Today is the fast of the 17th of Tammuz. (It's actually the 18th of Tammuz, but yesterday was Shabbat, a day on which fasting is prohibited (unless Yom Kippur falls out on Shabbat) so the fast was postponed until today). It's considered one of the "minor" fasts, along with the Fast of Gedaliah, the 10th of Tevet, and the Fast of Esther (the day before Purim). (see www.jewfaq.org/holidaye.htm) These fasts are contrasted with the two "major" fasts, Tisha B'av (the 9th of Av) and Yom Kippur. There are more leniencies on the minor fasts in terms of eating to avoid medical conditions, nor do these days have the other restrictions of the major fasts such as wearing leather shoes, bathing, anointing and sex.
I always fast on Tisha B'av and Yom Kippur, but, frankly, I've never incorporated fasting on the minor fasts into my religious repertoire. Not only that, since the services on the minor fast days are much longer than usual, as a Torah reading as well as Slichot (penitential prayers) are added, I've generally avoided going to shul on these days and said all my prayers at home. But since I have to say kaddish now, I have no choice but to go to shul.
So I am faced with a dilemma. I may be asked to lead prayers, and as prayer leader, I will recite, during the public repetition of the Amidah (silent prayer) the "Aneynu" blessing that is added on fast days. This blessing asks God to "answer us on the day of our fast, for we are in great distress . . ." But if I am not fasting, it seems hypocritical for me to be the community's representative when I personally am neither fasting nor in personal distress. I was asked to lead prayers on the 10th of Tevet when I wasn't fasting; I felt a strange and hoped that no food was showing between my teeth, though I did feel its presence.
Today I decided to fast. I was called upon to daven Shacharit (the morning prayer). I felt more at ease knowing I too was fasting. I made it all the way to the late afternoon when a splitting headache and slight nausea, probably brought on by caffeine withdrawal, moved me to break my fast. I purposefully came late to the afternoon services so I wouldn't be called on to daven Mincha, when the Aneynu blessing is again recited. The Gabbai did ask me to daven Ma'ariv (the evening prayer), but this service marks the transition to the new day, so I didn't have any moral qualms about it.
The lesson: the obligation to say kaddish thrusts you into the community, for better or for worse. Mostly for better. But sometimes your own individual practice comes into conflict with communal norms. As a mourner, I'm not just another regular member of the community. I have a special status. I have to deal with it.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
Reflections on absence and presence
I experience my mother's absence every day though it's difficult to explain what an absence means. I haven't had the kind of experiences my father's had: hearing the front door open and believing for an instant that it was her, the thought "what time is she coming home today?" On one level the absence is tangible: the lack of any phone calls, visits, hugs and kisses. On a deeper level, it's something missing inside me, a wound that can't be healed, a part of me no longer there.
Sometimes I feel a presence, though this too is difficult to explain. Sometimes when I'm doing something I know she'd like, I talk to her internally and get a sense of her satisfaction. Sometimes when I don't know what I'm doing, and it's something she would have advised me on (which is just about everything), I tell her I'm doing the best I can and get a sense of her support. Other times, during prayer, in dreams or in nature, I get a sense of her spirit, though this too is impossible for me to put into words.
A few weeks ago, the rabbi gave a talk at a shiva home that put the ideas of absence and presence in a different light. He spoke about Pirkei Avot, Chapter 3, Mishna 14. Pirkei Avot is a unit in the Mishna that deals with Rabbinic statements about ethics and the proper way to live. The Mishna in question reads: "Rabbi Dosa ben Harkinas said, 'sleeping late, drinking wine in the afternoon, the idle chatter of children and the gatherings of the ignorant remove a person from the world.'" The point of this Mishna, the Rabbi's explained, was that absence and presence is not just a physical matter. A person may be physically present, but if he or she disengages from the world, deals in the world of trivialities rather than the real and pressing issues that people and communities face, he or she is accounted as being absent. The inverse, the Rabbi concluded, is also true. A person may be physically absent, but if he or she engaged in the world and made a difference in people's lives, he or she is still present.
