The Kaddish is hardly the only prayer that troubles me. Take the 145th Psalm, which I say every day as an observant Jew. It proclaims that “God protects all those who love God, but will destroy all the wicked?” Really? Do I honestly believe that’s a true reflection of God or our universe?

Yet despite my theological ambivalence, I am turning somersaults to say Kaddish at three different prayer services each day. And in accordance with tradition, I will continue to say the Kaddish daily for 11 months within my period of mourning. Already, in the two months since my father passed at 86 years old, I have prayed in synagogues and office buildings, schools and private homes in far-flung places, including Texas, Florida, California, Colorado, Copenhagen and London.

One night I took a red-eye flight back from the West Coast so I could attend an early-morning minyan near Newark Airport, because any of the available flights the next morning would have caused me to miss saying Kaddish altogether that day. Another time, I found a minyan in Orlando where everyone was a Moroccan Jew and the only languages spoken were Hebrew and French. There is a minyan in San Francisco that meets every afternoon in a Trolley car, and another in Manhattan that meets on Track 42 at Grand Central Terminal. And come spring, I know I won’t have any problem finding a minyan during home games at Yankee Stadium, just past the kosher hot-dog stand.

The fact is that makeshift synagogues where Jews can gather to say Kaddish are ubiquitous. They spring up like mushrooms wherever there are Jews. And for one simple reason: They create community.

Unlike some people, Jewish and non-Jewish, who take great comfort in communicating with God, I am not confident that God even listens to our prayers. Yet I have reoriented my life to accommodate my obligation to say Kaddish. And I do so cheerfully because it links me to Jews across generations and continents. It defines me as a member of the tribe. My tribe.

That is the essential gift of the Kaddish. It fosters community for a person who has just suffered a searing loss of a parent or sibling, spouse or child, even when we find ourselves far from home.

Even if the words themselves offer little comfort, I take great satisfaction in this communal act of prayer; of hearing the voices of others respond to my own prayers; and of being welcomed and enveloped by a larger and transcendent community. And in that experience, I honor and reconnect with my father.