During a cold night in New York City in December 2024, on Motzei Shabbat, I was rushing from downtown to attend a call for shmira (guarding of the deceased body). It is my first call of tahara (ritual washing), within weeks of completing training at Hebrew Union College to join the first-ever Reform Community Chevra Kadisha of New York City—a group of community volunteers that prepares Jewish bodies for burial.
I wanted to immerse myself as a nonbinary, Queer Jew into an ancient tradition while serving in a welcoming denomination. Historically, in other denominations, such as Orthodoxy, I would be erased, deadnamed, and misgendered if I was the deceased, and be excluded from receiving the ritual practice of tahara. Typically, when reciting prayer or psalms scribed centuries ago, I don’t feel connected spiritually, emotionally, and mentally, because the words aren’t mine, they’re written by cisgender men who wouldn’t have made room for my spiritual voice. That’s why I want to insert myself and my authentic voice into these rituals to make them more inclusive.
My chevra kadisha asks for a $180 donation to support its efforts, as well as buying ritual supplies, but doesn’t turn anyone away if they can’t afford it—which is fair compared to other denominations that have hefty fees. Most orthodox shmira personnel receive payment, whereas we are volunteers.
Before I headed into the Plaza Jewish Community Chapel (PJCC) in the Upper West Side—having just wolfed down a soup and grilled cheese sandwich before wading through the crowded train to get to my destination—I took a deep breath, and gave myself a hug for all I was about to experience.
Joshua, the friendly funeral director, greeted and showed me through the side door, as the main entrance was closed for Shabbat. Despite my fear of being profiled as a Jew of Colour, who dresses alternatively, I was graciously welcomed by volunteers and staff at PJCC. I was sporting sweatpants and an oversized sweater with sleeves that extended over my hands.
I made my way downstairs to where the bodies were preserved. Some were in caskets, others in coffins, and some in the fridge. It felt surreal to perform shmira for an unknown, elderly Jewish woman. All I knew was that I had an obligation to serve, to perform a generational Jewish rite of passage by paying tribute and sitting with the deceased’s body while their neshama (soul) ascended to heaven. Although I wished to have a biography, Hebrew name, and related details about the deceased from my chevra kadisha, it wasn’t necessary for me to do the mitzvah of tahara—I felt that I had to do this ritual at least once in my lifetime, to respect the cycles of life. I hope that when I pass I’ll be buried and turned into a tree that’s decorated, so generations from now, people can point and smile in admiration, saying, “that’s the Je’Jae tree.”
After finding my seat in the chapel basement, I realized I didn’t know the proper prayers or tehillim (psalms) to recite to honour the dead. I tried for the first few minutes to remain calm, but I was feeling lonely and down—my thanatophobia was acting up, knowing I was inches away from a dead body. Ironic, I know. But learning this type of practice can only prepare you so much for the ritual practice in-person. I felt scared and triggered thinking of my own future rite of passage; to go from standing with a beating heart to one day laying in a casket, lifeless. I began to panic about not recalling what to do ritually. I googled it on my phone and asked my former rebbeim of proper approaches to shmira.
An Orthodox cousin from Jerusalem sent me a WhatsApp to help me figure out the gematria (numerology) of the deceased’s name so I could find any hidden meaning or message. After spending some time reciting prayers from my heart, I reached out to my hometown’s local Chabad rebbetzin Nechama Duchman. She texted: “It's a spiritual time, we are connecting to the neshama as it arises.” Another WhatsApp message, from a trans Jew from Eshel (Queer Orthodox Jewish NGO), said “We start saying tehillim from the beginning.”
I was beautifully supported by rabbis from across denominations: Renewal, Reconstructionist, Modern Orthodox, Litvish and Chabad.
Although I recited some of the psalms I still didn’t feel connected to the text. Compared to my Orthodox upbringing, I always believed in personal prayers from my own words and heart. I closed my eyes and contemplated the deceased, without any photos of her.
Finally, when I heard from Naomi Less, spiritual cofounder of Lab/Shul, who recommended I register for tahara training, I felt comforted. She said: “Does it help at all to think you’re enabling someone’s body not to be alone?” I gave a huge sigh of relief. I was able to relate to that. She further instructed me while I was still on my shift to sing or hum a melody that would console.
During this ritual, I learned that if you’re not ready to do tahara, shmira is a pre-step. It’s amazing what will happen when you ask Jewish leaders in your rolodex about having any doubts in spiritual practice—there’s so much wisdom from folks who are willing to help. I reached out to rabbis I haven’t spoken to in years. No one decent turned me away. When doing tahara, there’s always a Roshei (head) Taharei who will be a guide and be supportive through all the brachot and steps. Even after I trained I felt nervous and forgetful, but it was okay, it’s important in these moments to have compassion for yourself.
More religious denominations and some families have a gender preference, asking for males to take care of a male deceased family member and females to take care of the female deceased family member. There’s a lack of TGNCI folks (trans, gender nonconforming and intersex) Jews signing up for tahara. Hopefully one day there will be a TGNCI cohort of volunteers who can bring trans sensitivity and gender neutral brachot for Trans Jews who have passed. Chevra kadishas need all the gentle hands, and caring hearts, to commit to this timeless tradition, to ensure nobody is left behind.
You can reach out to Kavod V’nichum for Jewish end of life rituals and practices.
