Rabbi Marc Berkson — Kol Nidre — 5764

SAYING KADDISH
Kol Nidre-5764

Once upon a time, a number of years ago, there was a young rabbi who tried very hard to pray during services. He found such prayer difficult. True, there were some times when it simply happened, when his prayers, the congregation’s prayers, and God’s presence all came together at once. But those times were rare; the responsibility of assisting other’s prayers ascend made his task of praying that much more difficult. He tried also to pray on a regular basis–but his schedule was hectic and the demands were many. All too often, it would be his own prayers that would be neglected. Yet still he yearned, yearned to pray, yearned to find shelter in the shadow of God’s wings.

Then his first child was born. A child–awesome, frightening and joyous. It echoed God’s creation of the world-order out of chaos, an act of faith and of hope. The parent-child relationship became, also, a deeper reminder of his relationship with God. Thus, from the first night that first child entered this world, that young rabbi found his shelter. He found it in our special night prayers, the prayers built around the Shema and the V’ahavtah, wherein we are commanded to speak of these words when we lie down and when we rise up. And so he did–as did his wife. They asked for God’s blessings on their family and friends, mentioning each and everyone by name. Eventually, so did their child and their second child and then their third. In fact, the children demanded the prayer and blessings. It became a ritual moment, one in which they found themselves in the Presence of God. They sensed that they were not alone. Without those prayers, they could not sleep. And, without those prayers, they sensed that God would be diminished as well.

That rabbi is no longer young. It has been almost 21 years since first he and his wife and their daughter shared those prayers at bedtime-years during which he went from being of the youngest generation in his family to the oldest. Ushered solidly into middle age over seven years ago with the death of his father several weeks after the celebration of his oldest’s Bat Mitzvah, that rabbi stands before you tonight. And since the death of my mother back in April, I know every day how things have changed. For everyday, as I now say the words “Yitgadel, v’yitgadash,” I cannot help but see the name our tradition has placed on those words we recite at the end of each service. You can see the name also on page 284-kaddish ya-tom, the orphan’s kaddish. For with the deaths of both of my parents, I have become an orphan.

My mother’s death, thank God, was the way we think death is supposed to be. She died before any of her children, before any of her grandchildren, a death due to illness after more than three score years and ten, a death that came while she rested in her own bed, in her own home. And, as I finished my shiva in Michigan City, Indiana, with the onset of Pesach, I knew what I had to do-I had to say kaddish. I had done so for almost a year following my father’s death. Thus, on the trains back to Milwaukee, I turned to my Reform Jewish sources, primarily Gates of Mitzvah: A Guide to the Jewish Life Cycle, edited by Rabbi Sim Maslin. And the text was quite clear: It is a mitzvah for mourners to recite the Kaddish…in memory of the dead at daily services during shivah at home and thereafter in the synagogue. It is a mitzvah to recite Kaddish for for parents for a year and for other members of the family for a month. If there is no daily service in the synagogue, mourners should recite kaddish with their families or privately. While Reform Judaism does not require the presence of a minyan for the recitation of Kaddish, it is appropriate that a minyan be assembled whenever possible. Others suggest that, in the absence of a minyan, a mourner might recite Kaddish in English or substitute another memorial prayer.

I knew what I had to do. I knew that I needed to say kaddish at a daily minyan to impose upon me a routine to help keep my own looming chaos under control; little did I know that saying kaddish daily with a minyan would soon come to control me-and my wife and kids. The minyan schedule came first with everyday being planning to accommodate saying kaddish with a minyan-and the rest of the family had to fall into place. My wife had to take full responsibility every morning to get the kids ready for and to school. Dinners often were and are squeezed into 20 minutes between the end of the service and the beginning of an evening meeting. And trips, trips-as we looked at the upcoming months–seemed insurmountable. How could we travel a number of weeks later to a family gathering in Cleveland by car? How could I take my kids to a baseball game in Chicago as the season neared an end? How could we possibly spend a long-planned vacation week up in the Boundary Waters during the summer? For that matter, how could I possibly spend a week in Michigan City at the end of the summer cleaning up my old house and preparing it for sale? Where could I possibly find a minyan to be able to recite kaddish?

Six months-and I have been saying Kaddish daily, usually three times a day. At times, it has seemed to chain me, a heavy weight holding me back, tying me down, encircling my family. Yet I continue to say kaddish everyday-as I also share such personal comments with you this day-and I have to ask why. Tradition teaches me that my mother needs it-even though in its original formation, kaddish had nothing to do with death. Just 75 words long, with most of those words Aramaic, the kaddish is simply a doxology, a hymn of praise to God. Yet its original version was shorter still-the first paragraph based on a messianic passage from Ezekiel which we recite today and its response-”Amen, let God’s great name be blessed for ever and ever.” Dating back to the first century of the common era, it was probably recited as a way of concluding a public discourse or a lesson on a messianic note. Perhaps the kaddish was then easily transferred from the house of study to the house of prayer and came to signify not only the end of a worship service but also the ends of different sections of the service itself. Perhaps it was also shared at a house of mourning following the conclusion of a lesson there. But the idea that kaddish was some kind of intercessionary prayer for the dead seems to have come about a century later.

