Kaddish Conundrum
The kaddish is a complicated and complex prayer with a fuzzy origin and purpose. Considering our comprehensive knowledge of our history, liturgy, halachic development, traditions, and cultural diversity we know very little about when Kaddish was composed, by whom, and its purpose. Countless articles and numerous books have been written on and about the Kaddish, yet we have little definitive knowledge about it.
It is assumed that the Kaddish was a Messianic text similar to the “Ohr Chadash” prayer and others sprinkled throughout the siddur, many of which were composed during the period of Rabbi Akiva and the Bar Kochba Rebellion circa 132 CE. We know that according to most scholars, the Kaddish was written in Aramaic, the lingua franca, not in Hebrew as the other Messianic prayers were. It is occasionally referenced in the Talmud and was recited after the study of sacred text taught by a scholar to a community of ten or more men (later the recitation of the Kaddish in this context democratized to include Torah study led by lay leaders as well).
From the Gaonic period until today, the Kaddish has evolved into five permutations, each with its purpose but only the 5th the mourner’s Kaddish of fairly recent provenance can be traced back to the early Middle Ages. The first four variations can be traced back to the Talmudic and Gaonic periods: The half kaddish is used as a transitional theme between minor sub-sections of the liturgy. A complete Kaddish signifies the conclusion of a major part of the service. The Rabbi’s Kaddish is recited after formal Torah study and this venue popularized the kaddish. A fourth Kaddish was said at burials and refers to the resurrection of the dead. The fifth iteration of the kaddish was incorporated into the spiritual life of the Jewish community as a prayer for the dead during the 12th and 14th centuries with the wholesale death and devastation due to the Bubonic Plague and the Crusades. The earliest reference to the Kaddish as a mourner’s obligation is cited in the Sefer Ohr Zarua by Rabbi Yitzchak ben Moshe (1181–1250), son-in-law of one of the Tosafot.
In other words, until the early Middle Ages kaddish wasn’t recited on behalf of the dead nor for the benefit of the mourners. Only in the 12th and 14th centuries did it become integrated into Jewish custom, practice, and part of the mourner’s liturgy, required to be recited thrice daily during the prescribed mourning period. Notably, as late as the 16th century some rabbis argued that it was more important for orphaned children to perform good deeds and practice Mitzvot rather than recite the Kaddish. The prevailing wisdom, however, was that by reciting the Kaddish as required by Halachah, the mourner was facilitating the deceased in achieving the spiritual bounty promised in Paradise. Would being delinquent impede the deceased in achieving that goal, which begs the question: what about all those unfortunate souls who died before the Early Middle Ages when Mourner’s Kaddish was instituted? Did these souls not achieve the promised bounty of Paradis absent the Kaddish recited on their behalf? Why did I feel guilty if I missed saying a kaddish prayer during the prescribed mourning period, knowing that my distant ancestors didn’t recite it?
Get Shael Siegel’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I was further confounded because Jewish tradition requires 11 months of reciting kaddish for a parent but only one month for a spouse. Why should there be a demarcation between parents and other relatives? The Talmud Sanhedrin (104a) refers to the relationship between father and son [“A son can relieve the punishment of the deceased father. A father cannot relieve the punishment of a deceased son”], but this doesn’t appear to be definitive so how was that determination made? How do we measure loss? Am I saying kaddish for the departed or myself as a reaffirmation of my faith and belief? What are the consequences of not saying the kaddish? Am I harming my soul by not saying the kaddish, or am I harming the spiritual ascent of the departed? Would the deceased get extra credit if I were to continue reciting the Kaddish beyond the prescribed obligatory time requirement? How is it that the departed are dependent on my goodwill — to help boost one higher up on the spiritual scale of the metaphysical space that they are now inhabiting?
In the early Middle Ages, the wise sages and learned Rabbis instituted the recitation of the Mourner’s Kaddish as a result of the astoundingly massive deaths due to the Bubonic Plague and the Crusades. The shock wave coursing through the Jewish communities was so intense, that the only possible response was the communal recognition, the public reaffirmation of faith, and the holiness of life underscored by the chanting of the Mourner’s Kaddish and acts of loving kindness. In short, the collective wisdom of the communities was desperate to reassert the affirmation of the spiritual health and welfare of their respective communities as well as the individuals suffering the loss.
There is wisdom in the recitation of the Kaddish which I have distilled over the past 11 months. What became salient wasn’t the time frame but the intent and intention in reciting the Kaddish as I believe our sages intended. The kaddish affirms faith, the intrinsic value of life, and the holiness of the eternal soul. It speaks of the future where it is hoped that pain and suffering will be attenuated and that we are worthy descendants of those who came before us.
Lastly, we need to appreciate the value of the holy as well as the secular. Over this mourning period, I have read and become acquainted with many meaningful secular poems and literature about life, love, and loss as well as therapeutic modalities that were beneficial. While I found comfort in these well-crafted thoughtful works and interventions my soul wasn’t quieted. Our lives exist in two parallel worlds: the sacred and the secular where we can enhance our lives and honor those we love. The secular universe treats the individual and their condition clinically, giving some context, comfort and perhaps understanding and coping mechanisms, all very important. The sacred universe treats the individual within the context of beliefs, faith, history, family, and community. The individual isn’t alone in his loss, but part of a common tribal history, drawing spiritual strength from the community present and past.
The solace that my soul sought could be found partly in the secular world but principally in the sacred universe. The sacred community, aided with this ancient Kaddish prayer, fashioned by our sages and crafted by our wisdom practitioners and rabbis, exalting the beauty and immutability of the holy, sustained my soul. The woe of my soul was being comforted not only by those physically present and by my side but also by those standing as one with my ancestors reaching back to Zion.
