Connecting in New Ways: The Mourner's Kaddish
Instead of a transition point out of prayer, the mourner’s kaddish became the crux of the service. It was a moment to think about my grandfather, my family, and what this new world without him meant.
As Shabbat approached on a Friday afternoon in Jerusalem, I decided to pray the evening service, Kabbalat Shabbat, with a congregation davening outdoors. Minutes before sunset, the congregants made rows of chairs in the middle of the street, directly outside the residence of the prime minister, Benjamin Netanyahu. Already a moving scene, weaving together protest and prayer, I felt something powerful come over me as I listened to the recitation of the mourner’s kaddish: Yisgadal v’yisgadash sh'mei rabah…
The mourner's kaddish is an ancient Jewish prayer, recited when a close family member dies. Growing up, I came to learn that its opening words mark the beginning of the end of prayer services: they signaled when to take my tefillin off, check my phone, or even turn to catch up with a neighbor. A couple months before being in Jerusalem, however, my grandfather, Avrum Nissan ben Gittle Bayla (zt”l), passed away.
When I went home to sit shiva with my father, I heard the mourner’s kaddish dozens of times. Now when I heard the words, I closed my eyes, focused, and was intentional in responding “Amen.” Instead of being a transition point out of prayer, the mourner’s kaddish became the crux of the service. It was a moment to think about my grandfather, my family, and what this new world without him meant.
When I arrived in Israel for winter break, I was actively thinking about not only my grandfather but the whole Jewish nation. As news stories broke every morning and evening, I thought about the grieving siblings, parents, and children, who were sitting shiva and reciting the mourner's kaddish, just like my father.
But the full significance of these thoughts eluded me until I was standing at the prayer service in Jerusalem, hearing the mourner’s kaddish pour from someone’s mouth. As I scanned the scene, about to respond with my first affirmative “Amen,” I realized who was chanting: Jon Goldberg-Polin. A few rows behind Jon was his wife, Rachel.
Instantly recognizable —Jon, by his height and beard and; Rachel, by her voice—I knew who they were for one simple, tragic reason: their 22-year-old son, Hersh Goldberg-Polin, had been murdered in captivity five months earlier. They had regularly appeared in social media and on television screens, as they advocated for their son’s rescue, and the rescue of all the hostages held by Hamas.
As a 22-year-old Jewish male in college, I saw a lot of myself in Hersh. In August, when he was killed along with five other hostages, we hosted vigils and rallies and listening sessions on campus to protect and rebuild our community. Now I was in Israel responding with affirmation as Hersh’s parents prayed to God. I felt connected, through the kaddish, to the Jewish past, present, and future.
The following night when Shabbat concluded, I returned to that place, the middle of the street outside the Prime Minister's residence. This time, though, for a different kind of gathering. The street was flooded with hundreds of people to rally for the hostages as they did every Saturday night. Amidst beating drums and wailing megaphones, we chanted for the return of the hostages, said all their names, and even mixed in the occasional insult at the government. Although different from Kabbalat Shabbat, it was similar in at least one way. Both gatherings showed Jewish unity.
On Friday night, I joined a congregation to thank Hashem for the beauty and serenity of Shabbat, and to plead for our safety and our survival. The following night, my thoughts and feelings were not too different; I thought about the end of Shabbat and the energy I was starting the week with. In both instances, there was no care given to nationality, race, gender, or age. There was a unifying force of peace, and an understanding that we need each other to move forward. These feelings emanated a warmth that not even the Jerusalem winds could extinguish.
Since returning to America, the mourner's kaddish has remained a pivotal part of my spiritual diet. I take those thirty seconds to think about my grandfather, something he taught me, and a way I can embody his spirit. In those same seconds, I think about the hostages, those who we lost and those who have yet to be saved, wishing for their immediate return. May we merit to see all of them safe and well and back with their loved ones. Amen.
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