Secrets: Kaddish

Yom Kippur Morning 5768
Rabbi Seymour Rossel

Imagine twins in the womb. They have everything they need. The womb is their whole world. Their lives are serene. But one day, they begin to wonder, "Why are we shifting lower and lower? If this continues, we will slip out one day. What will happen when we slip out?"

Now one twin is a believer. She says, "Do not worry. There will be another life after this womb." She cannot prove what she says, but she feels it is true, so she says it.

The second twin is a skeptic. Legends do not deceive him. There is no evidence of any other life. Why imagine one? Why believe in one? Anyone who "slips" is obviously dead; and dead is dead.

The first twin says, "You should have faith, brother. After our ‘death' here, there will be a new world. Who knows? We may eat through our mouths. We may see wonders, and we may use our ears to hear things. Our feet may grow strong. And our heads may be up with our bodies down."

The second says, "Forget it, sister. It is all in your imagination. There is only this world. There is no world to come! All that lies ahead is death."

"Well," asks the first, "what will death be like?"

The second twin thinks before answering. "Bang!" he says. "We will go with a bang. The world will collapse under us and we will sink into blackness. We will forget and we will be forgotten."

Suddenly, there is a sound like rushing water. The womb convulses with turmoil and writhing as everything lets loose. The twins begin slipping faster and faster, lower and lower.

The first twin exits, falling out. The second twin silently shrieks, startled by this "accident," mourning the loss of his sister. Why? Why wasn't she more careful? Why did she have to fall?

While he is lamenting, he hears an awful crying coming from the abyss and he trembles, "Terrible! Horrible! Just as I predicted!"

Meanwhile, the first twin has "died" into the "new" world. The awful cry is a sign of health and vigor. And, even though the second twin did not believe it possible, he, too, is about to be pulled into an entirely new world.

We are like those twins in the womb. Some of us are skeptics, sure that this world is all there is, that death is the absolute end and that anyone who disagrees has not taken a cold and scientific look at things as they are. And some of us are believers, certain that there is something else coming for us, a new adventure, something for which we might even prepare in this lifetime.

I cannot tell you which side of this argument to take. No matter what I might say to the skeptic, the skeptic would continue to be skeptical. So let me begin from points on which both skeptics and believers definitely agree: First, what comes next, what happens after we die, is one of life's great mysteries.

Second, we can also agree that being born is a one-way ticket. As they say in medical schools, a person begins dying in the moment of birth and keeps right on dying until his or her last day. It is a fact of life: No one gets out alive. Death is an appointment we must keep whether it is on our calendar, in our Day Runner, in our PDA,  or not. Even the wise King Solomon was forced to face this fact.

One morning, as the King awoke, he heard birds chirping outside his window. Since he knew the language of the birds, he paid close attention. And as he eavesdropped, he overheard the birds say that the Angel of Death had an imminent appointment to take the lives of two of the king's closest advisers.

Solomon was startled by this unexpected news. He summoned the two doomed men and revealed to them what he had learned of their fate.

At once, the two were unnerved. They begged Solomon to help them. It was then that Solomon had an idea: Their only hope, he said, was for them to reach the charmed city of Luz, for it was well known that the Angel of Death was forbidden to enter that city. In fact, the citizens of Luz were immortal--as long as they remained within the city walls. Among mortals, few knew the secret of reaching Luz, but Solomon, of course, was one who knew.

Solomon told his two frightened friends how to get to Luz, wished them well, and sped them on their way. They whipped their camels across the hot desert all day. And that evening, they glimpsed the walls of the fabled city of Luz before them. Immortality was almost at hand so they rode as fast as they could to reach the city gates.

But when they arrived at the gates, to their horror they saw the Angel of Death standing in their path, waiting for them.

"How did you know to look for us here?" they groaned. The angel replied: "My dear friends, this is where I was instructed to meet you."

No one can escape the appointment with death. In the end--though many seek fountains of youth, trust in magical remedies, or even place their faith in cryogenics--no one who gave it serious consideration would necessarily wish to live beyond his or her time. That is the point made by a legend about Choni, a sage of the Talmud who is famous as "the Jewish Rip Van Winkle."

