The kaddish wars are not over. Yesterday at davening there were two people saying kaddish, myself and a woman. After the service, I spoke to her briefly. She said her father had recently died and had been saying kaddish for him. She appreciated that I made eye contact with her and recited kaddish at a reasonable pace so that we could recite it in unison. She reported that at some other shuls she'd attended, the men recited kaddish so quickly she couldn't keep up. At another shul, the rabbi tried to hush her up when she said kaddish. The rabbi told her she was not allowed to say kaddish. When she asked him where in the Torah it says that a woman may not say kaddish, the rabbi walked away. This left her shocked and upset.
It seems that, in Orthodox shuls, there are three positions about a woman saying kaddish. The most lenient one is that a woman may say kaddish just as a man. In other shuls, a woman can recite kaddish only along with a man. Some shuls which hold this position are more thoughtful of a woman's needs and make sure that, if a woman is saying kaddish, a man whose parent has died will say kaddish as well. At other shuls, if no man is saying kaddish, the woman is out of luck. The strictest position is that a woman is not allowed to say kaddish in shul under any circumstances.
In 1994, the late E.M. Broner wrote a book entitled Mornings and Mourning about her struggles trying to say kaddish for her father in a small Orthodox Shul. (see http://www.judaism.com/display.asp?etn=CJHAG) Since then, there has been a lot of progress in a woman's ability to say kaddish, but, as my conversation reveals, there is still is a way to go.
Frankly, I don't see what the big deal is about. Saying kaddish is not a matter of Jewish law. It is not a commandment. It is a minhag (tradition). Permitting a woman to say kaddish will not undermine the fundamentals of Orthodox Judaism. Here are reasons why kaddish should not be a matter of gender:
1) by reciting kaddish, the child fulfills the mitzvah of honoring his or her parents, a commandment that extends after the life of the parent;
2) the purpose of kaddish is to sanctify God's name in public, an end that should not be limited by gender;
3) kaddish serves to remind the child of his or her loss and provides an anchor to the process of mourning;
4) by reciting kaddish, the child provides evidence of the merit of his or her parent;
5) to the extent saying kaddish elevates the soul of the deceased, there is no reason why the gender of the person saying kaddish should matter;
6) denying a woman the ability to say kaddish may have the effect of pushing women away from traditional Judaism. (See Berkovits, A Daughter's Recitation of Mourner's Kaddish, p. 87).
The above referred to book shows that one of the major reasons why women were not allowed to say kaddish in shul was that since kaddish must be recited in a minyan, and a minyan is made up only of men, there was no physical location in shuls from which a woman could be considered to be in the presence of the minyan. The medieval rabbinic discussions of a woman saying kaddish therefore focused on a daughter saying kaddish in her home at a private minyan (id., at p. 84). Just last year, the former chief Sefardic Rabbi of Israel, Ovadiah Yosef, ruled that a woman who has no brothers may recite kaddish for a parent at a minyan in her home. (See http://www.vosizneias.com/48303/2010/02/01/jerusalem-rav-ovadya-yosef-a-woman-can-recite-kaddish-for-parents-in-a-minyan-at-home) However, in many Orthodox shuls now, the women's section can be considered "part of the same domain as the men's section" (id., at p. 80).
It seems to me that the real issue is whether or not women are part of the shul. If "shul" includes women, and women are praying just like men, then a woman should be able to say kaddish like a man. If "shul" is just men, and women are just an appendage of the "shul," the answer is otherwise. I am fortunate the "kaddish wars" don't exist at the two shuls where I daven. But they're not over.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Mourning with my iPhone
My iPhone has been a faithful companion during this year of saying kaddish. It has helped me find a minyan when I travelled. (see post mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/05/war-story.html) The calendar feature has helped me find out exactly when my Kaddish saying will end. (October 10, the day after Simchat Torah.) But mostly it's helped me pass the time when I felt bored during services. When I'm not leading services, I've gotten into the habit of taking out my phone during the repetition of the Amidah or if the Rabbi's D'var Torah doesn't interest me. I check my email and "to do list" send messages to others about things that pop into my mind, look up things on the Internet, check my Facebook page or note topics that I'd like to blog about. (I first wrote about this at mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/04/getting-bored-playing-with-iphone.html)
I feel a bit guilty about this. I'm supposed to be paying attention and answering "amen" after each blessing. I'm also supposed to give my full attention to the rabbi as an element of "k'vod ha'rav," giving honor to the Rabbi as an authority.
Still, I spend a lot of time in shul to pray and say kaddish. Each day I spend more or less about an hour and fifteen minutes. Shacharit, the morning prayer, usually last about 35 to 45 minutes, depending on whether the Torah is read (Mondays, Thursdays and special days such as Rosh Chodesh). The combined afternoon and evening services usually takes about 30 to 35 minutes. That's a lot of time to spend in one place. After home and work, there is no place I spend as much time in as shul. It's difficult for me not to have my mind wander on other things going on in my life.
