Kabbalat Shabbat in Heaven

By Susan Esther Barnes

It’s Friday evening, almost a week since Rose died. The Mourner’s Kaddish is supposed to be said for her by her next of kin every day for eleven months, and every year on the anniversary of her death. It requires a minyan, ten people, to say, because mourners are not meant to be alone; they ought to be surrounded by their community.

Before she died, Rose gave me permission to say the Mourner’s Kaddish for her. I asked because her surviving son is not observant, so we both knew he would be unlikely to say it, other than perhaps at her funeral. Someone ought to say it for her, so I offered to take on the responsibility. Tonight, Shabbat evening, is the first time I have been in a minyan since her death.

When the rabbi asks those who are in the first seven or thirty days of mourning to rise and say the name of the person they’re saying Kaddish for, I feel hesitant. I am not related to Rose; I don’t want to appear to be fishing for sympathy I have not earned. I’m not convinced it is my place to do this thing I promised to do.

I rise, I say Rose’s name, and I stew in my doubts while the names of those recently dead and those who have died at this time in years past are recited. I wonder whether I will be able to say the words, or if the jumble of my thoughts will cause me to falter.

When the time comes, I start to speak, and something completely unexpected happens. As each word forms in my mouth, it transforms into something solid. Not something sharp, with hard edges to chafe and cut; but something soft and rounded, like a rosebud.

As each word solidifies, as its leading edge reaches my lips, it feels as if it is being snatched away and borne swiftly upward, away from me. I don’t know what is happening, but as each word is formed and flies upward, I realize it is being pulled out of my mouth by a force over which I have no control. I have no choice but to continue until the end of the prayer. It appears I was mistaken; saying Kaddish for Rose is not voluntary.

Later, I imagine the words were being pulled out of my mouth and carried upward by angels.

In my mind’s eye, God is surrounded by the dead as the angels fly in from all directions, depositing the words of the Mourner’s Kaddish in neat little piles at their feet.

Some of the words bear the mark of close family, some of friends. Some come from the lips of cantors or rabbis or other prayer leaders who speak for those who have nobody else to pray for them.

As the last word arrives, to be laid reverently on the last stack, Shabbat arrives in heaven, and it is time for God and the angels and the dead to rest.

Primal Fear, Primal Awe

By Susan Esther Barnes

An interesting semantic issue comes up at least once or twice a year in our synagogue Torah Study group. There is a Hebrew word used often in relation to our feelings toward God which is generally translated as "fear," but an alternate translation for it is "awe." Substitute the word "awe" for "fear" and everything changes. Or nothing does.

*****

I am deep in King Hezekiah's winding ancient water tunnel beneath the City of David in Jerusalem. The water comes part way up my shins. The ceiling is so low in places even I, at only 5 feet 4 inches tall, have to duck. The walls are inches away on either side, sometimes less than that. There is no room to pass; no way to turn back.

I am carrying a light stick to negotiate my way following the line of people in front of me. We are moving faster than the people behind us. Looking back, I can no longer see the light of the woman trailing me.

On a whim, I stop and wait until the person in front of me, too, disappears from sight. I hide my light stick beneath my clothing and descend into utter darkness. The echos of the voices of my group reverberate against the limestone walls, intertwining around me, then continuing on as if I don't exist.

I place the fingertips of my left hand against the rough surface of the ceiling. I use my left elbow to discover the location of the damp left wall, and my right elbow to negotiate the wall on the right, as my right hand covers the light stick it grips beneath my clothing.

I step forward into the darkness. After a while, my left elbow suddenly loses contact with the wall. I swing it out to its full extent; all it meets is empty air.

On one level I know this is just a man-made tunnel, going in one direction. It is perfectly safe; even small children are allowed in here. I cannot get lost.

On another level I imagine a huge cavern opening up on my left. The thrum of my heart responds to the irresistible pull of a primal fear. I still hear voices, but I am alone here in the dark, my light is gone, and I cannot see a way out.

*****

Later, I say my prayers at the Kotel. As I back away, the stones in front of me appear to grow eerily, filling my restored sight.

I begin to cry, then sit, hunched over, on the steps nearby, sobbing. It is a primal thing. Hineini, I am here, fully present, in this place we yearned for over the hundreds, almost thousands, of years of our exile.

The echos of the voices of the ancient mourners for Jerusalem reverberate against the limestone walls, intertwining around me, then continuing on as if I don't exist. I am full of awe.

Judaism Creating Connections

By Susan Esther Barnes

On Friday night during services Rabbi Lezak told two stories about how living in Israel means living in an inter-connected community. The first one, here, talks about how the plight of Gilad Shalit, the Israel soldier who has been in captivity for three years, feels personal to all Israelis, since all of them have family members who were or are in the military.

The second story, here, is an amazing true story about the woman who is the mother of the first soldier killed in Cast Lead, who goes to a concert and by chance (or perhaps an act of God) meets a couple who named their baby after her fallen son.

To some extent these stories are possible because Israel is such a tiny country, where everyone (with some exceptions) sends their children to military or other national service. These stories, combined with something else that happened at services Friday night, got me thinking about how the practice of Judaism itself helps to create these connections.

One of the situations Judaism is particularly sensitive about is the death of a loved one. There are many customs and rituals that surround this event, and many of them create and rely on community connections. When a mourner returns home from the graveyard, he or she is not allowed to eat his or her own food. Rather, the community is expected to, and in fact bears the responsibility of, bringing food to the mourner. This not only relieves the mourner of having to think about mundane acts like grocery shopping and cooking when just walking across the room may feel like a monumental act, but it also makes sure the mourner is not alone during this critical time.

In addition, the mourner is to say the Mourner's Kaddish on a regular basis throughout the first eleven months after their loved on has died. And this prayer may only be said when there are at least ten Jews present. Again, this serves to ensure the mourner is surrounded by members of his or her community during the first year of mourning.

After the first year has passed, we say the Mourner's Kaddish for the anniversary of the loved one's death, called the Yarzheit. When worshippers come to services on Friday night they are handed a program that contains various bits of information, and on the back is a list of those in the congregation who have died recently as well as the names of those who are having their Yarzeheit.

On Friday night, I was sitting beside a couple, when another couple sat behind us. The woman next to me was looking at the Yarzheit list, and she turned to the couple behind us. She pointed at the list and said, "I see this person on the list with the same last name as you. Is this your father?"

"No," they replied, "That is our son."

"How old was he?" asked the woman.

"22."

"Oh, I didn't know."

And thus another connection was created, because when you know a couple has lost a son, an incredible tragedy in itself, and further learn the son died so young, it cannot help but create an understanding, a bond, from the acknowledgement that these people have walked through the fire and have the bravery to carry on.

And it strikes me this is one of the ways Judaism seeks to connect us. Yarzheit not only serves to comfort the mourner, but its public nature gives us the opportunity to ask the questions that bind us together, like "Who was she?" "What is your favorite memory about him?" and to make the statements that bind us together, like, "I remember him" and "I miss her too."