Choni was out walking one day and, crossing a small stream, he saw an old man planting a carob tree. Choni was puzzled. He asked, "Old man, don't you know that it takes seventy years for a carob tree to bear fruit?"

The man replied, "I may be old, but I am not a fool. Of course, I know that it will take seventy years for this tree to grow and bear fruit."

"But you are old," Choni pressed. "Why not plant a peach tree or a date palm? You might live long enough to eat the fruit of those trees. Why should you plant a carob tree, knowing that you will not live long enough to eat its fruit?"

The old man replied, "When I came into this world, I found fully grown carob trees waiting for me. So I am planting this carob tree for my children."

Choni left the old man and went on his way. Suddenly, he felt very tired. He sat down beneath a shade tree to rest and fell fast asleep. As he slept, plants grew up around him, hiding him from sight. Farmers came and plowed the fields, but they never saw him. Shepherds led their flocks past, but they did not discover him. Years passed, and the trees grew thick around him. His beard reached his belly and went on growing. Seventy years passed while Choni slept and dreamed.

One day, the breeze blew and a leaf tickled Choni's cheek. He stretched his arms and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I must have dozed off," he thought. Looking down, he was shocked to see that his beard now ended at his knees. "I have been sleeping a long time," he thought. Looking around, he saw that he was surrounded by trees on every side. "I must have slept a very long time," he thought.

Choni made a path through the bushes and the trees and walked back toward the stream. He saw a man there gathering carobs from a tree. "This is the same tree I watched the old man plant," Choni thought. He spoke to the man, asking, "Are you the one who planted this tree?"

The man smiled. "Old man," he said to Choni, "don't you know it takes seventy years for a carob tree to bear fruit? I am gathering carob from a tree that my grandfather planted."

"Can it be?" Choni wondered. "Have I truly slept for seventy years?"

He went home, but the town had changed and his house was gone. He asked a woman, "Do you know the son of Choni?" She answered, "Choni's son died long ago, but his grandson still lives."

Then Choni told her: "I am Choni."

The old woman only laughed. "If you are Choni," she said, "then I am Queen Esther, and today is Purim."

Choni went through the whole town. To everyone he met, he announced, "I am Choni." But no one believed him.

Looking for a place to rest, he entered the house of study. There he heard the teachers telling the pupils, "In the old days, when there was a difficult question, our fathers would ask Choni to explain it." Then Choni called out, "But I am Choni!" The students laughed, and the teachers shook their heads. No one would believe him.

So Choni crossed the stream once more and sat down beneath the carob tree. He recalled the old man's words: "When I came into this world, I found fully grown carob trees waiting for me. So I am planting this carob tree for my children." Suddenly, these words seemed very wise. Choni thought, "When I came into this world, I found wisdom waiting for me. Still, I studied and taught so there would be wisdom for my children. Each of us has only one lifetime in this world, but together with our children and grandchildren we can share many lives."

Then Choni turned his face to the heavens and spoke to God: "I have learned the meaning of my life. Now my time is over and the time of my grandchildren has come." And Choni smiled and fell asleep forever.

Choni's wisdom is still with us. We may not be able to live beyond our time in this world, and we may not know what is coming to us in the next world, but through the next generation and the generation after that, our lives continue long after our deaths. This is more than just a sentimental notion. Last night, we spoke about consciousness. When scientists try to answer the question "What am I?" they explain that we are the sum total of our experiences and our thoughts. You are what you eat, what you do, and what you think.

But you are more than that, too. In one sense, your body is a physical shell, but in a deeper sense, it is not a shell, it is an outward expression of your inner self, as much as fashion is an outward expression of your inner self. Everything we experience in the world around us is alive with energy. Then, what leaves our bodies when we die? It is known by many names: it is called life-force, essence, psyche, consciousness, spirit, self, ego, energy, and soul.

But if this force leaves our bodies, where does it go? If it works in the same fashion as our bodies, according to the rules that control matter and energy in our universe, then our souls join the life-giving energy all around us. If this is at all true, then memory is not just an image, but a genetic force in the universe.

