My dear friend's husband died this past month. She asked me to tell her about the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the bereaved. Even though I've been through it myself, I can only know a piece of her grief. Their bond, like my own with Al,
was unique, is unique. Still, I would
have thought that I would know exactly what to do for her, having been through
it myself. I’d have thought that I’d know
instinctively what she needs and how much intervention. But I m struck by my own uncertainties and
reluctances. I can see how ritual holds
us together in our ignorance of one another’s mysteries.
I'm no expert in matters of religion. As a child, I had a few Sunday school lessons. That was it. What I'm writing is from experience and comments gleaned from my attendance at the synagogue I joined after my father died in 2005. Little did I know then that belonging to a congregation where I could say Kaddish would be so necessary in the next several years.
The Kaddish is a praising prayer. It sends forth blessings and gratitude for life and that which gave us life. It doesn't directly mention death or grief at all. Traditionally, it is said very quickly, which used to make me giggle when I was a child in shul--hearing the men outdo themselves in quickness and agility of speech, as if they were in a competitive race. The old men sounded like schoolboys showing off their skills, and I suppose there is some truth to the idea that how we learn a thing is how we practice it for the rest of our lives.
But there are practical reasons for saying it quickly. It isn't easy to drop into praising mode when you've just lost your beloved, whether a husband, partner, parent, child, sibling, or friend. Inarticulate shrieks or moans surely come more naturally as the shock wears off. This institutionalized traditional prayer calls for the mourner to stand and evoke a picture greater than one's own individual sorrow.
As above, so below. The will of God or however we see it, universal energies, carries us all in its flow. The mourners rise and recite the prayer that this life we are living and making for ourselves be revered, whether we like it or not. The chant alternates between the standing mourners and the seated congregants. Yes, there is a separation, but it isn't absolute. We are all within hearing distance of one another. We have agreed to gather together in support.
We say aloud the names of our dead, and we capitulate to forces beyond our control with as much grace as we can muster. Kaddish helps. The prayer is said in a language, Aramaic, that sets it apart from the other Hebrew prayers in the rest of the service. I imagine that through the ages, its foreignness must have always seemed odd and hard to assimilate. Like bereavement itself, it doesn't fit, but must be included.
We can find this prayer as well as those used by other religious communities easily these days on the Internet. I sought them all in my first days of mourning. The many different sources of consolation are reminders that we all belong to one community, no matter what we do or don't believe.
