Daddy, Am I Worthy Enough to Say Kaddish for You?

Dear Daddy,

I feel a little cowardly writing to you only now, when you're no longer with us in this physical world. The truth is, I regret not having the opportunity—or the courage—to bring up TheTorah.com with you. Not that I thought you’d agree with me. But maybe, I could have asked you to discuss how to deal with the fact that academic scholars recognize that the Torah was composed by multiple authors over centuries.

In my defense, years ago, one of my siblings threw at me in a conversation that you said I was going to go to Gehinnom.^[1] Maybe I misheard, or maybe they did—but even if it wasn’t exactly what you said, I’ve always believed you felt that way. So how could I really talk to you about TheTorah.com? Gehinnom is something you took very seriously. You even asked us to bury you the same day you died and say Kaddish (the mourner’s prayer) as soon as the first shovelful of earth hit the coffin—so you wouldn’t suffer long there.^[2]

And yet, I find myself needing to talk to you about it now. Over the years, many people have asked me how I became a Bible critic. The truth is, there was no single defining moment. It was a long, difficult inner journey—intellectual, spiritual, emotional. But if I trace the arc of that journey, Daddy, you stand out as a quiet yet profound influence.

One vivid moment I remember: we were learning Gemara Gittin^[3] together during morning seder^[4] at Manchester Yeshiva when I was fifteen. We came across a kasha (logical problem). After a few minutes of discussing it, I got up and looked in the Pnei Yehoshua^[5]—and found that he asked the very same question. I was proud and ran over to you, excited to share it. You looked up, almost indifferent, and asked, “So what’s his answer?”

I hadn’t actually read the answer. I was just caught up in the fact that the Pnei Yehoshua asked the same question I did. I handed you the sefer (book), and you read it. You didn’t say much—but I could tell it didn’t impress you. Then you turned to me and said, “Nu, so what do you think?”

At the time, I didn’t know what to make of that. I had no real opinion—I was just a kid. But I viscerally remember that moment. It stayed with me. You weren’t animated by authority. You didn’t care who asked the question—you cared if the question was good, and more importantly, if the answer made sense. And if it didn’t? You moved on to search for the next answer.

I recently came across a shiur (class) you gave on Matan Torah (the revelation of the Torah on Mt. Sinai) in 2017. I’ve listened to it many times—not because I thought your answers were good (I didn’t)—but because I wanted to understand where I came from. Listening to you ask your many questions^[6] about what happened at Sinai made me appreciate that I am on your derech (path), even if you couldn’t accept that.

Daddy, I want to make you proud; I want you to accept me, to see that I came to appreciate academic biblical scholarship only because you taught me to think for myself—and that I stayed true to my path because you were my role model. It hurts that you couldn’t recognize that while you were alive, even though I longed for it.

I’ve been saying Kaddish for you—though not as regularly as I’d like—but I haven’t connected to it. It’s not that I’m bothered by the origins of Kaddish or how its meaning evolved.^[7] It’s that I don’t observe halacha (Jewish law) the way you did, and I don’t believe in the 13 principles of faith the way you did. If you believed that because of these things I’m going to Gehinnom, is there any value for me to say Kaddish? Can I really elevate your soul from Gehinnom?

Only recently, after processing the fears that held you back—and that still reverberate inside me—with my therapist, Mitch, and finding the understanding to forgive you, did I realize that you are now in Olam HaEmes (“the World of Truth,” i.e., the afterlife). You are no longer limited by the boundaries of the frum world, and can now access the full truth—including the history and origins of the Torah.

While your fifty-plus years of traditional learning were not in vain, the pain you must feel now, seeing this truth must be nothing less than everything Gehinnom is portrayed to be. When I was able to accept all this, I realized that you do need me to say Kaddish for you. I wept so much, I couldn’t even get the words out.

Daddy, this year is the twelfth since I launched TheTorah.com. It’s been a brutal journey. Hashem has sent me generous partners and supporters—but the broader world, whether right or left, hasn’t supported me. Every year I struggle just to keep it going.

I’ve been carrying sole responsibility for its survival—through divorce, living alone, and moving to a new "Open Orthodox" community that is caring, but modne (diffrent). I’ve learned to accept them and appreciate their values and goodness. But my neshama (soul) yearns for the heimeshkeit (at-home-ness) and realness you taught me.

In this vein, I still think of myself as charedi: חרד לדבר ה “trembling at the word of God.”^[8] You taught me to be real with Hashem. I still remember the conversation we had about it on Yom Kippur. Based on everything I have learned, Daddy, there is more than enough evidence to be fearful of claiming that Hashem literally dictated the Torah word-for-word to Moshe (Moses).

It is not that I don’t believe in the divinity that can be found in Tanach (the Bible), and I am not dismissing the value of holding the belief of Torah Mi-Sinai (Torah revealed at Sinai) as a framework^[9]—but to teach and claim that God literally wrote the Torah is not only untenable, it is a chillul Hashem (“desecration of God’s name”). It diminishes both the Torah and the Divine.

I know this claim would have been shocking to you when you were alive. But if anyone in Shamayim (heaven) can appreciate this now, it’s you. You were so real with Hashem in your learning and davening.

Daddy, maybe I’ve got it all wrong. But as you taught me, you can only do your best, and if you took a moment to actually look and read TheTorah.com, you would see it’s a labour of love. Even after all the toil, hardship, and sleepless nights—I still feel a geshmak (delight) when I manage to publish a new piece with a strong chiddush (new observation).

When I saw you last on the day you were niftar (passed), you were mostly unconscious, but when I sang to you the song you loved singing on Shavuos, you stirred, and your oxygen levels rose:^[10]

כַּד יַתְבוּן יִשְׂרָאֵל

When the people of Israel sit

וְעַסְקִין בְּשִׂמְחַת הַתּוֹרָה

and engage in the joy of Torah,

קוּדְשָׁא בְּרִיךְ הוּא אוֹמֵר לְפַמַלְיָא דִילֵיהּ:

the Blessed Holy One says to His heavenly retinue:

חֲזוּ! חֲזוּ!

Look, look,

בָּנַי חֲבִיבַי דְמִשְׁתַּכְּחִין בְּצַעֲרָא דִילְהוֹן

My beloved children, who are found in their suffering

וְעַסְקִין בְּחֶדְוָתָא דִילִי.

and immerse themselves in My delight.

I know in that moment of truth you heard me.

This Shavuos, I ask you—stand before the kisei hakavod (the divine seat) and daven (pray) for me: to help me keep going, to stay strong despite the challenges, and beyond asking that I find my new bashert (life partner), please plead on my behalf that I be zoche (merit) to continue learning and bringing into the world the Torah you planted within me—even if it looks different than you imagined:

^{תהלים כז:ד} אַחַת שָׁאַלְתִּי מֵאֵת יְ־הוָה אוֹתָהּ אֲבַקֵּשׁ שִׁבְתִּי בְּבֵית יְ־הוָה כָּל יְמֵי חַיַּי לַחֲזוֹת בְּנֹעַם יְ־הוָה וּלְבַקֵּר בְּהֵיכָלוֹ.

^{Ps 27:4} One thing I ask of YHWH, only that do I seek: to live in the house of YHWH all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of YHWH, to frequent His temple.

I am still your son, still learning from you.

Dovid