This talk touched me deeply. As a psychotherapist, my mother helped hundreds of people live happier and more productive lives. As an active member in the Berkeley Jewish community, she helped bring people together feel a sense of belonging. As an activist on behalf of victims of terrorism, she helped give hope and resources to the most vulnerable members of Israeli society. (An obituary in the local Jewish newspaper can be found at http://www.jweekly.com/article/full/63596/hilda-kessler-pro-israel-activist-in-berkeley-dies-at-79
In these ways, her presence is still and will always be felt by those who knew her. These thoughts don't take away the pain of her death, but do provide some measure (some, but I'm not sure exactly how much) of comfort.
Sometimes I feel a presence, though this too is difficult to explain. Sometimes when I'm doing something I know she'd like, I talk to her internally and get a sense of her satisfaction. Sometimes when I don't know what I'm doing, and it's something she would have advised me on (which is just about everything), I tell her I'm doing the best I can and get a sense of her support. Other times, during prayer, in dreams or in nature, I get a sense of her spirit, though this too is impossible for me to put into words.
A few weeks ago, the rabbi gave a talk at a shiva home that put the ideas of absence and presence in a different light. He spoke about Pirkei Avot, Chapter 3, Mishna 14. Pirkei Avot is a unit in the Mishna that deals with Rabbinic statements about ethics and the proper way to live. The Mishna in question reads: "Rabbi Dosa ben Harkinas said, 'sleeping late, drinking wine in the afternoon, the idle chatter of children and the gatherings of the ignorant remove a person from the world.'" The point of this Mishna, the Rabbi's explained, was that absence and presence is not just a physical matter. A person may be physically present, but if he or she disengages from the world, deals in the world of trivialities rather than the real and pressing issues that people and communities face, he or she is accounted as being absent. The inverse, the Rabbi concluded, is also true. A person may be physically absent, but if he or she engaged in the world and made a difference in people's lives, he or she is still present.
This talk touched me deeply. As a psychotherapist, my mother helped hundreds of people live happier and more productive lives. As an active member in the Berkeley Jewish community, she helped bring people together feel a sense of belonging. As an activist on behalf of victims of terrorism, she helped give hope and resources to the most vulnerable members of Israeli society. (An obituary in the local Jewish newspaper can be found at http://www.jweekly.com/article/full/63596/hilda-kessler-pro-israel-activist-in-berkeley-dies-at-79
In these ways, her presence is still and will always be felt by those who knew her. These thoughts don't take away the pain of her death, but do provide some measure (some, but I'm not sure exactly how much) of comfort.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
"Is there anyone who has Yahrtzeit?" "I mean man"
My experiences in shul are those of a man's. I'm on the side of the mechitza (divider between men's and women's sections) that can daven from the Amud (act as prayer leader). I'm on the side that gives the D'vrei Torah (Torah talks), that gets called up to the Torah, and from which the Rabbi, Assistant Rabbis, and Gabbai come from. I'm on the side that gets handshakes after davening and an occasional "yisher koach" (good job) from a fellow congregant.
But I'm aware there are women mourners as well. I don't often hear the women mourners saying kaddish unless I am the only man saying kaddish. As there are usually many more male kaddish sayers, I seat myself in the middle of the men's section, about thirty feet from where the women are, and the men, it seems to me, recite their kaddishes louder than do the women. It's possible to ignore their presence because they are not central to the prayer service--I don't, but I'm pretty sure others do. I know the Rabbi doesn't. At the shul where I usually daven, women are permitted, even encouraged, to say kaddish. Women saying kaddish is an accepted reality in the Modern Orthodox world today, unlike twenty or thirty years ago. I know their experience saying kaddish is different than mine. I'm not sure exactly how, though in my conversation with women saying kaddish, I get the sense their experience is more private. In a way, the women who come to morning minyan to say kaddish are heroic--a man is expected to do this; they are doing it even without a sense that they "have" to.