I can justify my behavior on several scores. First, I'm not the only one doing it. (Okay, that's not a good reason, but still.) I see lots of people using their phones during shul. Some of them have downloaded the prayer service and are using it for that purpose. (I have as well, though I prefer to use a prayer book.) But I think most are "goofing off" like I am. Beeps and chimes and other tones are a fairly regular occurrence at shul these days. At concerts, plays and operas, they remind people to turn off their phones before the performance begins. No one tells shul-goers to do this before praying.
Second, I consider myself to be multi-tasking. I'm a busy person. Shul takes up a lot of my time. I have things I need to take care of. I can still answer "amen" and reply to an email. True, my kavanna (intention toward the prayers) may be low, but I'm not disrupting others and I'm still participating.
The one thing that does bother me is when other people's phones go off in the middle of the service. Sometimes the phone continues to ring four or five times. Usually people don't answer the phone. I try to remember to turn the sound on my phone off before the service. Sometimes I forget and then remember in the middle of davening (praying) in which case I take out my phone and turn off the sound.
Last week, however, my phone rang at the worst possible time--as I was saying kaddish. It was embarrassing. My son was calling about something. I've reminded my family members not to call during the early evening hours when I'm in shul. He forgot. I quickly turned off the phone.
Lately I've been thinking that I should study some Torah during the service instead of engaging in "bittul torah" (wasting time on unimportant non-Torah related matters). I've started learning some Mishnaot. But I still make sure I don't leave to shul without my phone.
I feel a bit guilty about this. I'm supposed to be paying attention and answering "amen" after each blessing. I'm also supposed to give my full attention to the rabbi as an element of "k'vod ha'rav," giving honor to the Rabbi as an authority.
Still, I spend a lot of time in shul to pray and say kaddish. Each day I spend more or less about an hour and fifteen minutes. Shacharit, the morning prayer, usually last about 35 to 45 minutes, depending on whether the Torah is read (Mondays, Thursdays and special days such as Rosh Chodesh). The combined afternoon and evening services usually takes about 30 to 35 minutes. That's a lot of time to spend in one place. After home and work, there is no place I spend as much time in as shul. It's difficult for me not to have my mind wander on other things going on in my life.
I can justify my behavior on several scores. First, I'm not the only one doing it. (Okay, that's not a good reason, but still.) I see lots of people using their phones during shul. Some of them have downloaded the prayer service and are using it for that purpose. (I have as well, though I prefer to use a prayer book.) But I think most are "goofing off" like I am. Beeps and chimes and other tones are a fairly regular occurrence at shul these days. At concerts, plays and operas, they remind people to turn off their phones before the performance begins. No one tells shul-goers to do this before praying.
Second, I consider myself to be multi-tasking. I'm a busy person. Shul takes up a lot of my time. I have things I need to take care of. I can still answer "amen" and reply to an email. True, my kavanna (intention toward the prayers) may be low, but I'm not disrupting others and I'm still participating.
The one thing that does bother me is when other people's phones go off in the middle of the service. Sometimes the phone continues to ring four or five times. Usually people don't answer the phone. I try to remember to turn the sound on my phone off before the service. Sometimes I forget and then remember in the middle of davening (praying) in which case I take out my phone and turn off the sound.
Last week, however, my phone rang at the worst possible time--as I was saying kaddish. It was embarrassing. My son was calling about something. I've reminded my family members not to call during the early evening hours when I'm in shul. He forgot. I quickly turned off the phone.
Lately I've been thinking that I should study some Torah during the service instead of engaging in "bittul torah" (wasting time on unimportant non-Torah related matters). I've started learning some Mishnaot. But I still make sure I don't leave to shul without my phone.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Visit to the cemetery
I flew to California a few days ago to visit my father. It still feels strange to say "my father" rather than "my parents." But I'm getting more used to it. I still say that I'm staying in "my parents' home." We still refer to my mother's office and her computer and all her possessions as belonging to her. For as long as my father continues to live in that house, it will be "my parents' house." My father has given away much of her clothes and jewelry, but everything else, the pots and pans, the spices, the plastic bags are where she left them and we are careful to adhere to her impeccable organization.
Yesterday my father and I drove to the cemetery. It was my second visit there since the burial. What can be said about visits to your parent's grave site? Not much. That's the reason I believe that people recite psalms, leave rocks on the gravestone and engage in other rituals. (I recited psalms 23, 25 and 121 before we left.) There simply is not that much to say. Or think. My mother's body lays under the ground. Grass has already grown on top of the dirt. It can be said she is there in that space, but it cannot be said she is only there. It's too depressing a thought, and it's not true, at least I don't feel and can't admit it is.
