YK 5786: What Happens After?

alignsOne of my favorite Yom Kippur memories is about a small bribe I received each year for attending and making it through. A box of LEGOs. Which I have already ordered for myself again this year. Nothing extravagant, but definitely a toy to incentivize me to sit through, quietly and respectfully, the long hours of prayers. Something to take the edge off. It aligns with the idea behind why we instruct kids to dip apple slices in honey—to connect the sense of sweetness with Jewish learning. How else can you explain a grandiose idea in a way that they’ll understand? 

That on this spinning ball in the middle of nowhere, there are these things that we made up called years. And the Jews have their own special "New Year thing” going on, which has nothing to do with the other New Year in December. But hey, here’s a bright red sweet treat. Dip it in that liquid gold sugar. Great! Do you like it? Awesome. Now, remember, children, Judaism isn’t just about rules and rituals; it’s also fun and tasty! Now off you go. 

Let’s face it. Incentives work for people. They do. Psychologist  Kendra Cherry says that: 

“Incentive theory is one of the psychological theories of motivation that suggests that behavior is motivated by outside reinforcement or incentives versus internal forces.” Incentives work psychologically because they leverage the brain’s reward system, triggering the release of dopamine, a “pleasure chemical,” which creates positive associations with behaviors and motivates people to repeat them. The anticipation of a reward can be as powerful as the reward itself.

However, this isn’t what Judaism is known for. Our effort to be better people doesn’t lead to the same outcomes as most religions. I rarely discuss the subject of Heaven and Hell, but if there’s ever a good time, it’s now. In short, there isn’t such a thing as a Jewish fire-and-brimstone sermon—one that uses the fear of punishment to motivate adherence—because we don’t have nine levels of Dante’s inferno. You do, however, have to stand in line at the supermarket before Thanksgiving.

Across the world’s great religions, the thread of karma — that our actions echo back to us — runs strong. 

In Christianity, being an exemplary, good person means that every act of love has eternal weight. “You reap what you sow.” In Islam, righteous deeds tip the scales of judgment and open the gates of paradise. "Whoever does an atom's weight of good will see it" comes from Surah Al-Zalzalah (99:7). Hinduism, too, teaches that karma is an inheritance, and the good done now lifts the soul into a higher path for the future. “As a man sows, so shall he reap,” Buddhism instructs its followers that every compassionate act lightens karma, moving its adherents closer to freedom from suffering and the cycle of rebirth. Alternatively, Buddhism preaches, “All that we are is the result of what we have thought.” Similarly, Sikhism insists, “By one’s deeds, the robe of honor is obtained,” linking service and truth to reunion with the Divine. It asks its followers to live in truth and service, because good actions free the soul from reincarnation and reunite it with the Divine. 

Despite the different imagery, the message is clear: goodness is never wasted — it shapes what comes next. Each faith, in its own way, says that what you do in the here and now influences what happens in the afterlife. Or what happens after you die. 

However, this raises an existential question many Jews have considered at some point. Usually, when we feel hopeless, or it seems as though the world has given us the short end of the stick. The Holocaust is an excellent example. 

So let’s talk, shall we? The birds and the bees of Judaism? The question remains: Is there really no heaven like we’ve been taught all these years? The one where all our friends and family are waiting for us? A great big Walt Disney Castle in the sky? Well, the answer is both yes and no. But mostly no. And for many Jews, it’s a big no. Which, in turn, raises a much larger question. 

If there is no incentive, neither punishment nor reward, in Judaism, why bother being a good person? What can be gained from it? So what if we follow Torah? So what if we try to be righteous? For what? For whom? If there’s no incentive to do better or to be good, why bother? Honestly, for a religion that offers no incentives, we’re not very attractive, are we? We’re certainly not the Bed, Bath & Beyond religion, stuffing mailboxes with 20%-off coupons. No door knocks and handy pamphlets. Certainly no missionaries. 

Since most of us never learned about this stuff in Sunday school, I know I didn’t. What does Judaism say, dear rabbi? What exactly do we believe? And by we, I can’t possibly mean all sects and denominations. Of course, we are a diverse group, but I think there is something we have all shared, an experience, regardless of our denomination. One familiar shared interaction that almost every Jew experiences in their lifetime, irrespective of age or nationality. 

At one point in time, someone who wasn’t Jewish told you, maybe even politely, that if you didn’t believe in the right thing, that your soul was headed to H-E double hockey sticks. That’s right. A sacred rite of passage, if you will. Like falling asleep during the rabbi’s sermon. And maybe these non-Jews were even well-meaning. Perhaps they even felt bad for you. Bless their hearts. 

