With the approach of the High Holidays, we must remember not to be alone

Arguably, nowhere is the importance of preserving human dignity more evident than in the Torah’s commandment regarding the met mitzvah: the commandment that anyone who encounters a corpse on the road must see to its burial. This includes even individuals who are normally forbidden to be in the presence of a dead body—kohanim, members of the priestly class, or individuals who have taken the Nazirite vow (Numbers 6:6-7).

Although it is unlikely that the specific circumstances the Torah describes would occur in contemporary times, this commandment is often invoked today when a Jewish person dies without any family and/or without any affiliation with the Jewish community. Should this happen, the community is obligated to see to that person’s proper burial.

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Recently, I had the sad privilege of officiating at the funerals of two individuals, each of whom was a met mitzvah. To be sure, each had family, but neither was affiliated in any way with the Jewish community. In a follow-up conversation with the funeral director, I learned that each of these individuals had been dead for several days before they were found, which meant that each of them had died alone. Each had left this world without anyone around to say goodbye or shed a tear.

Sharing these sad circumstances with me, the funeral director concluded by blurting out, “Rabbi, the take-away lesson: Don’t die alone.”

As I write this, the High Holidays are just days away. Known in Hebrew as the Yamim Nora’im (“Days of Awe”), they beckon us to take stock of ourselves; do a thorough spiritual and moral inventory of ourselves; and reconcile with those whom we may have offended or who may have offended us.

This season is the time when we are most aware of our mortality. The words, “Who shall live and who shall die?” penetrate our kishkes. In the liturgy, these words are followed by various circumstances in which a person’s life might end: “Who by fire? Who by water?” To which might be added: Who will leave this world surrounded by loved ones? Who will leave disconnected, alienated and alone?

Thinking about those in the latter group, I’m reminded of some of the lyrics in the Simon & Garfunkel song, “I Am a Rock”:

According to a 2025 survey conducted by the American Psychological Association, 54% of U.S. adults reported feeling isolated; 50% felt “left out”; and 50% said they lacked companionship at least some of the time.

That’s a lot of rocks and islands.

But people are not born as rocks or islands. From the time we come into the world, most of us are loved and nurtured. But as we grow and interact with other flawed, imperfect human beings, some of those interactions inevitably cause us pain. Choosing to resist the biblical teaching, “It is not good for a human to be alone,” we may seek to avoid pain by building impenetrable walls, donning emotional armor and distancing ourselves from others so that we become untouchable.

Thinking we’re protected, we make such choices at our peril, as my funeral director friend reminds us.

But we can choose differently.

Now, in the month of Elul, we have begun the sacred season of reconciliation. We are invited/encouraged to mend damaged relationships with each other, with God and with ourselves. Each of us is invited/encouraged to do a serious emotional and spiritual inventory, hopefully resonating with the lyrics of another “golden oldie” by the late Leonard Cohen: “When you’re not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you’ve sinned” (“Sisters of Mercy”).

To be sure, responding to this invitation with a positive “RSVP” cannot be forced. We can choose to return to holiness/wholeness by doing the hard work of teshuvah, of “returning,” or we can choose to remain a rock and an island.

May the coming year see no one choosing to remain so hardened and distant. May no one choose to risk leaving this world alienated and alone.

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