The time to think about your parent's life is not at a cemetery. It's at family gatherings and with people who knew and loved her. The cemetery renders you numb and dumb. Too much death all around.
My father and I had a specific task, to look at other gravestones to help us decide how my mother's should look. We looked at the iconography, the texts, how names and dates were presented, the general layout. I took photos with my iPhone. We came home and discussed what we'd seen, liked and not liked. We spoke to my brother. We reached agreement on most matters and hope to resolve the final text soon so that the stone can be prepared for the first Yahrzeit.
There is a custom of washing one's hands upon leaving the cemetery. To me, the reason is to affirm that the living are still living and not tainted with the impurity of death. Later in the day I attended a Yoga class to reaffirm my commitment to life.
No one said dealing with the death of a parent would be easy. Almost a year later, it hasn't really gotten much easier.
Yesterday my father and I drove to the cemetery. It was my second visit there since the burial. What can be said about visits to your parent's grave site? Not much. That's the reason I believe that people recite psalms, leave rocks on the gravestone and engage in other rituals. (I recited psalms 23, 25 and 121 before we left.) There simply is not that much to say. Or think. My mother's body lays under the ground. Grass has already grown on top of the dirt. It can be said she is there in that space, but it cannot be said she is only there. It's too depressing a thought, and it's not true, at least I don't feel and can't admit it is.
The time to think about your parent's life is not at a cemetery. It's at family gatherings and with people who knew and loved her. The cemetery renders you numb and dumb. Too much death all around.
My father and I had a specific task, to look at other gravestones to help us decide how my mother's should look. We looked at the iconography, the texts, how names and dates were presented, the general layout. I took photos with my iPhone. We came home and discussed what we'd seen, liked and not liked. We spoke to my brother. We reached agreement on most matters and hope to resolve the final text soon so that the stone can be prepared for the first Yahrzeit.
There is a custom of washing one's hands upon leaving the cemetery. To me, the reason is to affirm that the living are still living and not tainted with the impurity of death. Later in the day I attended a Yoga class to reaffirm my commitment to life.
No one said dealing with the death of a parent would be easy. Almost a year later, it hasn't really gotten much easier.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Turning off the music
Do the halachic (Jewish legal) restrictions on a mourner reduce the mourner's joy or does the state of mourning naturally cause the mourner to lessen his or her joy?
There are various restrictions that accompany the year of mourning for a parent. You are not supposed to wear new clothing. You are not supposed to attend celebrations. And you are not supposed to attend performances of live music. Would mourners naturally refrain from these activities as inconsistent with their mental state or would we otherwise engage in these activities but for Jewish law?
While it's a bit of each, to me the impress of halacha (Jewish law) goes further than a mourner would otherwise act. Maybe during the first few months I wouldn't have thought of going out and having a good time, but I'm feeling more ready to do so now. But I understand the halacha. These restrictions give shape a defined time period of mourning. They say to the mourner: "you may want to go back to your normal life, but not so fast. Don't forget that your parent died. Don't forget that something profound happened to you that has forever changed your life." Besides, even with these restrictions, I'm still pretty much living my life the way I usually do. Sure I'm giving up a few pleasures, but I can live without wearing new clothes and celebrating for a year.
The music issue is more complicated though. I've attended hundreds of live music performances in my life and they've been a source of profound pleasure. Music has taken me to places deep within my psyche. And New York is great place to hear live music. Summer in New York is saturated with free shows. All of which I've missed.
Not only have I not gone to any concerts, I've taken the matter even further than halacha requires. In the first month of mourning (Shloshim), I listened to no music at all. Even when I went to the gym and worked out, I watched news shows instead of listening to my iPod. (Watching CNN while working out was indeed painful.) Since then, I've severely reduced my listening to music for pleasure. If someone around me is listening, I will too. I'll turn on the radio for brief periods. And I listen to my iPod at the gym. But the kind of listening I did before my mother died, taking walks while listening to music, watching movies of concerts, listening intently to recordings of live music--I've given that up for now. I don't want to get too carried away by a musical experience. I don't want to be moved too far from my more serious, sober state.
I've thought that perhaps having a peak musical experience could be cathartic, perhaps even beneficial to me, deepening my appreciation for what I'm going through. It's possible. But I've put that aside for a year. I have, though, bought tickets to two concerts for after the kaddish year. I can't wait to go.
There are various restrictions that accompany the year of mourning for a parent. You are not supposed to wear new clothing. You are not supposed to attend celebrations. And you are not supposed to attend performances of live music. Would mourners naturally refrain from these activities as inconsistent with their mental state or would we otherwise engage in these activities but for Jewish law?