During a cold night in New York City in December 2024, on Motzei Shabbat, I was rushing from downtown to attend a call for shmira (guarding of the deceased body). It is my first call of tahara (ritual washing), within weeks of completing training at Hebrew Union College to join the first-ever Reform Community Chevra Kadisha of New York City—a group of community volunteers that prepares Jewish bodies for burial.
I wanted to immerse myself as a nonbinary, Queer Jew into an ancient tradition while serving in a welcoming denomination. Historically, in other denominations, such as Orthodoxy, I would be erased, deadnamed, and misgendered if I was the deceased, and be excluded from receiving the ritual practice of tahara. Typically, when reciting prayer or psalms scribed centuries ago, I don’t feel connected spiritually, emotionally, and mentally, because the words aren’t mine, they’re written by cisgender men who wouldn’t have made room for my spiritual voice. That’s why I want to insert myself and my authentic voice into these rituals to make them more inclusive.
My chevra kadisha asks for a $180 donation to support its efforts, as well as buying ritual supplies, but doesn’t turn anyone away if they can’t afford it—which is fair compared to other denominations that have hefty fees. Most orthodox shmira personnel receive payment, whereas we are volunteers.
Before I headed into the Plaza Jewish Community Chapel (PJCC) in the Upper West Side—having just wolfed down a soup and grilled cheese sandwich before wading through the crowded train to get to my destination—I took a deep breath, and gave myself a hug for all I was about to experience.
Joshua, the friendly funeral director, greeted and showed me through the side door, as the main entrance was closed for Shabbat. Despite my fear of being profiled as a Jew of Colour, who dresses alternatively, I was graciously welcomed by volunteers and staff at PJCC. I was sporting sweatpants and an oversized sweater with sleeves that extended over my hands.
I made my way downstairs to where the bodies were preserved. Some were in caskets, others in coffins, and some in the fridge. It felt surreal to perform shmira for an unknown, elderly Jewish woman. All I knew was that I had an obligation to serve, to perform a generational Jewish rite of passage by paying tribute and sitting with the deceased’s body while their neshama (soul) ascended to heaven. Although I wished to have a biography, Hebrew name, and related details about the deceased from my chevra kadisha, it wasn’t necessary for me to do the mitzvah of tahara—I felt that I had to do this ritual at least once in my lifetime, to respect the cycles of life. I hope that when I pass I’ll be buried and turned into a tree that’s decorated, so generations from now, people can point and smile in admiration, saying, “that’s the Je’Jae tree.”
After finding my seat in the chapel basement, I realized I didn’t know the proper prayers or tehillim (psalms) to recite to honour the dead. I tried for the first few minutes to remain calm, but I was feeling lonely and down—my thanatophobia was acting up, knowing I was inches away from a dead body. Ironic, I know. But learning this type of practice can only prepare you so much for the ritual practice in-person. I felt scared and triggered thinking of my own future rite of passage; to go from standing with a beating heart to one day laying in a casket, lifeless. I began to panic about not recalling what to do ritually. I googled it on my phone and asked my former rebbeim of proper approaches to shmira.
An Orthodox cousin from Jerusalem sent me a WhatsApp to help me figure out the gematria (numerology) of the deceased’s name so I could find any hidden meaning or message. After spending some time reciting prayers from my heart, I reached out to my hometown’s local Chabad rebbetzin Nechama Duchman. She texted: “It's a spiritual time, we are connecting to the neshama as it arises.” Another WhatsApp message, from a trans Jew from Eshel (Queer Orthodox Jewish NGO), said “We start saying tehillim from the beginning.”
I was beautifully supported by rabbis from across denominations: Renewal, Reconstructionist, Modern Orthodox, Litvish and Chabad.
Although I recited some of the psalms I still didn’t feel connected to the text. Compared to my Orthodox upbringing, I always believed in personal prayers from my own words and heart. I closed my eyes and contemplated the deceased, without any photos of her.
Finally, when I heard from Naomi Less, spiritual cofounder of Lab/Shul, who recommended I register for tahara training, I felt comforted. She said: “Does it help at all to think you’re enabling someone’s body not to be alone?” I gave a huge sigh of relief. I was able to relate to that. She further instructed me while I was still on my shift to sing or hum a melody that would console.
During this ritual, I learned that if you’re not ready to do tahara, shmira is a pre-step. It’s amazing what will happen when you ask Jewish leaders in your rolodex about having any doubts in spiritual practice—there’s so much wisdom from folks who are willing to help. I reached out to rabbis I haven’t spoken to in years. No one decent turned me away. When doing tahara, there’s always a Roshei (head) Taharei who will be a guide and be supportive through all the brachot and steps. Even after I trained I felt nervous and forgetful, but it was okay, it’s important in these moments to have compassion for yourself.
More religious denominations and some families have a gender preference, asking for males to take care of a male deceased family member and females to take care of the female deceased family member. There’s a lack of TGNCI folks (trans, gender nonconforming and intersex) Jews signing up for tahara. Hopefully one day there will be a TGNCI cohort of volunteers who can bring trans sensitivity and gender neutral brachot for Trans Jews who have passed. Chevra kadishas need all the gentle hands, and caring hearts, to commit to this timeless tradition, to ensure nobody is left behind.
You can reach out to Kavod V’nichum for Jewish end of life rituals and practices.