The skeptic’s kaddish for the atheist, 48

I am no longer a “mourner” according to tradition, but am I no longer mourning? This is beyond me. Can one truly mourn forever, or does mourning inevitably decay into normalcy?

Less than one Hebrew month remains until my father’s first yahrzeit, thirteen months since his heart stopped for the second time at the hospital. Papa died on July 7, 2018 – on Shabbat* one year ago on the Gregorian calendar. However, the Hebrew anniversary of his death is the 24th of Tammuz (כ״ד בְּתַמּוּז), which will be on Shabbat, July 27, 2019. (From Sabbath to Sabbath.)

*I learned something:
According to the Tractate Shabbat 30a-b of the Babylonian Talmud, King David died on Shabbat afternoon. (see text at the bottom.)
According to the Zohar, we traditionally recite the Tzidkatcha prayer (צדקתך, “Your righeousness”) during mincha on Shabbat in memory of three individuals who died on Shabbat: Joseph, Moses and David.  

* * *

Lassitude

With eleven months of daily kaddish recitations and a twelfth month of additional mourning restrictions behind me, my grief’s sails have been hanging [un]expectedly limp these days.

I’ve mentioned to my friend Dov that I am worn out from grieving and have been feeling uninspired of late; he suggests that I submit a truncated blog post, writing just that. I check with the Times of Israel blog editors: would that be acceptable to them? Deputy Editor Anne Gordon responds:

There’s no specific minimum, and in your case, we’re not worried, especially given that you’re posting [in] the context of everything else. Use your judgement. We trust you

I almost did it -almost posted nothing more than the words above- but our family happened to be moving into a new apartment last week, and time evaporated in the balagan (בלגן) that ensued.

* * *

Equilibrium

Weary from the move, I didn’t go to shul for several days last week so I brought my tefilin home one evening, intending to pray by myself.

Ultimately, I didn’t even put them on.

Sometimes I feel the need to reboot, and this is such a time. It’s an occasionally much needed reminder to myself that commitment to tradition is a choice.

… it is I who am granting our religion authority.

– Me, blog #6

Understand authority and you have crippled it.

Leon Wieseltier, Kaddish, p. 113

This week, I won’t be able to attend my weekday morning minyan, as my wife will be abroad, and I cannot leave our four-and-a-half-year-old daughter alone at home by herself. Perhaps I will get back into the groove of davening on my own. We’ll see.

* * *

Humility

My new landlord lost his father when he was but fourteen years old and spent that year of his childhood reciting kaddish at shul. I’m almost forty years old; his was a different experience.

Also, I’ve noted that the same eccentric gentleman who had once (until January – blog #24) regularly led the ma’ariv prayer on Saturday evenings at the close of Shabbat in honor of his father is now back at the rostrum. It turns out that his mother passed away some two months ago. Losing two parents in quick succession is another experience.

Reflecting upon these and other stories of loss that I’ve encountered, I recall a piece of wisdom from Sherri Mandell who lost her thirteen-year-old son Kobi to Arab terrorists in 2001 [link]:

Humility means that I recognize that one day even grieving will assume its proper proportion. In time, I will learn to give death its measure, and no more.

These words are directly from the chapter titled ‘Humility’ in Sherri’s book: Blessing of a Broken Heart.

* * *

Denouement

Papa’s yahrzeit is imminent. With kaddish recitations no longer drawing me to shul, my thoughts turn towards the kiddush I will sponsor after my Shabbat morning minyan. By coincidence*, it turns out that Mama will be in Israel then; she will stay with us for Shabbat and come to shul for the kiddush.

*A pious friend tells me that there are no coincidences. I tell her that the title of ‘The Skeptic’s Kaddish’ is much more true to my nature than ‘The Believer’s Kaddish’ ever could have been. Also, it sounds more intriguing.

What traditions are associated with the yahrzeit? There aren’t many. I already know, of course, of yahrzeit candles. Apparently, this tradition goes all the way back to Talmudic times, as the rabbis ruled that one may not use the “candle for the dead” for the havdalah ceremony, performed upon the departure of the Sabbath (B.T., Tractate Brachot 53a):

אין מברכין לא על הנר ולא על הבשמים של מתים The blessings [for havdalah] may not be recited over the candle or the spices of the dead.

I also know that it is considered appropriate to donate to charity and study Torah on the date of a yahrzeit, but I wonder if there’s something more in our tradition. From the Hebrew volume Sefer Kol Bo al Aveilus (‘The Book Containing Everything on Mourning’) by Rabbi Yekusiel Yehudah Greenwald (1889–1955), I learn that there is also an ancient tradition of fasting on a parent’s yahrzeit, but further research suggests that this practice has mostly fallen into disuse. Regardless, we do not fast on Shabbat, which is a day of holy pleasure.