The reason I bring this up is that around this time of year, the concept of life and death surrounds us. The gates of life are opening and closing. God, the ultimate Judge. Who will live, who will die? That whole thing. Long ago, in a land far away, called Cincinnati, reformers of Judaism did away with Heaven, left it behind in the shtetl. 

But there is, in fact, a heaven - a world to come. Olam Habaah. But you didn’t hear it from me. As the rabbis say: “Whoever speculates upon four things, it would have been better had he not come into the world: what is above, what is beneath, what came before, and what came after… (Mishnah Chagigah 2:1:) So, everything I say here tonight is hush-hush. And we can’t talk about it. But we're going to anyway, just like the rabbis did. Okay, so what exactly is this 'World to Come' you ask? Well, it's a concept of a future, perfected world, where the righteous are rewarded. Kind of. 

The rabbis discuss two worlds: Olam Hazeh, this world, and Olam Haba, the World to Come. However, let the record show, there are no explicit references to the World to Come in the Torah. Actually, there are other places mentioned where we go after we die, where nothing happens. Just a dark, empty nothingness. But that’s not fun. So the rabbis conceived of something better. Olam Habaah. The world to come. But what is it? Will there be puppies and ice cream? The rabbis teach:

“The World-to-Come is not like this world…there is no eating, no drinking, no procreation, no business negotiations, no jealousy, no hatred, and no competition. Rather, the righteous sit with their crowns upon their heads, enjoying the splendor of the Divine Presence…” (Berakhot 17a)

Meaning, we can’t even conceive of how amazing this place is. Beyond anything we can dream of or consider. This sounds lovely, I’ll admit. But I bet I can guess your next question. The most important one. Does everyone get to go? Or is it VIP-only? The answer is both yes and no. There’s good news and bad news. As we are taught: 

“All of the Jewish people have a share in the World-to-Come, as it is stated: 'And your people also shall be all righteous, they shall inherit the land forever; the branch of My planting, the work of My hands, for My name to be glorified ‘” (Sanhedrin 10:1)

In the well-known book of wisdom, Pirkei Avot, a highly visible, non-secretive, or magical book, Rabbi Elazar of Modiin teaches: 

“If one acquires for himself knowledge of Torah, he has acquired life in the world to come.” (Pirkei Avot 2:7) Conversely, now here comes the not-so-fun part: “One who profanes sacred things, and one who despises the festivals…and he who is contemptuous towards the Torah, even though he has to his credit [knowledge of the] Torah and good deeds, he has not a share in the world to come.” (Pirkei Avot 3:11) 

Let's take a moment to clarify something important. This discussion doesn't align with a Reform perspective—this concept of Olam Habaah. In recent days, the question has been asked of me: what does it mean to die either before or after Rosh Hashanah? What does it mean, after sitting through such intense theology of repentance and forgiveness, to go on with our week as if we didn’t discuss whether we’ll make it to next year or not? We say it aloud, but does it actually apply?  

Here are the numbers to start with. According to a 2025 Pew Research Center study, 39% of American Jews believe in Heaven, while only 22% believe in hell. However, the data tell us this: The vast majority of American Jews (74%) believe that humans have a soul. So, even if we may not share a belief in an afterlife, many of us hold on to the belief in the existence of something greater—one that affects us today and the day after. In life, there are two ongoing battles for the soul. One occurs within Judaism, and the other is external to it. If you think about your soul as a customer, there are many- whom I won’t name directly- who would like to rack up their sales numbers and recruitment goals. And all they need is that tiny little thing you don’t even notice half the time. Like your appendix. Which you care about when it’s exploding inside you. In the name of God and peace on earth, everybody wants your soul. 

Judaism also wants in on the action. When examining the fundamentals, we must consider what the rabbis were upset about—not only in the twelfth century, but also hundreds of years before and after. 

They assert that a great battle is unfolding right before our eyes: the struggle for the soul. Who is on the opposing side? Well, it’s right in front of us: this material world and all its offerings—the sights, sounds, and sensations we experience. Not to mention addiction, compulsion, a sedentary lifestyle, overconsumption, toxic individualism, narcissism, and violence. This world is like a casino. It’s meant to keep you sucked in, spending your energy, time, and money. The renowned Sephardic rabbi Moses ben Maimon, known as the Rambam, provides insight into this ongoing fight.

“Just like the fish do not know the element of fire, so too, in this physical world, the pleasures of the spiritual world are not known. Rather…pleasures of the body and that which is grasped by the senses [regarding] food and drink and sex. And anything other than these is nonexistent for us… We only hold the lower temporary pleasures ( Mishnah Sanhedrin 10:1:1)

On Yom Kippur, we recite these during the Vidui, our confessional prayer. In that, we are not immune to the pleasures of this world. Who doesn't want a quick, easy rush of dopamine or serotonin? Nobody wants to be discontent. Nobody wants to suffer. To be in pain. 