The Book of the Pious, written by Jewish mystics of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, reports the tale of a man riding through the desert. By the light of the moon, he saw a line of wagons being pulled by human beings. When they came close, he recognized them as people who had died. He asked what they were doing, and they told him that this was the punishment for their sins. If a person behaves like an animal during his lifetime, they said, he works like an animal in the afterlife (Sefer Hasidim 169).

In the same way, when a Jew dies, we say, "May the memory of the righteous be for a blessing." Because, if a person has done good deeds in this life, those deeds become a legacy that continues to do good, or, as we might say, if we could see the righteous souls by the light of the moon, we would see them continuing to do good deeds, even as those who behaved like animals must work like animals.

Is this literal or just a figment of our imagination? I believe it is both. The memory of a righteous person is surely a blessing to those left behind. It continues to bless them in their generation and then, through them, it continues to bless us in all generations. In the same way, the influence of the wicked may haunt us long after they die, keeping us from fulfilling our best potential as human beings, at least until accounts are finally settled.

What I am saying should be obvious: Our lives shape the world around us not only in physical ways but also in spiritual ways. It is up to each of us to decide what the next generation will be like and we decide it every day with every decision that we make. Our influence compiles itself during our lifetime. Jews say this by stating that "every deed is written down in the book of a person's life." And it continues to echo on in the consciousness of all those we influence long after our bodies have turned to dust.

The point is made by a story from The Testament of Abraham, a book written by a Greek Jew, possibly from older sources. It tells how, before Abraham took leave of this world, God sent Isaac a dream. In the third hour of the night Isaac suddenly woke up sobbing and crying and ran to his father. When Abraham saw the fear in his son's eyes, he embraced Isaac, saying, "Come, my son. Tell me truly. What did you see that caused you such grief?"

Isaac said, "Father, in my dream, I saw the sun and moon above my head. I was warmed and illumined by their rays. I felt an ineffable happiness on account of their light. But while I was rejoicing, the sky opened and I perceived a man made entirely of light coming down from heaven and the man shone more brightly than seven suns. Suddenly, the man of light removed the sun from above my head and returned to the heavens. I was very sad when he took the sun from me.

"Yet a little later, while I was still mourning, the Light-Man returned and removed the moon from above my head. I fell to weeping. I begged the Light-Man, saying ‘Have mercy on me. Take not my glory. If you must remove the sun from me, at least leave me the moon.'

"But the Light-Man answered, ‘My Master on high sent me to bring them there.' And he removed them from me, taking away their light, but he left the rays that shone upon me.'"

Then Abraham told Isaac, "Adonai has sent this dream to tell you that an angel of God will soon take my soul and the soul of your mother. But you can also see another truth in your dream. The rays of our light can never be taken from you" (adapted from The Testament of Abraham).

Some scholars who study this story, like my friend Howard Schwartz, believe that the rays of light left behind represent the covenant of Abraham, which will continue to be passed down from generation to generation of Abraham's family, so that we are still warmed by them and they still illuminate our lives to this very day. Whether this is the idea or not, the fact is that the light of Abraham continues to live through us, just as the light of our own parents continues to live on through us.

This High Holy Day season, I have spoken of secrets--Jewish secrets in the things we Jews take for granted--secrets of the shofar, secrets in the way our congregation fits in with the Jewish people and the State of Israel, and secrets of the Sabbath day. Today I speak to you of the secrets of the Kaddish, the prayer of memory, the prayer of remembering and recalling, the prayer of the orphan and the widow, the prayer of the child left behind, the sister and brother who mourn, the prayer of the world that was and the world that is waiting.

The Kaddish is first mentioned in the Talmud because it was recited at the funeral of great sages, but by the thirteenth century its power was shared by all Jewish mourners. And its power comes from the way that the Kaddish celebrates life and overcomes death. Since death is like the removal of a sun or a moon, it is a moment when chaos seems to triumph over God's creation. Yet, as we have seen, this is not only the natural order of things, but it also leaves God's creation undiminished. The rays of light do not disappear, our souls are preserved through the lives of those left behind and through the memories they cherish. Therefore, we say, Oseh shalom bimromav, "May the One who creates harmony and wholeness in the Heavens," hu ya'aseh shalom aleinu v'al kol yisrael, "continue making harmony and wholeness among us and among all the people of Israel."