Then, by chance, my friend Aytan asks me if I’d like to read the haftarah portion on Papa’s yahrzeit.
What? Why?
I’m not entirely sure, but that’s the tradition.
Interesting! I’ll do some research on this.
Of course you will.

Chabad renders any “research” entirely unnecessary: a thorough answer can be found on their website.

* * *

Challenge

I haven’t read haftarah since my bar mitzvah nearly 27 years ago. I am… terrified?

Perhaps that’s too strong a word, but the performative aspects of Judaism have never been my strong suit. Even publicizing my intention to attempt this scares me – it may raise expectations that I may not be able to meet. Still… I will give it my all.

After all, I’ve come this far, haven’t I?

* * *

Memory

Memories of my bar mitzvah come back to me. I remember having no idea what a haftarah was, but I knew that I was expected to read it. Perhaps it was considered “half” as important as the “Torah”? Nobody thought to clarify this for me back then.

I remember chanting one of the kaddishes to the wrong tune; but I pushed my way through it. The rabbi, of course, noticed and remarked upon it later (in the spirit of constructive criticism).

I remember writing my bar mitzvah speech based upon my father’s reading of the weekly Torah portion. He drew a connection to the theme of family and progeny, and I spoke about being the first Bogomolny in several generations to celebrate his bar mitzvah, even as my grandparents sat in the front row before me. They had emigrated from the FSU only several years before, and I don’t think their English was strong enough to understand me.

I remember receiving many earnest compliments from the regular shul-goers in regards to my speech. It had been wordsmithed by me, but it had been inspired by my Papa.

* * *

Understatement

My father’s fingerprints are all over me.

* * *

Shabbat 30a-b

אמר לו בשבת תמות אמות באחד בשבת אמר לו כבר הגיע מלכות שלמה בנך ואין מלכות נוגעת בחברתה אפי’ כמלא נימא אמות בערב שבת אמר לו (תהילים פד) כי טוב יום בחצריך מאלף טוב לי יום אחד שאתה יושב ועוסק בתורה מאלף עולות שעתיד שלמה בנך להקריב לפני על גבי המזבח Said He [God] to him [David]. ‘Thou wilt die on the Sabbath.’ ‘Let me die on the first day of the week!’ ‘The reign of thy son Solomon shall already have become due, and one reign may not overlap another even by a hairbreadth.’ ‘Then let me die on the eve of the Sabbath!’ Said He, ‘For a day in thy courts is better than a thousand’ (Psalms 84): better is to Me the one day that thou sittest and engagest in learning than the thousand burnt-offerings which thy son Solomon is destined to sacrifice before Me on the altar.’
כל יומא דשבתא הוה יתיב וגריס כולי יומא ההוא יומא דבעי למינח נפשיה קם מלאך המות קמיה ולא יכיל ליה דלא הוה פסק פומיה מגירסא אמר מאי אעביד ליה הוה ליה בוסתנא אחורי ביתיה אתא מלאך המות סליק ובחיש באילני נפק למיחזי הוה סליק בדרגא איפחית דרגא מתותיה אישתיק ונח נפשיה Every Sabbath day he would sit and study all day. On the day that his soul was to be at rest, the Angel of death stood before him but could not prevail against him, because learning did not cease from his mouth. ‘What shall I do to him?’ said he. Now, there was a garden before his house; so the Angel of death went, ascended and soughed in the trees. He [David] went out to see: as he was ascending the ladder, it broke under him. Thereupon he became silent [from his studies] and his soul had repose.

 

The skeptic’s kaddish for the atheist, 47

Two weeks ago a middle-aged woman approached me at the back of the sanctuary, as I was readying to head home for havdalah.
I’ve been thinking about you recently. You must be nearly done by now… I’m almost at the end of my eleven months.
I recognized her immediately – the rabbi’s daughter (blog #3). She had lost her father not long after Papa died, just after I returned from shiva in New Jersey. I had been in the shloshim stage of mourning then.
Oh, hello! Yes, I completed my eleven months of kaddish just over a week ago, but the yahrzeit won’t be for another two months.
She nodded in understanding.
Yes, because of the Hebrew leap year – I also have an extra month. It’s good to see you again.
Thank you; it’s very nice to see you too.
The memories flooded back. Seemingly a lifetime ago, I had attended shiva at this woman’s home for four consecutive evenings to make minyan so that she could recite kaddish for her father.

