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Menachem's Writings His Last Kidush I awoke this morning to a WhatsApp message from Peter, “the boy downstairs”.
Hi Peter! I can’t tell you how fortuitous was your correspondence this morning. I too have been thinking a lot about our father during the last days. His yartzeit will be in another two weeks. I generally write an annual piece at this time about him, largely for my kids, who never knew him. Sadly he’s been gone longer than he was here. It is fifty-six years since we last heard him recite kidush. He lives only in the memories of a few old men. And on the few pages I have written about him in his honour. None of these approaches what he deserves. He was one of a kind, with a unique place in a world which provided him much bitterness during his short sojourn on it. When things finally started to pick up for him, he was taken in his prime. Your reference to his kidush reminds me of another leil shabath. As usual, you and I, aged maybe 9, 10, were sitting in shul. It was kabalath shabath. I don’t recall who was davening, probably one of your uncles. As was our habit, we sat in the very back row. I recall another uncle, again as usual, sitting at the end of our row, sidur opened, pages unturned, his full attention tuned into the little earphone connected to his pocket radio, the trots, live. Form guide in his shirt pocket. We were less than two decades since almost every adult in the room had walked, limped, crawled out of camps and hiding places, sites of torture and murder, and unbearable suffering. Into a new world, a new reality. Was there a clinically sane one amongst them? We were unaware. We believed this to be normal. However unlike most of their contemporaries, those present choose to be here. They had not thrown the baby out with the bathwater. Something brings each of them regularly to this place. As usual, you and I are chatting about something of gross insignificance, between the paragraphs of the psalms, awaiting the ḥazan’s cue to continue, onto further meaninglessness. My father walks over to me, “What are you doing?” I respond, “Praying” wondering what else he thought we were doing. “That’s not how to pray!” He was correct. Embarrassingly I was, as usual, just quickly scanning lines of text with my eyes. “You are only praying when you say, pronounce, each and every word.” He resumed his seat nearer the front. At that point his words may not have had a major effect on me or my attitude to prayer. However I recall them vividly. Sixty years later, I recollect them daily. I will never know whether he realised the power of his message and its eventual effect on me. He certainly said it with full sincerity. It was definitely not meant as a throw-away line. It took time. I was largely unconscious of the process. In the seventies I learnt Indian meditation methods. Their practice was physiologically beneficial. This was then the sole aim. However, and it was certainly marketed this way, no religious, spiritual or supplicatory connection were implied. Only later did I learn that Hindus — as well as Buddhists and many other religions — use these meditational techniques in what we call prayer. At that point, on my own volition, I attempted to assimilate these methods into my Jewish prayer. With some success. Over decades I continued developing this notion. I eventually studied Jewish sources, some kabalistic, for this prayer/meditation synthesis. Until the fourteenth century in Provence, this was an accepted way to pray, to draw oneself closer to haShem. Resulting from the long, harsh galuth which our people have suffered, these methods were gradually lost and synagogue prayer degenerated into a lot of mumblings and some swaying. Sadly we no longer had sufficient time, nor ability, to focus our minds. The later introduction of ḥazanim and choirs was an attempt to return interest to synagogue prayer. Nineteenth century Rav Naḥman from Breslov attempted to restore meditation to Jewish liturgy. Sadly this attempt received little traction. The suffering of the galuth had not been eased. Some twenty years ago I first learnt Sefer Y’ẓira and was pointed to the writings of Rav Aryeh Kaplan of blessed memory. Only then was I finally, initially with limited appreciation, somewhat enlightened as to how the entirety coalesced, bestowing a union of our lower world with the upper. During two years of corona I have not been to the synagogue. I have replaced the synagogue experience with another. I will have difficulty returning — though I fully understand the halakhic and communal importance, and the engendered strength, of praying within a group. My orientation to prayer is very different to what is was two years ago. Already then it was in the midst of transformation. I started realising a few years ago that the meditation techniques, which I have been studying and practising, are the route to preparing oneself for the possible receipt of prophecy. While the capacity for prophecy was removed from humanity and the world some 2,450 years ago, the methods are known. However prophecy itself is currently unachievable. (Don’t worry, I’m not claiming prophetic powers and today anyone who does, is fooling only themselves. We pray daily for its restoration.) Over the past months of isolation, I have been researching and writing on how prophecy was carried out during the biblical period. The main resource for this information is obviously the Tanakh, coupled with Rambam’s understanding in More N’vukhim. I entertain no doubt that, were it not for that chance reprimand by my father, that I would mentally and spiritually not be where I now am. I have a lot for which to be thankful to my father. Not the least that he miraculously survived and brought my brother and me into this world, that in the very short time we spent together, he taught me many things, that he moulded my personality and my intellect in undefinable ways. I am certain that he would have taught me much more had He granted him more time. I only miss him more the more I think about him, and while I cry at his loss, I celebrate his having been with us. The two things that define my memory of him: “never lie” and “clearly say every word in prayer”.
Menachem Kuchar, 24th January, 2022
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