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Reprinted with permission from Wrestling with the Angel: Jewish Insights on Death and Mourning, edited by Jack Riemer (published by Schocken Books).
A few weeks ago, my community experienced an unusually high number of funerals within a short period of time. As a result, we endured the challenge and the trauma of providing several shiva minyanim [services with at least 10 Jews where the mourners may recite Kaddish, the memorial prayer] simultaneously. Fortunately, the congregation takes the mitzvah [commandment] of nichum aveilim [comforting mourners] seriously, so I didn’t have to worry about whether or not enough people would attend the Ma’ariv [Evening] services going on simultaneously in so many homes.
What I did have to ponder was my own embarrassment while forced to lead a prayer service praising God in a place where God’s love and power were so hidden, so missing. After all, each one of these homes sheltered families that had suffered the death of a beloved spouse, parent, or sibling. How could I expect these people to be willing to praise God’s greatness, to extol God’s power, or to express gratitude for God’s goodness. Still aching from the pain of death and separation, these mourners could no longer view God as either benefactor or friend.
Perhaps it was just such a moment of rage and sorrow that originally generated the Yiddish expression "if God lived on earth, all God’s windows would get broken."
Yet it was precisely into those homes–homes filled with rage at God’s impotence, homes tormented by an overwhelming abandonment and isolation–that Judaism compelled me to stand and to sing of God’s enduring love and incomparable power.
In a home that reeled from the loss of a wife and mother, one of its pillars of purpose, meaning, and identity–into that home I had to proclaim the continuing habitability of the universe, the beneficent purpose underlying God’s creation.
And in homes ripped from communal moorings, uncertain of the continuing relevance of friends, community, or Jewish fellowship–into precisely those homes poured friends and congregants, awkwardly reciting the phrases and melodies of our timeless tradition. Did this strange practice make any more sense to them than it did to me?
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