In today's world, we have access to everything, all the time. Twenty-four-hour everything. No need to be bored anymore. Just start scrolling. Buying. Playing. Watching. Gambling. A little bit of everything, all the time. But the human soul was meant for more than social media and mindless content.

The rabbis explain that when Adam was conceived, he was created from two substances—two worlds merging into one. These vastly different cosmic elements joined forces, and that is how we came into existence. We are made of both earthly materials and divine essence; we are the result of both stardust and spiritual substance, representing both the physical and the immaterial. Similar to how a fine wine pairs perfectly with cheese. As human beings, yes, we have carnal thoughts and insatiable desires, but we are also in need of spirituality. We hunger for holiness. Just not as loudly as your stomach. Just because we are made of earthly elements, it does not mean we lack virtue or divine essence. When God breathed the breath of life into Adam, he became a living being. 

“‘And Adonai God formed mankind from the dust of the ground, and He breathed into his nostrils a living soul, and man became a living being.’ It is only when a person encounters something beyond the building blocks of our world, material stuff, that they truly begin to live. Like Adam. Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik explains, “The biblical metaphor, referring to God breathing life into Adam, alludes to his genuine experience of living with God rather than to some divine potential or endowment in Adam. [This] Adam lives in close union with God.” (The Lonely Man of Faith) 

Meaning, our holidays aren’t just about connecting with people, but our very own souls. Which in turn, connects us to something greater than what can be seen, felt, touched, heard, or smelled in this world. 

Conclusively, Judaism doesn’t say, accept the following and you're good for eternity. Two thumbs up. It says the world is harsh and secular, but figure out how to make it sacred and special. The rabbis explain that “Only man is placed between perfection and deficiency, with the power to earn perfection. Man must earn this perfection through his own free will and desire. If he were compelled towards perfection, then he would not really be the master of it. Rather, he who compelled him would be the one responsible, and God’s purposes would not be fulfilled. It was therefore necessary that man be given free will. He has the power of choice, and can choose, knowingly and willingly.” 

In the reform world, Judaism does not offer eternal salvation. Period. It’s not on the menu. Unlike the Egyptians, we bury our people in plain white shrouds and simple caskets. No gold. No money for the ride to the afterlife. No world of treasure and pleasure. 

But we do hope to make a difference in this life. In the world we live in today. 

In Judaism, it's not about earning a token to the afterlife, sorry Charlie, but about doing what is right because it is right. The Torah calls us to "do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God"—not for personal gain, but because these values form the foundation of a meaningful life. In this perspective, being a good person is its own purpose. Or as we say, Torah Lishmah. Learning and living Torah for its own sake. 

A sad reality of being a rabbi is having to officiate funerals. Mourners share cherished memories with me, often speaking with love and pride as they talk about their loved ones. I am reminded that our time here is brief, but the impact we leave on family, friends, and community can last forever. As we enter Yom Kippur and spend these upcoming hours together before the book of life is closed, if you believe in that— I do— I encourage everyone to reflect on the legacy you will leave after you’re gone from the land of the living. What kind of pattern or design will you create in the fabric of time? What will you leave for the next generation? 

When I conclude a funeral, I mention the mitzvah of kavod ha-met, which involves honoring the deceased. It is one of the most profound acts of kindness and respect we are called to fulfill. It is rooted in the belief that every human being, in life or in death, deserves our dignity and reverence. Importantly, this mitzvah is performed not for any reward or personal gain, but simply because it is the right and honorable thing to do.

In our tradition, kavod ha-met is regarded as a high mitzvah precisely because it embodies selflessness and humility. We tend to offer respect when we expect gratitude or benefit in return, but this mitzvah demands that we act purely out of compassion and moral integrity. It reminds us that true virtue lies in doing what is right because it is right—regardless of recognition or reward.

By honoring the dead without expectation, we elevate ourselves and demonstrate our genuine regard for human dignity. This mitzvah teaches us that the highest moral actions are those performed for their own sake, embodying the deepest values of kindness, respect, and humility inherent in our faith.

On Kol Nidre, remember that our core values are not based on promises of an afterlife or rewards. Instead, they come from the understanding that doing good is simply the right thing to do. Our actions reflect our character and our commitment to justice, kindness, and compassion—virtues that define us as human beings. When we act with integrity and moral purpose, we honor ourselves and uphold divine principles, not for rewards but because it is the right thing. Let us commit today to living ethically, knowing that such actions enrich our lives and help create a more just and compassionate world.