"After Death: A Call to Sacred Living"

Sermon for Parashat "Acharei Mot" – "Kedoshim" By Rabbi Adi Romem

We live in the era of "Acharei Mot"—"after death" It is not a moment on the calendar. It is a condition of the soul.

Woody Allen once quipped that he suffers from postnatal depression—because ever since he was born, he’s been depressed. A dark joke, yes. But it holds a kind of truth. Because “after death” doesn’t go away. When someone we love dies, every moment that follows is lived after their death. The world turns, we walk and eat and work—but we do so carrying absence, walking alongside shadows.

This Shabbat, we read two portions together: "Acharei Mot", “after the death,” and "Kedoshim", “holy ones.” And what a pairing it is. The first confronts us with loss—two sons of Aaron, struck down. The second calls us higher:

“You shall be holy, for I, the Eternal your God, am holy.”"קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ כִּי קָדוֹשׁ אֲנִי ה' אֱלֹהֵיכֶם" (ויקרא י"ט:ב')

What does it mean to be called to holiness while we’re still reeling from grief?

Paul Auster captures this tension in his novel Mr. Vertigo. He writes of a boy who is buried alive by his master—a symbolic death, a descent into darkness that is part of his spiritual training. And then:

“And anyone who has spent time in the belly of the underworld, as I did that day, will never see the world as they once did… The true terror begins only afterward, once they dig you out of the grave… From that moment on, everything that happens above the ground is tied to the hours you spent beneath it. A small seed of madness is planted in your brain… and in the end, all you have left is dust.”

This is "Acharei Mot". And this is us, right now.

We stand not long after our national days of remembrance in Israel—Yom HaZikaron and Yom HaShoah—and just beyond the private anniversaries so many of us hold. But this year, the words “after death” ring more fiercely than ever. After October 7th. After that dark rupture when the earth itself seemed to fall out from beneath our feet. And yet, from the depths, we were not buried alive. We emerged.

But we emerged different.

In Mr. Vertigo, Paul Auster describes what happens to a person who has been metaphorically buried alive and then brought back. His words pierce the heart of what it means to live in the wake of trauma:

"And anyone who has spent time in the belly of the underworld, as I did that day, will never see the world the same again. It becomes infinitely more beautiful—but that beauty is bathed in such fleeting light, so unreal, that it holds no substance. Even though you can still see the world and live in it as before, something inside you knows it is but a mirage. The real terror begins only afterward, once they dig you out of the grave. From that moment on, everything that happens to you above ground is connected to those hours you were buried beneath it. A small seed of madness is planted in your mind. And although you’ve survived the battle for existence, you’ve lost nearly everything else. Death lives inside you now, gnawing at your hope and innocence—and in the end, all you are left with is dust."

The world becomes more beautiful after his symbolic death—but also more fragile, less real. This is what October 7th did to us. We were torn from the world as we knew it. We came up gasping from the pit—and everything since has been lived through that pit. Nothing looks the same. The Lyrics of familiar songs land differently now—either too shallow, or too piercing. Even the words of the siddur feel altered—either heartbreakingly relevant or painfully foreign. We read the same pages, but we read them with different eyes. We walk through the same world, but we wear the glasses of "Acharei Mot"—after death.

It’s not only that something happened to us. It’s that everything that happens now carries the echo of that moment. We are not who we were. And yet, that very transformation—that cracked lens through which we now see—may be the beginning of something holy.

That’s what grief does. It strips away our illusions. It reveals what is ephemeral. But it also makes beauty shine brighter. We see each other more clearly. We cling to what matters. We understand that holiness is not found in escaping death—but in choosing how we live after death.

That’s the spiritual sequence of our parasha: "Acharei Mot"—we descend. Kedoshim—we rise.

This is what we must do now.

And we do not do it alone.

The gift—and perhaps the unexpected blessing—of this era of shared mourning is that both in Israel and throughout the Diaspora, we are united in grief. We all carry that seed of “after death.” And from that very pain, something else can grow: A seed of purpose .A seed of sanctity. A seed of Kedusha.

To be holy, God says, is not to be perfect. It is to choose responsibility. It is to build systems of justice. It is to honor the vulnerable. It is to leave the corners of our field for others:

“You shall not reap the corner of your field... You shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I am the Eternal your God.”"לֹא תְכַלֶּה פְאַת שָׂדְךָ... לֶעָנִי וְלַגֵּר תַּעֲזֹב אֹתָם אֲנִי ה' אֱלֹהֵיכֶם" (ויקרא י"ט:ט'-י')

It is to refuse to be passive. It is to refuse to look away.

And it is to remember that even after death, we can live lives that sanctify the Name of the One who created us:

“You shall not profane My holy name, but I will be sanctified among the children of Israel.”"וְלֹא תְחַלְּלוּ אֶת שֵׁם קָדְשִׁי וְנִקְדַּשְׁתִּי בְּתוֹךְ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל" (ויקרא כ"ב:ל"ב)

So I ask you—on this Shabbat of sacred reckoning:

• What have you seen that you cannot unsee?

• What beauty shines brighter now, because you have known loss?

• What will you build—not despite your grief, but because of it?

Let us walk forward together—not only as mourners, but as builders. Not only as those who have buried—but as those who rise.

Because "Acharei Mot" leads us to "Kedoshim"—And that is where we become holy.

Shabbat Shalom