A month later, in August, I wrote of that (blog #3):

The rabbi’s daughter was sitting shiva, and I was already past that stage, in the shloshim period of my mourning. According to Jewish tradition, her wound was fresher than mine, her mourning more acute, but this did not feel true to me. For four days I listened as strangers honored the memory of a rabbi that I’d never known, all the while grieving silently, alone by the wall, over the untimely death of my own father, but not saying a word because it wasn’t my shiva house.

* * *

Every ‘Skeptic’s Kaddish’ blog entry feels like it must be the very last. I post and think: That’s it. Done. I’ve wrung my heart out. The next post is always unfathomable to me until it is has become the last one.

In mid-December I found myself reflecting upon that shiva again in another blog post, shortly after I’d finished devouring a compilation of women’s kaddish stories. The months, it seemed, had done their work in grinding down the edges of my grief (blog #19):

Everything was about my pain then [i.e. in July, during the rabbi’s shiva], and I could hardly feel beyond myself. Since, the shock has faded; I am more conscious of death and less surprised by it. I have again become able to hear others’ stories.

* * *

Reading through my older blog posts, only snippets of observations and reflections feel authentically mine today, as if each of my entries had been authored by another member of a mourners’ support group, before passing my cracked, black laptop around the circle to the next.

My own words come back to me (blog #39):

By the time you’ve read this, it’s no longer about the character who wrote it. Who is David Bogomolny anyway?

* * *

One particular leg of my journey this year led me upon an intensive search for creative and modern expressions of kaddish. I found other kaddish bloggers (blog #29), as well as a musician who had put the mourner’s kaddish to song and an artist who had made paintings of every synagogue where he’d recited the kaddish in honor of his father (blog #31). At around that time I also came across another artist who had charted a unique, personalized kaddish journey, but this man’s story froze me. Steven Branfman had lost his son.

Here is the father’s kaddish story in his own words:

Some concepts are hard to wrap my mind around and harder still to put words to, but the story of Steven’s grief over Jared’s death brought up a dreadful question: what if it had been somebody other than Papa? Somebody other than a parent of mine?

For all the pain behind my writing this year, for all my shock and despair at losing my father, I had always “known” that he would die before me. Given, he should have lived another ten or twenty years, well into his eighties or his nineties. Given, I’d never imagined him leaving us so unexpectedly or so suddenly, in a matter of greedy, insatiable hours while I was putting his beloved granddaughter to bed far across the churning waters. Still, stories of grown adults mourning their departed parents do not usually shatter us.

I acknowledge to myself: My grief has been bearable enough for me to blog about.

* * *

I was surprised when I found out that the halachic, traditional Jewish period for mourning a child is only thirty days. But one of the mothers explained why: it’s because you grieve the rest of your life. You don’t need need the rituals to remind you to grieve. You will think of your child forever.

 Sherri Mandell, The Blessing of a Broken Heart (p. 82)

This folk wisdom from Sherri Mandell’s book of loss and mourning hasn’t come up in any Jewish sources that I’ve seen, but our ancient traditions are ever hungry for relevance, and these bereaved mothers’ words are of the sheerest sagacity. Thoughts such as these leave me flailing to keep my head above guilt, but I’ve already steeled myself once before to admit this:

If you know me only through my blog posts, you might conclude that I think about my father all the time; but I am writing, in part, to remind myself of him.

– Me, blog #27

* * *

There were too, too many minutes in the few hours before Papa’s death, my senses vibrating at a frequency that was out of step with the usual rhythm of things. Then my cellphone screen lit up with a time-bending message from my brother, just as my daughter was complaining that she wasn’t sleepy: “Dead”. Collected and reeling, I placed the phone face down by the bedside, coaxing and calming my little girl as she fell aslumber.

Disconcertingly out of sync, perceptions jumbled, receptors misfiring, I remain immediately near but never fully within the self I’d always known, receiving on an unfamiliar, piercing wavelength.

Slowly, slowly, I have come to understand
this: My pulse has been attuned to loss.

* * *

As I was perusing the bookshelves at my mother’s home in New Jersey last month, ‘The Blessing of a Broken Heart’ called to me. Mama, it turns out, had acquired the book some years ago because I’d shared the story of Koby Mandell with her – the boy who had once invited me to his bar mitzvah.

In the summer of 2000 I was in Jerusalem, studying at a yeshiva where Rabbi Seth Mandell was teaching. I was drawn to him because he dressed and spoke more like me than any of the other rabbis, and I always looked forward to seeing him on our weekly day trips.