Before Mincha (the afternoon service) yesterday, one of the younger rabbis, the regular Gabbai being absent, announced as usual, "is there anyone who has Yahrzeit (the anniversary of a parent's death) for a parent?" What he meant was: is there any man who has Yahrtzeit, as such a person has priority to lead prayers. A voice from the women's section responded, "yes, I do." In an awkward moment, the rabbi then had to clarify what he meant. (He should have acknowledged the woman's Yahrzeit before doing so.) A woman mourner told me that the regular Gabbai avoids this matter by asking if anyone has Yahrtzeit for "his" parent. To add to the discomfort I felt, the d'var halacha the rabbi gave between Mincha and Ma'ariv just happened by to deal with women's exemption from the requirement of fulfilling time bound positive commandments (the last Mishna of the second chapter of Masechet Brachot).
After the services, I spoke to the woman who had Yahrzeit to express solidarity with her loss. Still, the events left me feeling uneasy. Half the people in the world who have lost a parent are women. I subscribe to traditional Jewish practice, thus I daven in Orthodox synagogues. Still, I wish that the shul could provide as much support to the women saying kaddish as it has given me during my kaddish year.
After the services, I spoke to the woman who had Yahrzeit to express solidarity with her loss. Still, the events left me feeling uneasy. Half the people in the world who have lost a parent are women. I subscribe to traditional Jewish practice, thus I daven in Orthodox synagogues. Still, I wish that the shul could provide as much support to the women saying kaddish as it has given me during my kaddish year.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Death in the family
There is a camaraderie that develops among kaddish sayers. I can attest to this on the men's side of the mechitza (divider between the men's and women's section), and I also see it among the few women kaddish sayers. In fact, because there are fewer women who attend the prayer service and many if not most are there to say kaddish, the bonds that form between them may even be even more intense than those among the men.
One of the bonds I formed was with a man more or less my age whose mother died about two months after mine. We'd joke about which one of us the Gabbai would select to lead prayers. I told him about my blog and, upon reading it, he learned of my father's broken hip. A few months ago, I told him that I would be flying to California to visit my father and would be unable to say kaddish, and he suggested I learn a Mishna in my mother's honor that evening, which I did at the airport. From there on, he'd always ask about my father's condition, and he genuinely took pleasure in my positive reports. (He's doing much better since his hip replacement surgery.)
Little did I know that his own father was quite ill. His father died yesterday morning and the funeral was that afternoon. The service took place in the shul, the very space that he and I had davened in these many months. My friend spoke about his father's incredible life, how he had overcome legal blindness to lead a rich and productive life.
Now my friend will be saying kaddish for both his parents, the nightmare scenario that my father's broken hip in January had signaled as a possibility for me. Seated at the service, I saw the face of a man without parents. A true orphan.
The mourner's kaddish in Hebrew is called "Kaddish Yatom," which literally means "orphan's kaddish." (This point is made by Wieseltier in his book Kaddish, p. 442.) For me, the kaddish feels more like a mourner's prayer than an orphan's prayer, as my parental link is but half severed. But my friend's kaddish was the kaddish of complete loss, especially coming so soon after his mother's death.
I am learning, somewhat to my surprise, that the kaddish experience has as much, and probably, more to do with my relationship to other people as it does to my own grief. And it has even less to do with my relationship to God. I never met my friend's father. And I don't even know him that well. Still, his loss feels like a death in the family of mourners of which I am a member.
One of the bonds I formed was with a man more or less my age whose mother died about two months after mine. We'd joke about which one of us the Gabbai would select to lead prayers. I told him about my blog and, upon reading it, he learned of my father's broken hip. A few months ago, I told him that I would be flying to California to visit my father and would be unable to say kaddish, and he suggested I learn a Mishna in my mother's honor that evening, which I did at the airport. From there on, he'd always ask about my father's condition, and he genuinely took pleasure in my positive reports. (He's doing much better since his hip replacement surgery.)
