Somewhat surprisingly, given I come from the kind of close-knit, north London Jewish family people make sitcoms about, I have only been to two Jewish weddings in my life. I am of the generation of assimilated immigrant descendants for whom Judaism tends to be a cultural rather than religious badge. We crowd into my parents’ sitting room to light candles for Chanukah, and complain if there aren’t enough latkes, but when my cousins married they – like me – chose non-Jewish partners, who had to be inducted into our world of half-remembered Hebrew songs and obscure family traditions.
All but two, that is. Seven years ago, my cousin Nick had what I believe to be one of the most spectacular Jewish weddings of all time. In the blazing August sunshine I watched the hot but happy couple stand under the chuppah, experiencing for the first time an unfamiliar ceremony in a half-familiar language, full of joy but also mystery. I learned that the groom barely speaks in a Jewish wedding, and the bride does not speak at all. Most of the talking is done by the rabbi. The bride circles the groom seven times; the groom stamps on a glass to get all of the bad luck of the marriage out of the way early on. The guests cheer and shout “shkoyach”, an expression of congratulations that means “done with strength”, and try not to cry.
It was a perfect day. But the glass-breaking did not do its trick. Two years later Nick died – suddenly and unexpectedly. The extended family that had gathered to celebrate his marriage now reunited to commemorate his life. We visited his parents, in shock, sitting shiva. We tried to comfort his widow. We recited prayers. Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba, the Mourner’s Kaddish.
I did not realise the extent to which my grief-stricken mind had combined the two – the Jewish wedding and the Jewish funeral – until last month. Nick’s brother, my cousin, was getting married. His wedding promised to be as spectacular as the first, a glamorous and chaotic blend of prayers, dancing, glass-smashing. A different chuppah, a different rabbi. Familiar and unfamiliar. A stab of déjà vu, the imprint of grief.
It wasn’t blazing sunshine this time. Despite the torrential rain that morning, the bride insisted on the planned outdoor ceremony, and she was right to. We only had to open our umbrellas once. Blending bad luck with good, a glass half empty and half full – and then smashed and stamped on. The ancient fused with the modern. A Jewish wedding begins with first the groom and then the bride entering as prayers are sung. The words are always the same; the tune, not so much. He walked to a Hebrew blessing set to the tune of “The Circle of Life” from The Lion King; she, to Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”. Of course I cried. We all did.
Rather than trying to ignore Nick’s memory, which would have hung over us whether we acknowledged it or not, we embraced it. We talked about how much he would have enjoyed the celebration. We raised a glass to him. He should have given the best man’s speech; instead, his father spoke in his honour. Shkoyach. Done with strength. And we danced, the bride and groom hoisted up on chairs, shrieking with joy and terror as they tried to keep hold of the same handkerchief. Traditional klezmer music gave way to the usual wedding hits: “Dancing Queen”, “Reach for the Stars”. The religious mixed with the secular, ancient and modern, old traditions and new traditions that will in time be old.
It’s been a month now, and I can’t stop thinking of a story the rabbi told, as the bride and groom stood under the chuppah. He recounted an activity he led at a Jewish summer camp, splitting the children into two groups. One group made a tower out of cardboard boxes; the other learned a song. Afterwards, they gathered around a bonfire. Half threw the tower they had made on the bonfire, as the other half sang their song. The tower was gone but the song remained. That’s the power of shared memory. Of traditions, of culture, of community. Something uplifting, something hopeful, even – especially – in the wake of loss.
[See also: I am in love with my tattoos]
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This article appears in the 14 Aug 2024 issue of the New Statesman, England Undone