There is nothing intellectual about saying the Kaddish. It does not explain anything. It is an affirmation, a statement of belief. Ultimately, in God's creation, chaos is always banished and there is always peace. But this is not what is in our minds when we mourn and recite the Kaddish. What is in our minds is the memory, the image, the presence of loved ones who have left us behind, whose rays of light still shine upon us to illumine us and warm us.

We say that it is necessary for a mourner to recite the Kaddish for one year after the death of a close relative. We imagine that the Kaddish helps our loved one achieve his or her proper place in the world to come. But we also believe that no one we would mourn is so needy of our help that he or she would require the full twelve months of mourning, so we only recite the Kaddish for eleven months, out of respect for the merits of the person who died (B. RH 17a).

And as we recite the Kaddish something happens to us. We are forced back into the community, forced to mourn together with others who also suffer loss. We are forced to repeat the same words over and again, which forces us to remember and cement the memory of our loved ones in our own memory. So we take in the rays of light in a conscious way as we speak words that become a mantra. It is not the words that are important, but the memory. The memory is the message of the Kaddish. As we implore God to bring wholeness and harmony to our world, we are actually bringing wholeness and harmony to ourselves, even as we take in the rays of energy and the life-force that has been removed from us.

Can there be any greater example of how a ritual of prayer becomes an inspiration for a life of purpose? The secret of the Kaddish is the way in which it makes the souls of those who leave us immortal. They are transformed into a part of us as we recite the words and later they and we shall become part of our children as they recite the words. And, in its most powerful sense, that is how the covenant of Abraham and the covenant of Moses and even the covenant of Noah continues to live on through all the generations and continues to warm us and illumine our ways.

Chaos can never triumph while Jews still recite the Kaddish for one another. Our lives are continually joined to the lives of those who loved us, so that we become more than ourselves. We carry the pride that they had in us, the joy that they had in us, the trust that they placed in us. And we pass the joy, the pride, and the trust on to our children and our grandchildren.

The Midrash says that Rabbi Akiba once rescued a Jew's soul from Gehenna, the depths beneath the earth, and restored it to heaven. And how did he do this? By teaching the Jew's children to recite the Kaddish prayer (Tanna de-vei Eliyahu Zuta 17). To the skeptic I say, "No matter what you believe, the Kaddish has the power to change your life." That is all that the skeptic would be able to understand.

But to those who believe with me that there is a future for all of us, a future in this world, and a future in the world to come, to the believer I would say, "The Kaddish will change your life and the life of all who have left you. It will gather the rays of light that they leave behind and use them to warm you. It will gather the rays of light that they left behind and make them into your real inheritance, not the property that comes and goes, but the meaning that remains when they are removed, the memory that illumines our past, inspires our present, and insures our future. And not for you alone, but for you and the generation that follows after you, for you and the whole people of Israel, for you and for all of God's creation."

They say that a rabbi once fell asleep and dreamed he went to Paradise. When he looked around, he saw the righteous of all generations sitting at a table with books spread before them, arguing about a passage in the Torah. He approached an angel and said, "How strange. The righteous in heaven do exactly what they were doing when they were alive on the earth."

The angel answered, "If only human beings would understand what you fail to understand even though you see it with your own eyes! You think that the righteous are in Paradise, but look more closely. It is Paradise that is in the righteous" (Buber, Later Masters, pp. 189-190).

In all of Judaism, I cannot imagine anything more profound, more liberating, or more enlightening than the power of reciting the Kaddish. The secret of the Kaddish is that Paradise is not "out there" somewhere, it is "in here" somewhere. When you recite the Kaddish, when you draw the rays of light left behind by the righteous of all generations into yourself, you are raised up. You truly become a Jew. Just as you guarantee life for the righteous who came before you, so, too, you are guaranteed life in the world to come. The righteous are not in Paradise, Paradise is in the righteous.

In the words of the Kaddish, then, Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya'aseh shalom aleinu v'al kol yisrael. May the One who brings peace to the heavens above, bring peace to you and yours in the year to come; may God bring peace to you because you are among the righteous, and bring peace to those you love for your sake; and may God's peace extend to all of God's people, to our congregation and every congregation, and also to the people of God's Promised Land. And let us say: Amen.