Little did I know that his own father was quite ill. His father died yesterday morning and the funeral was that afternoon. The service took place in the shul, the very space that he and I had davened in these many months. My friend spoke about his father's incredible life, how he had overcome legal blindness to lead a rich and productive life.
Now my friend will be saying kaddish for both his parents, the nightmare scenario that my father's broken hip in January had signaled as a possibility for me. Seated at the service, I saw the face of a man without parents. A true orphan.
The mourner's kaddish in Hebrew is called "Kaddish Yatom," which literally means "orphan's kaddish." (This point is made by Wieseltier in his book Kaddish, p. 442.) For me, the kaddish feels more like a mourner's prayer than an orphan's prayer, as my parental link is but half severed. But my friend's kaddish was the kaddish of complete loss, especially coming so soon after his mother's death.
I am learning, somewhat to my surprise, that the kaddish experience has as much, and probably, more to do with my relationship to other people as it does to my own grief. And it has even less to do with my relationship to God. I never met my friend's father. And I don't even know him that well. Still, his loss feels like a death in the family of mourners of which I am a member.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
The moment before kaddish
Having gone to shul on a regular basis for a while, I know when the kaddishes are coming. In the Mincha (afternoon) and Ma'ariv (evening) services, the Mourner's Kaddish is recited at the very end, immediately after the Aleynu prayer. In Shacharit (the morning service), the Kaddish D'rabanan (Rabbi's Kaddish) and Mourner's Kaddish are recited toward the beginning of the service and two more Mourner's Kaddishes at the end, one after Aleynu and the other after the Psalm of the Day. On the Sabbath eve, there is a Mourner's Kaddish and Kaddish D'Rabbanan in the middle of the service, after the Kabbalat Shabbat service and before Borchu.
Usually, I'm quite aware that my turn to say kaddish is approaching. I'm finishing my silent Aleynu. The Shaliach T'zibur (prayer leader) will recite the last verse of that prayer. Then the attention of the congregation will turn to the mourners saying kaddish. As that moment nears, I begin to get self-conscious. Whether I feel like it or not, in a few seconds I will again declare my status as a mourner. Often, after I finish kaddish, I feel the need to take in a deep breath.
Other times, though, I'm not expecting the approach of the kaddish. I get surprised and need to remind myself, "oh, that's right, I have to say kaddish soon." I experience a sense of disbelief that, indeed, my mother is dead, that I will never see her or speak to her again (except in dreams).
For years I heard others say kaddish and didn't think too much about it. You never think that your turn will come, though after my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I began to wrap my mind around the idea that, as unbelievable as it seemed, I would be the one saying kaddish. Despite the hundreds of services I've attended and thousands of kaddishes I've recited since she died, I still find it difficult to believe the reason I keep going to shul and saying kaddish.
Usually, I'm quite aware that my turn to say kaddish is approaching. I'm finishing my silent Aleynu. The Shaliach T'zibur (prayer leader) will recite the last verse of that prayer. Then the attention of the congregation will turn to the mourners saying kaddish. As that moment nears, I begin to get self-conscious. Whether I feel like it or not, in a few seconds I will again declare my status as a mourner. Often, after I finish kaddish, I feel the need to take in a deep breath.
Other times, though, I'm not expecting the approach of the kaddish. I get surprised and need to remind myself, "oh, that's right, I have to say kaddish soon." I experience a sense of disbelief that, indeed, my mother is dead, that I will never see her or speak to her again (except in dreams).
For years I heard others say kaddish and didn't think too much about it. You never think that your turn will come, though after my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I began to wrap my mind around the idea that, as unbelievable as it seemed, I would be the one saying kaddish. Despite the hundreds of services I've attended and thousands of kaddishes I've recited since she died, I still find it difficult to believe the reason I keep going to shul and saying kaddish.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)