Hope and Holiness in Burying Our Fallen

This week, a long, painful chapter came to a close.

IDF reservists, members of Lt. Hadar Goldin’s company when he was killed and abducted by Hamas in 2014, traveled to the Gaza Strip to escort his remains back to Israel.

I was in Israel in 2014 and vividly remember watching the news reports about Hadar Goldin’s situation. Shortly after a 72-hour ceasefire began, Hamas gunmen emerged from a tunnel in the Rafah area and attacked Goldin's unit. At first, there was uncertainty whether Hadar had been kidnapped or killed. Ultimately, it became clear he was killed in action, and the campaign to bring his remains home began – rallies, press conferences with foreign leaders, appearances at the UN. Hadar’s family heroically kept his cause alive all these years.

Israel has witnessed 25 cases of such painful closure since the ceasefire began. These are but the most recent examples of the powerful experience of remains returning home for Jewish burial. Back in May, the Mossad and IDF recovered the remains of Sgt. First Class Zvi Feldman, who went missing in the First Lebanon War’s battle of Sultan Yacoub in 1982. This took place six years after Feldman’s comrade, Sgt. First Class Zachary Baumel’s remains were recovered and returned to Israel. The remains of a third solder, Sgt. First Class Yehuda Katz, have yet to be recovered.

Jewish burial is a powerful precept. We go to extraordinary lengths to ensure proper burial in the ground. We ignore the wishes of someone who desires cremation. We call it a “meit mitzvah” when resources or action is needed to facilitate proper burial.

Why is burial such a big deal?

Parshat Chayei Sarah opens with Avraham mourning Sarah’s death and then devotes an entire chapter to his negotiations for the Me’arat HaMachpelah, the Cave of the Patriarchs in Chevron. It is more than a personal act of devotion. Avraham’s purchase of a burial place set an eternal precedent — that the Jewish people honor life even in death, and that providing a resting place for the deceased is not only an act of compassion, but an expression of faith.

Rabbi David Stav, chairman of the Tzohar Rabbinical Organization, observed, “The day on which the bodies of fallen individuals are brought for burial is one of terrible pain, but also of closure and the hope of comfort.”

This idea originated nearly two thousand years ago.

After the Bar Kochba revolt, the Romans massacred the Jews of Beitar and forbade their burial. For years, their bodies lay exposed until the decree was lifted and they were finally laid to rest. The Talmud (Berachot 48b) records that when this happened, the sages of Yavneh established a new blessing: “HaTov VeHaMeitiv - God is good and continues to do good.” Even amid destruction, our people found a way to thank God and to recognize that divine goodness can coexist with human pain and suffering.

Rav Kook sees in Beitar a symbol of eternal hope. From the fact that the slain of Beitar were ultimately properly buried, we learn that destruction and exile cannot quash the inner essence of Israel and Jewish independence. From their burial, we see a sign and promise that they will rise again at the end of days — a symbol of the fulfillment of all prophetic promises of resurrection and redemption.

The burial of the fallen was not just an act of mercy and closure; it was a sign of enduring life — that the people of Israel, though crushed, could never decay.

Jewish burial – even after a painful period of months, years, or decades – teaches us that even in loss, we affirm life and have a way forward.

One Hebrew word for a gravesite is tziyun. (The more common term is matzeivah, which refers to the gravestone or monument.) The term literally means a marker to know definitely where the remains of the deceased are buried. The word, spelled צ-י-ו-ן, shares a root with the Hebrew words for excellence – metzuyan – and Zion – Tziyon. Rabbi Asher Pollak (1900-1989) writes that a tombstone is called a tziyun because it is like a road marker, guiding those who see it where they are going and what is expected of them.

Burial – a Jewish grave – is a roadmap, leading us towards excellence, purpose, and hopefully, redemption.

Avraham’s purchase of the Cave of Machpelah proclaimed that death is not the end of belonging. The blessing of HaTov VeHaMeitiv declared that gratitude is possible even amid grief. And Israel’s commitment to bring every soldier home proclaims that every life — and every body — matters infinitely. Each act of burial, each moment of closure, carries within it a spark of redemption. It reminds us that God’s presence accompanies us not only in triumph but also in tragedy.

When we bury our dead with dignity — when we insist, as Avraham did, as Beitar did, as Israel does — that no one is left behind, we affirm that hope lives on, that holiness abides, and that the promise of resurrection and redemption still shines ahead.