As part of “Believe,” the New York Times asked several writers to explore key moments in their religious or spiritual life.
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It was weeks since I recited Kadish, my father's traditional Jewish prayer.
Oh, I knew the words and melody of the daily service I was in attendance – my father confirmed it and brought me and my sisters to all the Sabbaths of our childhood. I even knew what they meant, thanks to the four of us who served as director of Jerusalem in the New York Times, thanks to seven years in the Hebrew-speaking summer camp. I knew the choreography: when to sit, stand, put a bow, touch your forehead, or open your palm to the sky.
I knew it well enough that it was sometimes mourning my rightful place.
It was God that I was ignorant. How to talk to God, how to think about Him, whether I believed in Him, what he, my Father believed. I knew what the words in ancient texts mean in English, but they didn't mean to me.
A year before my father passed away, I decided that when the time came, I would probably assume the duty to speak Kadish every day for 11 months, as outlined in Jewish law.
I have always discovered that Jewish mourning rituals are the most powerful part of our tradition. The community aspect told me: Kadish was one of the prayers that required a quorum of ten Jews known as Minians, and I was grateful that I had to appear in public to fulfill this commandment, and that strangers had to appear to make it possible. Daily commitments were difficult, but appealing. Challenges, opportunities, challenges to myself, everyone around me, and my dead father, whose traditions matter to me.
Kadish was also what I was associated with my dad. His father recited prayers on the anniversary of the death of a loved one, which echoed through my head.
Some of the most beautiful memories we shared with us in the days following his death at age 82 revolved around this ritual. Dad confirmed that prayer leaders did not get too fast for beginners or make women own. Or, in the way his father reconciled with his father several decades later, he could say Kadish for him with little luggage.
I was excited to be a feminist and reform mostly Jews and take on the obligation to be a historically orthodox state. The pandemic has made Kadish much more accessible and diverse. There was a place where Zoom Miniyan would dial most of the day.
Everything makes sense except for the prayer part.
Kadish is the most famous Jewish prayer and is infused into a wider culture. Sylvester Stallone recited it in “Rocky III,” and one of Allen Ginsberg's most famous poems shares its title. It dates back to the first century BC, and the Aramaic texts do not mention death. Rather, it is God's strength and attitude towards sovereignty.
May your great name be blessed forever, this is the central line. You are blessed. Its glory transcends all the praises, songs and blessings that have voiced in the world.
Scholars interpret this prayer as being used in mourning as a declaration of acceptance that death is part of God's plan. If you think there is a plan like that, it works. If you believe in God; if you know what you believe.
Most mourners say kadish in the same place as most days, but my reform synagogue only has services in Shabbat, so I stitched together a mosaic of Minians. (I chose to say Kadish once a day, not three traditional times, but usually in the morning service.)
On Sunday I went to the conservative Shul in my town and on Friday I went to the reconstructionist Shul. Other days I video call to congregations all over the United States, joining what my sisters were saying as Washington and Chicago's Cuddish. I took a New Jersey Transportation Train and spoke Kadish at the Passover Ramadan breakfast outside a refugee center in Tbilisi, Georgia. I was good at focusing on my dad during the caddyss itself. But my mind often wandered, hearing other prayers and reading memorial messages posted in virtual chats on the side of the screen. Sometimes I checked my Slack or email. I was really worried that I wasn't doing that right.
Back at religious school, I learned the mystical concepts of keva and cabanas, Hebrew words that are translated into “everyday” and “intention.” The idea is that if you chant the same word every day, you will ultimately have a moment of connection. Cabana is also translated as “sense of sincerity” or “direction of the mind.”
I remember as a kid asking what would happen when I got to Cabana. I don't remember getting a good answer. Decades later, I remained in memorized readings – keva, keva, keva.
As part of my retreat of Maryland's Jewish studies, I took a walk through the woods with Rabbi Brent Chime Spoddeck.
He called it a “saw of the soul.” He led a small group on a light hike around the pond and stopped at a beautiful spot to offer some thoughts on the meaning of our familiar prayer book.
When we reached the central prayer, 19 blessings known as Amida, Rabbi Spodek summed it up as “Amazing! Please? Thank you.” And that's where it happened. I learned how to pray in my own words.
“Amazing” – Hebrew Shevach, or to be praised, is about the wonder of God. Rabbi Spodek said he would spend a minute or two to contemplate the miracles that are creation. There must be a climate where humans can thrive (small). Plants and animals to nourish us.
“Please” – a stupid shot, or a request – is where we want things. Let's have my husband's surgery successful. Help my child find his footing. Please tell me more. The big things, the hard things, the things we really need.
“Thank you” – Hoda'ot – is like a magazine of gratitude. Delicious breakfast. A story with an old friend. Walking through the forest.
It was Hockey. But it worked. For the rest of my 11 months, whenever my heart wandered, I closed my prayer book and closed my eyes and tried something a little surprising.
It didn't immediately turn me into a follower. I still struggle with the “wow” part, and sometimes I am amazed God to create a man who understands technical, motor, or artistic miracles.
There is always a lot of joy. And especially thank the nine other Jews who appeared, so that I could say Kadish for my father, whatever he believed.
Jody Runren is the head of the New York Times newsletter and previously spent 21 years as a reporter and editor. From September 2019 to April 2025, she was editor-in-chief of Forward, the leading US Jewish news organization.
