Why am I Jewish and Daddy isn't?

By Rachel Ross, Originally published on InterfaithFamily

My son, who is now two, doesn’t notice when his dad stumbles over the Hebrew words in the PJ Library books they read together. And he hasn’t been to church with Grams, so Isaac doesn’t know that when she takes communion he will stay seated. Eventually, however, he is going to notice that his cousins don’t go to Hebrew school, and that Daddy doesn’t come with us to High Holiday services. At some point he will ask about these differences, and initially my husband and I will have very straightforward answers for him: Along with Nona and Papa, and your uncle and cousin in California, Mommy and Isaac are Jewish. Daddy, Grams and your other cousins are Catholic.

But as he grows up, the follow-up questions (Why am I Jewish and Daddy isn’t? What is the difference in our beliefs? Who is right?) make me wonder how I can possibly prepare myself for these inquiries. I know that as the number of interfaith families grows, I am not alone in my doubts about my own ability to gracefully navigate the tricky waters of these topics. But I also know that while they are certainly more common for my generation than for others, conversations about these differences are not necessarily any easier.

Some of my friends knew all along they had no interest in such a complicated and potentially fraught situation, and they never considered marrying someone of a different faith. Others, who, like me did intermarry, are avoiding the issue by pushing religion out of their lives altogether. Neither of those routes were viable—or even desirable—options for me. I fell in love with a man who was raised Catholic, but have always known that I wanted very much to have Jewish children. Having talked about it long before we were married, my husband has always supported me in my efforts to build a Jewish home. I appreciate that he has learned a great deal about my heritage and culture, and I smile every time I hear him tell Isaac to wash his zeise punim.

But I still feel more trepidation about explaining the differences in our religions than I do about the inevitable questions about where babies come from. Those conversations will be based on fact, and the answers will be the same for everyone.

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Interfaith Families, on Rosh Hashanah

From On Being Both 

At the Farmer’s Market on Sunday, I bought Jonagold apples to eat with honey, to celebrate the sweetness of the Jewish New Year this week. Then, yesterday, a Washington Post reporter came by to photograph our family with the apples, for a Rosh Hashanah story.

Here on the Mason-Dixon line, at the end of the hottest summer on record, I had to search to find local apples because peach and plum season is just starting to wind down, and apple season is only just beginning. This made me nostalgic for the Rosh Hashanahs of my childhood in New England, when we would go apple-picking as a family right after services every year. My sister and I wore cardigans over our holiday dresses, and the crisp air signaled the ready crop of northern apples–our favorites were McIntoshes and Macouns, both hard to come by in the south.

This time of year, I have often missed the ease of celebrating the Jewish New Year as part of a Jewish congregation. When I was growing up, we belonged to a synagogue, and so we automatically got tickets to services each year. My idea of a proper Reform Jewish service is inevitably based on that lush High Holiday choir of my childhood, salted with hired professionals and led by a brilliant organist, performing the Rosh Hashanah liturgy in sophisticated arrangements.

As an adult interfaith child married to an Episcopalian, raising children with both Judaism and Christianity, I have had to work harder to access Rosh Hashanah. Over the years, we have had backyard celebrations for the “birthday of the world,” including leaving a cake out for the urban critters. We have gone to the local creek with friends for private and impromptu Tashlich rituals, throwing bread into the running water to symbolize casting off all that we did wrong in the past year. Like many families, I took my kids to the free kid services at a local temple until they were really too old for the chaos and simplistic explanations of the holiday. And for many years, I bought expensive tickets to other people’s adult services. Or I flew “home” to celebrate with my parents, in the synagogue of my youth.

Meanwhile, our interfaith community would celebrate Rosh Hashanah a little bit ahead of the actual holiday, in order to encourage families to go to synagogues on the actual date. All of these ways of celebrating have been satisfying, in different ways.

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My Story: My Jewish Path and Rabbinic Path

How Am I Jewish?