Leon Wieseltier tells the story which makes this connection in his magnificent and extraordinary search following the death of his father entitled, not surprisingly, Kaddish. Rabbi Akiva , while walking past a cemetery at night, sees a dark apparition carrying a large burden of wood on his head. Asks Rabbi Akiva, “How comes it that a man does such hard work?”

Responds the apparition, “Do not detain me because my superiors will be angry. I am a dead man. Every day I am punished by being sent out to chop wood for a fire in which I am consumed.”

Rabbi Akiva, clearly troubled, asks, “My son, what was your work in the world from which you came?”

“I was a tax collector,” answers the apparition, “I would be lenient with the rich and oppress the poor.” (and that lesson is for tomorrow)

Wondering if there be any way to save him, the apparition tells Rabbi Akiva that his only salvation would be if he had a son who would say kaddish and have the congregation respond, “Amen–Yehi shmei rabba mevorach l’alom ulalmei almaya-let God’s great name be blessed forever and ever.” Thus does Rabbi Akiva set out to save this man. Returning to his town, he asks about the tax collector. While the townspeople curse the tax collector, they also tell him that he had fathered-unbeknownst to him-a heathen son. So Rabbi Akiva finds that son, brings him into the covenant, teaches him to pray, and equips him to say kaddish. After the passage of some time, Rabbi Akiva brings the boy into the synagogue where he says kaddish and the congregation responds “Amen, Yhei shemei rabba…let God’s great name…” At that very moment, the apparition is saved from his eternal punishment and thanks Rabbi Akiva in a dream.

Concludes Wieseltier, “The themes of the story? That the dead are in need of spiritual rescue; and that the agent of that spiritual rescue is the son; and that the instrument of spiritual rescue is prayer, notably kaddish.” We know the result of this story is that somehow, by saying kaddish, we help rescue the souls of the dead from the fires of Gehenna, of the closest concept we have of hell. One rabbinic authority even tells us that each kaddish saves our dead from those fires for 90 minutes. Another custom tells us that we say kaddish not for the full 12 months but only for 11 so that it should not appear that one’s parent was so wicked as to merit punishment for the full year.

Thus, just as my mother needed me and all of her children in her last months-as I became parent to her and she child to me while the cancer and the Alzheimer’s slowly consumed her, so, too, does the role reversal continue in death. For, in death, tradition teaches me that she needs me. As one rabbinic authority wrote in 17th century Prague, “As the parent has mercy on his children, so must the son have mercy on the forlorn soul of his father and mother.” If I really believed this, the guilt could chain me forever.

Yet I continue to say kaddish everyday-as I also share such personal comments with you this day-so I still ask why. And those 75 words tell me that God needs it-because not one of those 75 words mention death and not one of those words refers to the aching absence I feel. Rather, over and over we talk to God-”yitbarach veyishtaback v’yitpa’ar veyitromam veyitnasay veyithadar vayithaleh v’yithalal-blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded-synonym after synonym saying great things not to me-but to God. But the paragraph continues-with perhaps the most crucial word of the 75. “le-ei-la min kol birchata veshirata, tushbechata ve’necheata-for God is beyond (or above) any blessing or song, praise or nechemata-from the Aramaic or Hebrew nun-het-mem, nihum, meaning consolation, as in nihum avelim, as in consoling the mourners. Is it possible that God, Him or Herself, is a mourner; that God needs me for consolation? Wieseltier is amazed that God may need him even more than his dead father. Writes Wieseltier: “The kaddish is a communication from one mourner to another. Every kaddish in the liturgy is the mourner’s kaddish, and God is the mourner.”

So who or what does God mourn? That God has lost one of us, one of His children, one of Her beloved? Or is it even deeper? Wieseltier offers a Talmudic tale of Rabbi Jose who encounters Elijah the prophet at the entrance of one of the ruins of Jerusalem prohibiting him from entering. But a voice is heard in the ruin, crying. From the story, Wieseltier concludes that “the story of God’s grief is stronger when it is set in a ruin. The prophet seeks to dissuade the rabbi from entering a ruin because the prophet does not want the rabbi to discover God’s secret, which is that He is a mourner.” Is the ruin the Temple? Can God truly be consoled? And if God cannot be consoled, how can I, a mere mortal, ever be consoled? Without consolation, the mourning could chain me forever.

Yet I continue to say kaddish everyday-as I also share such personal comments with you this day-so I still ask why. And, as always, simply having to say those 75 words day after day is the lesson itself. Remember deeds shape the heart far more than the heart shapes the deeds. I say Kaddish for me so I am not alone. My non-Jewish friends who own the cabin in the Boundary Waters just outside Ely spend days tracking down every Jew within a 50-mile radius before we come up. Yes, there are still Jews remaining up there. And we meet another former Chicagoan who, through Outward Bound, had made Ely home. His father, many years later after retirement, joined him there. He had gotten married and had a child. His wife and son were away while we were there. So hungry for a Shabbat meal to share with his 90-year-old father that both of them stayed into Shabbat and spent it with us. Originally a South Sider, he had gone to the same high school I had and shared many friends in common. And his father, he had been the Hillel Director at the University of Chicago. And neither we-nor Joey and his Dad-were alone.