While it's a bit of each, to me the impress of halacha (Jewish law) goes further than a mourner would otherwise act. Maybe during the first few months I wouldn't have thought of going out and having a good time, but I'm feeling more ready to do so now. But I understand the halacha. These restrictions give shape a defined time period of mourning. They say to the mourner: "you may want to go back to your normal life, but not so fast. Don't forget that your parent died. Don't forget that something profound happened to you that has forever changed your life." Besides, even with these restrictions, I'm still pretty much living my life the way I usually do. Sure I'm giving up a few pleasures, but I can live without wearing new clothes and celebrating for a year.
The music issue is more complicated though. I've attended hundreds of live music performances in my life and they've been a source of profound pleasure. Music has taken me to places deep within my psyche. And New York is great place to hear live music. Summer in New York is saturated with free shows. All of which I've missed.
Not only have I not gone to any concerts, I've taken the matter even further than halacha requires. In the first month of mourning (Shloshim), I listened to no music at all. Even when I went to the gym and worked out, I watched news shows instead of listening to my iPod. (Watching CNN while working out was indeed painful.) Since then, I've severely reduced my listening to music for pleasure. If someone around me is listening, I will too. I'll turn on the radio for brief periods. And I listen to my iPod at the gym. But the kind of listening I did before my mother died, taking walks while listening to music, watching movies of concerts, listening intently to recordings of live music--I've given that up for now. I don't want to get too carried away by a musical experience. I don't want to be moved too far from my more serious, sober state.
I've thought that perhaps having a peak musical experience could be cathartic, perhaps even beneficial to me, deepening my appreciation for what I'm going through. It's possible. But I've put that aside for a year. I have, though, bought tickets to two concerts for after the kaddish year. I can't wait to go.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Last kaddish in Israel
My last kaddish in Israel was, appropriately, at the Ben Gurion airport. Our flight didn't leave until 10:30 a.m., so I thought I might be able to daven at the 6:30 minyan near my cousin's home which ends promptly at 7:00, then get a sherut (taxi service) to the airport at 7:15. I asked the taxi service for a 7:15 pickup to which they responded (in Hebrew), "be ready by 6:45." I said "7:15," they replied, "6:45." 6:45 it was.
There is a synagogue at the Ben Gurion airport which you can find after passing through security and passport control. I got there around 9:00 a.m. People were davening, but individually, not in a minyan. That wasn't going to help me say kaddish. Just then, a group of American teens came in. Turns out they were returning home from one of the Orthodox summer tours in Israel. I joined their minyan which proceeded slowly. I had the feeling most of these teens had stayed up all night celebrating their last day in Israel. Many of them dozed. During the Torah reading, I asked the group leader, who was doing his best to infuse the prayer service with kavanna (proper intention) if I could take over leading the davening after the Torah reading. I don't think these teens were expected a mourner in their midst. Still, I led the prayers to their conclusion with the kaddishes that conclude the service.
As I've written earlier, there are kaddishes and then there are kaddishes. (http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/03/kaddish-with-and-without-tears.html) These were not the normal kaddishes, said without much feeling or thought. With these kaddishes, I was saying goodbye to Israel, and more, to some part of my mother, some aspect of her whose spirit resides in Israel. For the first time in months, I felt some connection with her, a connection whose path is signaled by tears.
The gap between what was in my mind and the minds of these teens could not have been wider. No matter. They were my agents in sanctifying the spirit of my mother.
Through the miracle of air travel, I returned home the same afternoon and went to my local shul to pray the afternoon and evening services. Like normal.
There is a synagogue at the Ben Gurion airport which you can find after passing through security and passport control. I got there around 9:00 a.m. People were davening, but individually, not in a minyan. That wasn't going to help me say kaddish. Just then, a group of American teens came in. Turns out they were returning home from one of the Orthodox summer tours in Israel. I joined their minyan which proceeded slowly. I had the feeling most of these teens had stayed up all night celebrating their last day in Israel. Many of them dozed. During the Torah reading, I asked the group leader, who was doing his best to infuse the prayer service with kavanna (proper intention) if I could take over leading the davening after the Torah reading. I don't think these teens were expected a mourner in their midst. Still, I led the prayers to their conclusion with the kaddishes that conclude the service.
As I've written earlier, there are kaddishes and then there are kaddishes. (http://mykaddishyear.blogspot.com/2012/03/kaddish-with-and-without-tears.html) These were not the normal kaddishes, said without much feeling or thought. With these kaddishes, I was saying goodbye to Israel, and more, to some part of my mother, some aspect of her whose spirit resides in Israel. For the first time in months, I felt some connection with her, a connection whose path is signaled by tears.
The gap between what was in my mind and the minds of these teens could not have been wider. No matter. They were my agents in sanctifying the spirit of my mother.
Through the miracle of air travel, I returned home the same afternoon and went to my local shul to pray the afternoon and evening services. Like normal.
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