Upon meeting me Jews of Ashkenazi decent like to ask me a myriad of questions, from how are you Jewish, to when did you convert, to don’t you have to be Jewish to go to rabbinical school? These questions never happen in a context of wanting to know me, they are about the questioner’s own curiosity and trying to see how I fit into Judaism as if by answering these questions it will tell them everything they need to know about me. When people ask me these questions, I never know how to respond, sometimes I will respond “I’m just Jewish,” but often want to respond with something comical. I might even remind them that Jews have always been a multi-racial-cultural people. And I try to use my energy to educate other Jews about what it means to be Jewish in today’s society, but sometimes it is really exhausting.

I often never get to tell my story in a way that feels safe. I am often made to feel like I am expected to rattle off a simple yes or no answer as if anyone’s Jewish story is that simple. All Jewish stories are complex, and personal. I’ve decided to tell my story here, a friend suggested that I use this link as a business card, and the next time someone asks I can just refer them here.

My Jewish Story
In my Junior year of college I joined the military and I spent most of my twenties in the United States Army as a Military Police Investigator working on cases of child abuse and domestic violence. While in the military I finished my bachelor’s degree, and graduated with honors from St. Leo University. It was at St. Leo University where my first real interest in Judaism arose. I took a class on the Old Testament, taught by Francis Githieya, Ph.D. I needed a humanities credit and Githieya’s class fulfilled that requirement, so I begrudgingly registered. I still remember to this day the first words Dr. Githieya said. He stated, in his very Kenyan accent, “You must read the textbook, and if you do not read the textbook you will fail my class.” Githieya went on to say that we should not come to class regurgitating words that our preacher told us, and if we did we would fail. He explained that this was a scholarly course and we would be studying the five books of Moses.” I remember thinking that I liked this guy, and that I could get an A out of this class, because I was not a Christian and would be free from any biases. I did exactly as Githieya describe and did get an A out of the class. The class provided my first real introduction to the Torah, and I was fascinated by the stories and the rich history of the text. The class also changed my view of religion.

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After My Mother Died, Another Woman Took Me Under Her Jewish Wing

When I converted to Judaism, I found the ‘Jewish mother’ I never had—a woman who resembled my own mom in surprising ways

By Siân Gibby for Tablet Magazine

I was born on Tisha B’Av—although I didn’t know that for forty-some years. Growing up in a small Midwestern city in an entirely agnostic home deliberately devoid of any religious influence, I’d never heard of the holiday. And neither, I suspect, had my mother.

Patricia Martin Gibby was raised Christian in even a tinier and more out-of-the-way place than her youngest daughter was. A brilliant and beautiful girl, she earned a scholarship to college that plucked her from her impoverished town in the Rocky Mountains and desposited her in the academic atmosphere she would take to like a thirsty plant to water and live in happily for the rest of her life. When she and my father got engaged, his friends told him they approved of her because “she was pretty and she was smart.”

Another trait she had in spades, one that really flourished in adulthood, was her musical ability, especially her love of singing. As a young girl, Mom played guitar and warbled cowboy songs on an honest-to-HaShem ranch, and when she grew up and left the West she always found a way to be singing. If a college where Daddy taught didn’t have a vocal group, Mom assembled one, the best of which was Earlham College’s Choral Ensemble, which performed early music (Medieval, Renaissance, Baroque). They sometimes rehearsed at our house, and I loved to drift off to sleep listening to the sound of their complex harmonies blending in the living room. Mom herself had a gorgeous soprano voice—not thin or tinny, but rich and golden-sounding. She always sang out, full throttle, with nice vibrato (not too much), embarrassing me in public when I was little—during “The Star Spangled Banner,” for example.

Mom had a hard time relating to me most of my life; I suspect that we were too much alike in some ways for her to feel at ease with me. But I’m proud of the characteristics we shared: enjoyment of reading, a wide streak of weepy sentimentality, skill at foreign languages (Mom became a French teacher). And especially our love of singing.

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