It was on a walk along the ramparts of the Old City of Jerusalem that I met Koby, and we spent much of that tour chatting together. He was twelve years old and bursting with enthusiasm; and I felt drawn to that buoyant, American-mannered child who breathed in Israel so naturally. I still recall with amusement Rabbi Mandell’s teasing rebuke to his son: You can’t invite everyone you meet to your bar mitzvah, Koby. (I wouldn’t have been in Israel for the event anyway, and I’m pretty sure Koby knew that.)

At the end of the summer I returned to my university studies and the powder keg exploded. From the safety of America, I read about the devastating terrors of the Second Intifada.

I was shocked and shattered by Koby’s murder.

* * *

‘It’s hard for the one who dies, but it’s harder for those left behind,’ Koby said after two high school boys were killed by terrorists only two months before his own death.

 Sherri Mandell, The Blessing of a Broken Heart (p. 151)

Perhaps it’s trite to write, but there are different ways of knowing – different modes – different depths. This quote from Koby is intuitive, right? What could be more apparent?

Still, I somehow never used to think too much about “those left behind” before my Papa died. Sure, I felt bad for them; I knew that the living were left suffering, smoldering in pain; but my thoughts would inevitably alight upon those who had departed: so sad, so unfortunate, so terrible, so tragic; they had so much yet to live for… so… so… so…

Now that Koby’s insight has been absorbed into my depths
I’ll never again unknow it.

The skeptic’s kaddish for the atheist, 46

I continue attending minyan every day, despite having completed the traditional 11 months of orphan’s kaddish. I continue standing alone at the back, feeling forever a faithless foreigner.

Why do I –
go?
care?
bother?
… always the same tired questions.

Putting aside the old, stubborn basics, it is the kaddish that most draws me to shul these days. I may no longer be a kaddish’er, but the recitations of others sustain me.

For some days after my final kaddish for Papa, I continued reacting instinctively to the voices of the other mourners; catching myself after each false start of “yitga-“ and stopping abashedly, although hardly anyone noticed…

I’ve since adapted; mine is now to respond:
Y’hei sh’mei raba m’varach…

* * *

Throughout the course of these many months since Papa’s death, even at the very beginning, “I reasoned that [my recitation of kaddish] would [mark] my return to shul…” (blog #25). While I had grown very distant from Jewish community at that point, “part of my personal struggle for [those] past several years [had been] my concern that my… daughter… had no connection to synagogue or communal Jewish life…” (blog #1).

And, of course, there’s the matter of gender. As an adult male, I count for an Orthodox minyan, which means that my very presence in the room could make the difference for other petitioners, as to whether or not they may recite the orphan’s kaddish. The math is heartless: Are there ten Jewish men present? Very well, Mourner, you may recite. What, no minyan? Alas, then- no kaddish.

This is the same calculus that leads many female mourners to forgo further shul attendance after their final kaddishes. In my search for other kaddish bloggers (blog #29), I found Dr. Naomi L. Baum’s recounting of her ‘Last Kaddish’ for her mother, which brings home the point:

… after much soul searching, I concluded that I would not continue praying on a daily basis with a minyan.

Why not? First, I, as a woman, am not counted as a member in the prayer quorum, the minyan. If there are nine men, and me, there is no minyan. Only 10 men over the age of 13 are eligible to be counted for a minyan. After spending almost a year waiting on a daily basis for a quorum to assemble, the importance of the minyan is very clear to me. However, I am of no value there…

Unlike Dr. Baum, I am “of value” to the minyan regardless of my unease. Last September, two months after Papa died, I acknowledged my need of a daily minyan of religiously committed Jewish men, despite my misgivings about the rote practice of Jewish prayer and ritual (blog #5):

I am taking advantage of those religious Jews who perform the rituals with absolute consistency. They are committed; wherefore this mourner has a minyan.

Mine is hardly a model life of religious constancy, but I am moved to help make a minyan for the mourners of my community.  Also, I find myself thinking: were I to quit once more after these eleven months of daily shul-going, I might never find the strength to return again.

* * *

For eleven months, the relentless daily pulsations of kaddish across the taut fabric of time reverberate. It’s the rhythm’s reliable regularity whose abrupt end leaves one straining for melody after three hundred and thirty consecutive days.

A break in the flow, inconceivable, but I missed
one
day of kaddish.

Sort
of… *sigh*

It’s like this.
Several months ago, I was searching Expedia.com for tickets to return to New Jersey for Papa’s unveiling (blog #44) when it hit me: I was probably going to miss at least one day of kaddish in flight, perhaps even two.