We drive to Cleveland overnight so as not to miss a minyan. But we cannot do so on the way home. So, from somewhere on the Ohio Turnpike, I call the synagogue in South Bend to find out when the minyan will gather. I have until 6:00 that afternoon to get to South Bend. Arranging our travel appropriately, we make the synagogue in time for the minyan and then are led to, of all places, the Irish Kosher Deli for dinner. In the middle of a long road trip, neither we nor they were alone.

I have to go to Michigan City to clean up the house. And the closest daily minyan to Michigan City is South Bend. They would be delighted for me to return but the distance is simply too far. So I call my friends and some of my mother’s friends in Michigan City to put together a daily minyan at the house as I am working through my tears on it to get it ready for sale. They come-and they talk about my mother. I get to relive, remember, reflect, retell. I was (and still am) so hungry to know more about the woman I knew so well and the woman I never knew. As the mourner, I lead the minyan. But I am not the only mourner there. For a husband and wife who live in Michigan City are also there. Old friends, they, too, are in mourning, looking for consolation after the loss of their only child at the age of 14 to an accident. The minyan may have meant more to them than to me. While I was not alone, for the first time in many days, they were not alone.

I run from Wrigley Field (I confess to the sin of being a Cubs fan) with my son and his friend. The game has been long delayed by rain and we have a train to catch. But I have to say kaddish-and the train gets me home too late for a minyan here in Milwaukee. We get to a synagogue in the Loop and become the three remaining people they need for a minyan. I know that I cannot stay for both the afternoon and evening service and still make the train back. They know too-and even after a number of other people arrive giving them far more than a minyan, they rush through both the afternoon and evening services and get a cab for us so we can still make the train. And neither they nor we were alone.

I often go to a neighboring Conservative congregation to say Kaddish. In fact, I often see another one of our congregants there at the morning service as he, also, mourns a loss. A community every morning-and neither we nor they are alone.

And here, at Emanu-El B’ne Jeshurun, our Cantor, along with a couple of congregants, decided to resume our afternoon daily services, afternoon daily services which once took place here in this building years ago. I think the resumption of those daily services was, initially, to give me a place to say kaddish in our congregation, at home. But over time, others in mourning joined in our little community. And, for the last five months, this little community made sure that I, and we, were not alone. That same little community ensured a skybox at Miller Park when our Cantor sang the National Anthem so that, again, we could gather as a minyan and I could say kaddish. And we were not alone.

Only once do I remember being painfully alone. It was here in Milwaukee-and the congregation I went to that night simply could not muster a minyan. Many of their people were at a wedding. So I sat and prayed by myself and said kaddish silently, alone. Ari Goldman, reflecting in Living a Year of Kaddish, as he mourned for his father, wrote, “There is nothing worse than saying kaddish alone in shul. When you say kaddish alone, you feel especially orphaned.” I was chained, connected and bound to others, never wanting to feel especially orphaned-amazed at how God, through kaddish, could weave together new relationships and communities, connecting and binding me also with Him, with Her.

Thus these personal comments this day. For two years, through the loss and pain of the horrific attacks on September 11, I have shared with you that this day is our haunting dress rehearsal for death. The titles we use, the words we speak, the actions we take, the actors we encounter, the settings we utilize, even the clothes we wear tell us so. From the Viddui, the confession we offer here and on our deathbeds, to the unetane tokef, to the words acknowledging the sacred power of this day-”Who shall live and who shall die.” From our fasting to the kittle Cantor Barash is wearing. And this day will reach its saddest point tomorrow afternoon-at yizkor-when we encounter our loved ones, those who have preceded us in death. And we will say kaddish. But God wants us to emerge, has faith we will emerge, reborn, renewed, restored and returned as this day ends when the gates begin to close.

Is that not the message of this day, that we have come together as a community of sinners, reaching out to each other as we walk through the valley of the shadow of death? Is that not the profound message of this day that, as we walk through the valley of the shadow, we are not and will not be alone? For this day, in communal embrace, we shall choose life. And I find strength to walk through that valley of the shadow of death with all of you, for we are not alone.

As for that night prayer in my family, it does still take place. But it usually is quick, almost perfunctory. A script seems to have replaced the heartfelt blessings and, at times, it involves only one parent and one child. But over the last six months, another prayer has begun to replace the night prayer. “Dad,” cries out my son as Shabbat nears an end. “Can we go to the synagogue for ma’ariv and havdalah? You have to say kaddish.” Perhaps he is telling me that I say kaddish for my children. Ari Goldman described it well in his memoir, “Mourning also became a time for mentoring and modeling. I lost my father, I reasoned, but I myself am still a father. I need them to see me saying kaddish for their grandfather.” Even more directly, as Rabbi Michael Paley put it about his kids as he mourned, “Hey, look what I’m doing. Take notes. You’ll do this for me someday.” What better way to be chained, linking the generations.

I know-and they know-and I believe my mom knows-that we are not alone. As we rise to say kaddish, p. 284.

Rabbi Marc E. Berkson