Throughout All Time

by J. Rosemary Moss

Genre: Original Fiction; One-Shot; Flash-Fiction

Rating: PG

Feedback: Any and all comments & critiques welcome and encouraged! (Help me improve my writing . . .)

Summary: One man's wry and grudging observations on the Mourner's Kaddish.

~

“Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba . . .”

I mouthed the words along with the cantor and the other mourners. Assuming the guy leading services was a real cantor. Probably not; he was more likely a competent congregant. This synagogue was too poor to afford a full time hazzan.

“b’alma di v’ra, kir’utei,”

I hadn’t been here in years. I hadn’t even come when my father died. I didn’t sit shiva for him either; I was too angry. My wife was appalled—Eileen’s a nice Catholic girl who understands the power of ritual. But I was adamant. I despised the man while he was alive, so I refused to go through the motions of mourning his death.

“v’yamlich malchutei b’chayeichon u-v’yomeichon . . .”

My God, I can’t believe how easily these words come back. That’s why my father forced me to go to Hebrew school, I suppose. He almost never set foot in synagogue himself, yet he wanted to make sure I knew something about it. Bloody hypocrite.

“u-v’chayei d’chol beit Yisrael,”

My parents never lit candles on Shabbat or recited the blessings. We didn’t keep kosher. Hell, even our Seder was just a glorified family dinner. And yet my father made sure I learned enough to feel obliged, on the anniversary of his death, to come and say Kaddish for him. God damned hypocritical bastard.

"ba’agala u-vi-z’man kariv, v’imru amen.”

I kept mouthing the words, even daring to speak up now that I knew I wouldn’t embarrass myself. Part of me wished that I could have stayed home and said it in private, but that was unthinkable. You need ten Jews to say Kaddish—it doesn’t work in isolation. If I was going to recite the damn thing at all, I was going to do it properly.

“Y’hei sh’mei raba m’varach l’alam u-l’almei almaya.”

I rolled my eyes, wondering what my father would think if he could see me honoring his life. “May his memory be a blessing,” people had told me. I had to fight the urge to snort with laughter. Memories of what? Of his hypocrisy? Of his endless criticisms? Of his biting sarcasm? Of the unforgivable things he said about my wife?

“Yitbarach v’yishtabach, v’yitpa-ar v’yitromam v’yitnasei,”

He was good with the grandkids; I’ll give him that. Not that he would have ever have laid eyes on them if it were up to me. But Eileen insisted.

“v’yit-hadar v’yit’aleh v’yit-halal sh’mei d’kudsha, b’rich hu . . .”

It must have killed him to watch us raising the kids Catholic. But why should I have taught them anything about Judaism? Eileen’s the one who cares about religion, not me. Unlike my father, I won’t play the hypocrite for my children.

“l’ela min kol birchata v’shirata, tusb’chata v’nechamata . . .”

That means my kids will never say Kaddish for me. Well, so be it. Why should I care?

“da’amiran b’alma, v’imru amen.”

I closed my eyes, picturing my father saying Kaddish for my grandfather, and my grandfather saying Kaddish for my great-grandfather, and so on back through the generations. The line would end with me. My son would never stand in shul on my yartzeit, the anniversary of my death. He'd never even heard the word yartzeit.

“Y’hei sh’lama raba min sh’maya . . .”

I opened my eyes as the prayer kept tumbling out of me. So my son would never say Kaddish. My father would ask what I expected when I married a gentile. But that wasn’t the problem. Eileen would have gladly taught the kids about Judaism—her idea had been to raise them with a sound knowledge of each faith and let them choose when they got older.

“v’chayim aleinu v’al kol Yisrae-el, v’imru amen.”

I argued that if we were going to give them any religion, it had to be one consistent faith. Otherwise we’d confuse them. They’d end up coldly agnostic like me or in some God-forsaken Messianic congregation. I could stand watching my kids growing up Catholic, but I’d be damned before I’d see them in some crazy Christian ‘synagogue’ filled with pretend Jews.

“Oseh shalom bi-m’romav,”

But for the first time, I thought about what my kids were missing. No, not Hebrew school. I wasn’t cruel enough to force that on them. But to think that I had kids who didn’t know what someone’s yartzeit was . . .

“hu ya’aseh shalom . . .”

I bowed to my left, to my right and then straight ahead. Funny how your body remembers to bow even if your brain doesn’t see the point. Did I believe that I was literally bowing before God’s throne, and to the angels standing to the right and left of it? No, but here I was going through the motions.

