Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Kaddish Minyan

Yesterday evening I showed up at a minyan in White Plains to fulfill my Kaddish obligation and get my son to his orthodontist appointment.  I was aided by a great web site, godaven.com, which lists minyanim (prayer services) all over the country (world?).  What I encountered was a Kaddish minyan, a minyan which seemed to exist for the purpose of providing a place to say Kaddish.   How's that?  At an average prayer service, I'd estimate maybe 3 to 5%  of adults at any one time are saying Kaddish.  The percentage rises because Kaddish-sayers are more likely to attend public prayer than other Jews.  At the minyan I usually attend, the percentage of Kaddish-sayers is about 10%.  The 90% provide support for those saying Kaddish, a support I feel most strongly when they respond during the Kaddish, "ya'hay shmei rabba mivorach l'alem u'liolmei olmaya (may his great name be blessed forever and ever)." At the service I attended yesterday, half the people present were saying Kaddish. It felt strange and a bit unnatural.  Ideally, those who are experiencing loss need to feel supported, not the other way around.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

9, then 10

Needing to say Kaddish means never getting to sleep in. Because of delays I didn't get to my parents' home in Berkeley until 1:30 a.m., then got up that morning at 5:45 to make it to shul. Friday evening services were at a private home but only 9 men showed for the afternoon Mincha prayer, one short of the number needed to say kaddish. One of the many complexities of Kaddish: it's a deeply personal obligation, yet fulfulling it is wholly dependent upon the support of others. Feeling frustrated, peeved and having given up hope of getting a minyan for Ma'ariv, someone came in late, thus completing the minyan.  It was as if Eliyahu himself (Elijah the Prophet) had come to the rescue.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Missed Kaddish due to travel

Kaddish and travel are a difficult pairing. Anytime you leave home, praying with a minyan becomes more challenging. This evening I'm flying to California to visit my father (the parent I have left). Just over two weeks ago he fell and broke his hip. I booked a flight I thought would give me time to pray Mincha and Maariv (the afternoon and evening prayers) in shul before leaving for the airport. After second thought, I decided to leave earlier to give myself more time to get to the airport. Pulled in two directions, I ended up deciding that making sure I didn't miss my flight to be with my living father outweighed my obligation to honor my dead mother.  Yet the pull to say Kaddish was not easily overcome.  Such is the hold this obligation has on me.

Monday, January 23, 2012

The Power of Kaddish

Today in shul two brothers came to say Kaddish.  It was the Yahrzeit of one of their parents.  I could tell they were not too familiar with the routines of shul, but I could surmise that they undertook to come to shul every year on this day to say Kaddish.  And I've seen this before: Jews who are not regular shul-goers feel compelled to come on the anniversary of their loved one's passing.  The same holds true for the Yizkor service recited on the festivals of Passover, Shavuot Shmini Atzeret as well as on Yom Kippur. 

What is it about these rituals that Jews find so powerful?  I supposes it connects with one of the essentials of Jewishness: the sense of peoplehood and generational bonds.  It is quite possible that Kaddish represents the most powerful tool the Rabbis ever devised for keeping us connected to our traditions and to each other.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Why I am saying Kaddish?

Why I am saying Kaddish for my mother?  Why I am waking up a half hour earlier than normal to get to shul to daven?  Why I am structuring my every day so that I can make afternoon prayers?  Why am I davening from the Amud (being the prayer leader) whenever offered instead of occasionally declining? 

The answer is complicated.  Part of it, to be sure, is a feeling of obligation, no different than any other halakhic (Jewish legal) obligation.  I have chosen, or I feel a greater power has chosen me, to adhere to these laws and customs.  But it's more than that.  It's a way of honoring my mother's life and memory.  When I say Kaddish, I try to think of her, of all she meant to me, of the many gifts she bestowed on me.  Also, it's a way of constantly reminding myself that my life is not normal.  Through fulfilling my obligations, I acknowledge that I am not whole.  My soul has been torn.  Perhaps each Kaddish is a way of mending it, slowly, stitch by stitch.