A Year of Kaddish

“You don’t need to explain,” one of the guys said to me the other night. He was making sure we had a minyan for the next morning. His statement came as I was about to explain why I wouldn’t be there the next morning, this morning.

It happened last night. I was outside shul, unlocking my bike after ma’ariv, and as he walked by, he stopped and asked a simple question: “Len, will you be here tomorrow morning?”

I paused to think for a moment. “No,” I said, and then began to stutter my reason why I would not be there, when he said, “You don’t need to explain.” The response stuck to my gut and then shot up to my head like some kind of ah-hah moment.

I’d heard a variation on those same words, once before, when I was juggling back and forth between Beth El and Beth David. I had been at Beth El Shabbat morning, but was on my way to Beth David for the end of Shabbat late one Saturday afternoon, when I met the gabbi who also was walking back to shul along Dover Road. “Were you at Beth El this morning?” he asked. I said I was and began to explain how I decided when to go where and why. “You don’t need to explain,” he said. Or maybe he said, “You don’t need to defend yourself.” I’m not sure, but the point was the same. I didn’t need to justify my whereabouts or my decisions or my thinking.

What I also heard between the lines was that we are all responsible adults and we treat each other as such. My personal spiritual story might be interesting, but it doesn’t need to be justified.

I’m taking this revelation – something I’ve always known but don’t always act as though I do — as one of the blessings I’ve received from nearly a year of daily prayer. Put another way, I’m taking this message as a concrete example of what it means to see God as greater and holier than before, an expansive view, which, in part, is what the Kaddish is all about.

I began to think about where else in my life I find a need to explain myself when it’s unnecessary. Ironically, in this last week of my 11 months of saying Kaddish, one of my loyal corporate clients, Aetna Inc., asked if I was available to cover a very early-morning shift, editing and updating its website for employees. For a moment, when I received the email-request, my default reaction was one of angst. I had envisioned this last week, attending shul every morning and evening, kicking it in to the finish line, as I once did when I ran the quarter-mile in high school. I had thought about going in very early or after services, but both were problematic. In the end, I said, yes to Aetna, except that I couldn’t come in next Monday until a couple hours later than my normal start, Monday being the last day I’m saying Kaddish and I wasn’t going to miss that. But, here’s the kicker: I didn’t explain why I needed to come in late on Monday. And guess what? They said that was fine. No questions asked.

I’m not saying there aren’t times when we need to explain ourselves. Of course, there are. But one of the lessons I’m coming away with over this past year is to stand more assuredly in my space. It’s how the Mussar masters define humility: occupy a rightful space, neither too much nor too little.