“aleinu v’al kol Yisrae-el . . .”

God damn it. It did matter. I almost tripped over the words, stunned, as that realization hit me. I wanted my kids to say Kaddish for me someday, even if they were only going through the motions. I wanted them to learn how to make a real Seder—the kind I only experienced as a guest on second night. I wanted them to argue and question everything in shul. I wanted them to notice that something was missing when the family didn’t sit down together for Shabbat dinner. But I’d already made my choice. I wasn’t about to confuse my kids now. I’d have to play the hypocrite after all and pretend not to care.

“v’imru amen.”

I could do that, I told myself. Of course I could. I knew all about playing the hypocrite: I’d learned from the best.

Enterprise Bar Mitzvah?

This was too much fun:

Another Crazy Irish-Jewish Family...

I've spent several hours curled up in front of the television tonight. I was alone for Shabbat dinner, so right after lighting the candles and devouring a microwaved meal, I broke out some dvd's that my Mom lent me. It was a TV show she thought I'd like, about some crazy Irish-Jewish family. Somehow, she figured I'd relate.

Yes, I've just discovered Brothers & Sisters. And while watching TV is not the optimal way to spend Shabbas, right now I'm ok with it. The big family at the center of the show does remind me of my own. Ok, we don't have all the problems that the Walkers do, but I know what a large, extended family of mixed religious identity is like.

And I love the romance on the show, especially between Kevin (the token gay brother) and Scotty. No, they're not Spock & McCoy, and they won't steal me away from the Star Trek fandom. Heck, they won't even steal me away from Holmes and Watson. But still, I'm happy to have made their acquaintance, especially with great scenes like these:



Yeah, yeah--I know a lot's happened since then. But remember, I'm only on season one!

What Counts As Profound?

A few weeks ago, after the 'Sunday Minyan' gathering at my synagogue, some of the guys sat down and started talking about why, technically speaking, we should be holding certain tassels of our prayer shawls during a blessing called the Baruch She'amar. This spiralled into a fascinating discussion regarding the origins of said blessing, certain Kabbalistic interpretations of it and the profound meaning behind all of this.

Not everyone was thrilled--one woman was getting glassy eyed. "I can't believe they're going on like this!" she told me.

"They're geeks," I said with a smile. "I'm a geek too--I'm loving this."

"I thought geeks like comic books and Star Trek," she said.

"We do," I assured her. "But the geek-impulse is far ranging. We can have deep discussions on anything: the way you hold the tassels of your prayer shawl during the Baruch She'amar, the sublties of Surak's teachings on Vulcan logic, health bars on World of Warcraft, or the misuse of the Force."

I paused and furrowed my brow. "What's unfair is that people assume that if you're talking about the Baruch She'amar--or anything else religious--it's automatically profound. But if you're talking about Batman or Star Trek, it's automatically not."

She grinned. "People have been talking about how to hold the tassels of your prayer shawl for thousands of years," she pointed out. "If people are still talking about Batman and Star Trek a couple of thousand years from now, they'll be profound too."

You know something? I think she's right. I have no doubt that Batman and all the other comic book heroes--not to mention Kirk & crew, the Jedi, Buffy and all the rest--hit us on a deep, archetypal level. The only reason that we question how much philosophical weight we should give them is because they don't have thousands of years of commentary behind them yet. People haven't been bending their brains toward them long enough, enriching them in the process.

But we may well get there--and then no one will have to be embarrassed about giving them serious philosophical consideration!

Clip of the Day~Kosher Gospel

I love this! It's a gorgeous version of Adon Olam and a fun mixing of cultural styles.

Adon Olam is a hymn we sing in synagogue at the end of Sabbath morning services. You can sing it to a slew of melodies--it's one of those songs that works with just about anything. In this version, Joshua Nelson (who's Jewish) gives it a real Gospel feel.

You can find the lyrics and a translation here at Wikipedia. Here's the first verse:

Adon olam, asher malach,
b'terem kol y'tzir nivra.
L'et na'asah v'cheftzo kol,
azai melech sh'mo nikra.

Clip of the Day

Hehe--this is my new favorite tunes by the Beatles. Just imagine them singing it at your bar mitzvah! (Ok, ok. It's the Moptops singing, not the Beatles. But it's still a fun clip.)

Picture of the Day

Passover begins tomorrow night, so I want to wish all who celebrate a fun and meaningful Seder.

For myself, I have three--count them!--three Seders this year. I'm a guest for first night and second night and then I'm a hostess for, um, third night!