East Hampton Rabbi Josh Franklin on Navigating the Labyrinth of Grief

It’s hard to speak with clarity when I’m emotional. Typically, I prefer to take a moment to pause and reflect before attempting to articulate my thoughts on emotionally charged topics. Unfortunately, I haven’t had the luxury of that time lately, as my emotions have been in constant turmoil.

Over the past few months, I’ve been grappling with multiple sources of grief. First, there’s the mourning for my mother-in-law, who passed away just before the start of the Jewish holidays in September. Simultaneously, I find myself preemptively mourning my father, whose health is deteriorating rapidly.

On top of this familial grief, the Jewish community has been collectively grappling with a mix of pain, sadness, anger and fear following the devastating terrorist attacks in Israel on October 7, which claimed more Jewish lives than any single event since the Holocaust. Consequently, my writing and speaking have not been characterized by objectivity and focus, but rather by raw emotion, simply because that’s all I’ve had available lately.

Sometimes, I believe my emotions have guided me effectively, while at other times, I find myself overwhelmed, struggling to communicate with either rationality or eloquence.

I’m not always sure that I’m processing my grief well; I might, in fact, be doing it all wrong. Despite my familiarity with the strategies and philosophies that Judaism prescribes for coping with grief, I find it easier to grasp these principles intellectually than to put them into practice.

This disparity exists because in times of grief, our human intuition often runs contrary to the wisdom offered by our faith. When our lives are upended, our instincts compel us to conceal our pain, to bury it deep within ourselves. In contrast, Jewish wisdom encourages us to confront our grief directly.

Upon hearing news of a death, for example, the first words we utter are: “Blessed is God, Judge of Truth.” While these may not be the most comforting words, they prompt us to acknowledge the challenging reality as the new truth of our lives.

Rituals such as tearing our clothing force us to display a visible sign of our brokenness rather than concealing our pain beneath elegant garments (often a torn ribbon is worn symbolically). Our instincts may urge us to seek solitude, but Jewish wisdom advises that our friends and family should offer comfort by being present, sitting with us and listening, even when we may prefer to isolate ourselves.

After all, as God proclaims in Genesis: “It is not good for humans to be alone” (Genesis 2:18). The natural response to pain, sadness, anger, guilt and shock is often a loss of appetite, yet Jewish wisdom prescribes a meal of consolation, in which mourners are not only required to eat but also where friends who visit are expected to bring food.

While people may commonly suggest that we “trust our gut,” during times of grief, it is the wisdom of our faith that we should trust.

We should refrain from sugar-coating our grief, from concealing or embellishing it, and we definitely don’t need to justify it. We ought to avoid offering trite condolences like, “They’re in a better place now,” “Everything happens for a reason” or “Time heals all wounds.” Instead, we must confront our pain head-on. We should unflinchingly peer into the void that remains in the absence of our loved ones, without attempting to mend it. This void will persist, never diminishing, but with time, we will learn to coexist with it as an integral part of our lives.

In the Genesis narrative, after each of God’s creations, it is said that, “It was good,” with one exception. When the void is formed between the heavens and the earth, God simply states that, “It was so” (Genesis 1:7). Similarly, the void left in our lives when we lose our loved ones cannot be categorized as inherently good or bad; it merely becomes our reality.

As I gazed into the unfilled grave of my mother-in-law a few months ago, I confronted the stark reality of the void, and it was far from aesthetically pleasing. However, embracing this void does not signify surrender or defeat; it is a testament to our resilience and our capacity to discover meaning and purpose even in the face of profound loss.

Like many of you who may be reading this, I find myself in a perpetual state of disorientation. It’s astonishing how fractured our world has become, and the profound trauma that countless individuals, including myself, are enduring in the midst of our personal and shared sorrow.

Hanging on the wall in the foyer of my home is a photograph from my wedding, captured more than 11 years ago. It’s a panoramic image capturing every guest present at that momentous occasion.

There are moments when I can’t help but fixate on it, gazing at the faces of our beloved family and friends who have since departed from this world. These wounds, they never truly heal; they have evolved into indelible scars, occasionally reopening and revealing the void left in our lives.

Despite my attempts to navigate the labyrinth of grief through various means — whether it be immersing myself in the verses of the Psalms, seeking solace in therapy, finding release in exercise, turning to prayer or drawing strength from my community — I remain uncertain if I’m on the right path. I’m still entrenched in the thick of it. However, there are a few things I know for sure:

1. Grief is not a solitary journey; we cannot traverse it alone.
2. Denying, evading or distancing ourselves from the anguish of loss is not the answer.
3. It’s perfectly acceptable to not be OK.

Rabbi Josh Franklin is the rabbi of the Jewish Center of the Hamptons in East Hampton. To learn more about the inclusive, post-denominational synagogue, visit jcoh.org.