death — they’re about how we live, remember, and honor one another
Graphic by Midjourney/Benyamin Cohen
By Austin Albanese September 7, 2025
I first joined a Jewish burial society, known as a chevra kadisha, as a college student.
At the time, I had recently converted to Judaism, and the work — preparing the dead for burial according to tradition — seemed like a profound way to connect with my new faith. But my motivations weren’t purely spiritual. I was driven by the idea that the dead can’t repay kindness, and not everyone can do this kind of work. I could, and I believed I should. What I didn’t expect was how the practice would deepen my understanding of life, death, and the enduring power of memory.
The room where it happens was as ordinary as one might imagine for such extraordinary work. Located in the back of a funeral home, it was utilitarian: metal cabinets, muted walls, a stainless steel table. I’ve now participated in ritually preparing bodies for burial, known as taharah in Judaism, in three communities — and all the rooms shared this practicality. This was the “back of house,” a place designed for function rather than spirituality. Yet, within these walls, some of the most sacred, and human, acts I’ve ever witnessed took place.
What struck me early on was how many of my fellow volunteers were not particularly religious. Some participated out of cultural connection or obligation rather than faith. This diversity in motivation centered for me the idea that Jewish traditions can extend beyond theology, offering various other meanings to those who engage with them.
During a taharah, volunteers work together in near silence to prepare the deceased for burial. We wash the body, brush hair, clean nails, and remove any identifying tags that may still be attached from the hospital or morgue. These kinds of labels are used to track a body as it moves from one place to another.
Every movement is deliberate, every action filled with care. We never pass items directly over the body, even something as small as a towel or brush, because it is considered disrespectful. Instead, we’d walk around the table or hand it to the person beside us, ensuring nothing crossed over the deceased.
One moment always strikes me deeply: placing the deceased into the aron, the simple wooden casket. As we gently lower the body and secure the lid, we recite a final prayer, asking for forgiveness for any unintentional indignities. It is the last act before the funeral, the final time a living hand will touch this person. The air feels heavy with meaning.
The simplicity of Jewish burial practices is deeply egalitarian. In life, we may wear designer suits or simple clothes, but in death, everyone is dressed alike in plain linen shrouds. The same aron holds the wealthy and the poor. There’s no pretense, no effort to disguise the reality of death.
I’ve attended funerals outside Judaism where the body is displayed in elaborate clothing, arranged to look as though the deceased is simply sleeping. Jewish funerals make no such illusions. Death is evident, which allows the focus to shift entirely to the life that was lived — a value that resonates deeply with me.
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that the work of the chevra kadisha is not just about caring for the dead — it’s about honoring the wishes of the departed and preserving their dignity. Some volunteers I’ve worked with believe the deceased is aware of what we are doing, while others see it purely as an act of care. There is room for many meanings. Whether or not the deceased knows, their family, their community and I know.
Preserving memory, preserving dignity
In some ways, this work mirrors another act that is a passion of mine: documenting the histories of vanished Jewish communities. Just as taharah honors the deceased, my historical research seeks to preserve the memory of communities that no longer exist. Many of these places have been forgotten, their synagogues closed, their cemeteries at times overgrown. In some cases, there’s no one left alive with first-hand memories.
If there is an afterlife, I believe that consciously thinking of someone connects us to them. If there isn’t, then preserving their memory is the best we can do — a way to ensure their lives continue to matter, even if in the long arc of history the memories of all lives, even the most famous, will eventually fade.
The importance of memory is deeply rooted in Jewish tradition.
Historically, American Jewish communities often began by establishing a chevra kadisha and a burial ground, as seen in New York’s Shearith Israel, the oldest Jewish congregation in the United States, founded in 1654.
This reflects the deep importance of memory and dignity in Jewish tradition — values I’ve felt deeply connected to in my years of participating in taharah. Participating in this tradition has connected me to a lineage of Jews stretching back centuries, a line of people who have performed this work before me and will continue to do so long after I’m gone.
These early burial societies embodied the communal spirit of Jewish life, a spirit that continues to inspire many volunteers today — even those who might not connect to Judaism through traditional religious belief.
This realization surprised me during my time with the chevra kadisha. Some volunteers did the work out of a sense of cultural connection or obligation. Their presence reminded me of my time living in Tel Aviv, where secular Jews embraced traditions like Passover or Yom Kippur as part of their identity, even if their connection to faith was tenuous. This diversity of perspectives adds richness to the tradition.
My own connection to Judaism is grounded in faith, and participating in the chevra kadisha has only deepened that connection. I was drawn to Judaism, in part, because Jewish theology focuses less on the afterlife and more on the life we live now. That shift in focus resonated with me even before my conversion, and my experiences with the chevra kadisha have reinforced this. It’s not how we are buried that reflects the value of our lives; it’s how we live. In death, we are all equal. In life, we have the opportunity to create meaning.
Despite the sacred nature of this work, one thing has always stood out to me: the scarcity of younger volunteers. I’m in my late 20s, and in nearly nine years of participating in taharah, I’ve only once worked with someone close to my age. That person was also a convert.
The work of the burial society is too meaningful, too vital, to be left only to older generations. For those who might hesitate to participate, I can only say this: Try it. You don’t need to be particularly religious. You don’t need to have all the answers about faith or tradition — this work welcomes anyone willing to honor and respect those who came before us.
For me, the work of the chevra kadisha has been a profound reminder of some of Judaism’s central values: humility, equality before God, and the sanctity of memory. For those inspired by the sacred work of honoring the deceased, many synagogues offer opportunities to learn and volunteer with a chevra kadisha.
In both life and death, the care we show to one another becomes the truest measure of who we are — a legacy that connects us to the past and shapes the future. It is a reminder that acts of respect and kindness can transcend time and place, bringing meaning to both the living and the departed.