I had a choice.
Direct flights between the Ben Gurion and Newark Liberty airports in June would likely have had Jewish prayer quorums on board (like my flight after the funeral and shiva last summer – blog #2), but not so the substantially cheaper flights with layovers in Europe.

Conflicted,
I consulted a wise mentor, who advised: Why don’t you ask somebody else to recite the kaddish for your father while you’re in transit? Startled at the simplicity of his suggestion, I wondered: Why hadn’t I thought of that?

Oh, that’s right…
I’d been swayed by Rabbi Benjamin Ze’ev Ben Mattathias’ (early 16th c.) sentiments, which were translated by Leon Wieseltier in his iconic Kaddish tome regarding “the custom of hiring the precentor or somebody else to say the kaddish in place of the son” (p. 388):

I do not approve of this at all, except when the deceased has no son or when the deceased has a son who does not reside in the community permanently… Why didn’t Rabbi Akiva hire somebody to say kaddish for that [deceased tax collector of Jewish legend, blog #11] and thereby release him from his suffering? Indeed, Rabbi Akiva preferred to leave him in his suffering until his young son grew up.

Rabbi Benjamin Ze’ev was hardly alone among the rabbis in his disdain for this practice. It is the orphan’s kaddish, is it not? Still, even and perhaps particularly into the modern day, kaddish recitation services have proliferated for the unable and the unwilling. Examples (in no particular order) include: [1], [2], [3], [4], [5], [6], [7] and many others.

I’ve been biased against this from the beginning. How could anybody else (other than my brother) say kaddish for Papa?

* * *

Author Nathan Englander published a work of fiction just over two months ago: ‘Kaddish.com’, and I was excited to acquire it (blog #39) during my year of mourning. The work is a light, entertaining read, but intellectually underwhelming. I had expected much more religious nuance vis-à-vis kaddish itself from Englander; and the story’s ultra-religious characters fell flat to me in their fervent obsessiveness.

Still, the book’s ending is poignant and touchingly redemptive.

Without revealing too much of the plot, the main character, who had years ago hired an anonymous stranger to recite kaddish for his father, ultimately commits himself to reciting kaddish for one hundred individuals every year for the rest of his life; but he intends to do this in the most intimately meaningful way possible (p. 199):

By the time the sun rises, Shuli… decides he’s sufficiently well versed in the first thirteen – not just in his command of the names but with the essence of the people behind them… To hold a full hundred in his head, he’d need a while longer, that was certain.

This is an example to follow. If I am to ask somebody else to recite kaddish for Papa, it must be a friend of mine. It must be somebody who has been devotedly following my ‘Skeptic’s Kaddish’ blog series; somebody who has come to know Papa and me better through my writing.

I ask a friend from my daily minyan to recite kaddish for my father while I’m airborne; he can’t do it – he’s flying to the USA that same night. I ask another friend from minyan, but both of his parents are yet living – it’s considered a bad omen to recite kaddish before their times have come. A third friend is already reciting kaddish that month for a cousin of his; and, selfishly, I want somebody to recite kaddish exclusively for my Papa.

Then I think of a good friend from another minyan nearby who has been kindly reading all of my blog posts. Hersh has already lost both of his own parents, and he takes his commitment to kaddish (and to Judaism; and to God; and to the dignity of others) very earnestly. Also, Hersh davens with a minyan every day – my request won’t be much of a burden for him.

Happily for me, my friend agrees immediately. A load is lifted. I am afloat with gratitude.

Ultimately, I am able to recite kaddish for Papa at the airport synagogue before my flight to America; but no opportunities present themselves upon my return. I pray alone on the layover flight to Switzerland; but I know that Hersh is in Jerusalem, faithfully reciting kaddish that day on my behalf for Papa.

Thank you.

* * *

Some reflections (after completing 11 months of kaddish):

  • Two weeks have transpired since my final kaddish (May 28); and nearly as long since my previous blog post. Time feels slower.
  • I have come one or two minutes late to shul several times since May 28, just after or during the recitation of the first morning kaddish. I tell myself that this is a coincidence, but I am not so sure; minyan attendance feels less urgent to me now.
  • On the morning of Shavuot, which was two days ago, I arrived on time for services, but no kaddish’ers were present for the earliest recitations of the morning. I felt discombobulated.
  • This morning, I was one of the first ten men present at shul; the mourners were able to recite kaddish without delay. I am “of value”.
  • I returned home from New Jersey with a book from Mama’s shelf, which I’ve now read and intend to reread: The Blessing of a Broken Heart by Sherri Mandell. It has left me full of impressions and emotions. Every chapter of her book reads to me like a kaddish blog post. I feel compelled to write more on this.