Faithfulness

As a child, religion was a central part of my life.  That’s true for a lot of Catholics, but the older I get, the more I realize how integral my faith community was to my daily life and identity.  We went to church every week, of course, and developed strong, lasting friendships with the priests, nuns, and parishioners.  Our family served on the baptismal committee, visiting new parents before their babies were welcomed into the Church.  My father worked in the credit union, my mother cooked for the Lenten Soup Kitchen, and I was the first teen member of the parish council.  We said prayers before dinner and bedtime, and counted on our faith in difficult times.

I was raised Catholic, for sure, but I was also raised liberal.  It was always clear that, despite our unflagging loyalty to the Catholic faith, we vehemently rejected Catholic politics.  We spent almost as much time volunteering for the Democratic Party as we did for the Catholic Church, and we weren’t alone.  My Grandma Peg was a Head Start teacher for years, donates to liberal charities in lieu of giving Christmas presents, and goes to Mass every day.  My Aunt Mariann has worked for the Catholic Church for her whole life – in Arizona prisons, a Bolivian convent, and Midwestern parishes – and has officiated at the weddings of quite a few lesbian friends. 

Though the conflicts between our religion and our politics don’t faze my family – we’re quick to point out that the true lessons of the Bible are love and charity and tolerance, no matter what the Pope says – they laid the groundwork for my movement away from Catholicism.  When you’ve never seen faith as strictly black and white, it’s easy to start exploring the gray.

So when I fell in love with Ari – whose Jewish heritage matches my Catholic roots, as strongly cultural as religious – I knew we would meld our faiths in some way.  We are blessed with families who care about traditions and values more than religious labels, and whose members count themselves as part of many different faith communities.  Our religious differences were never an issue, and we have always had support in bridging them.  We were married in a chapel, under a chupah made with the lace from my great-grandmother’s wedding gown.  My Aunt Mariann and Ari’s cousin David officiated, and we wove Catholic and Jewish elements together in a personal, unique ceremony.

Though we always went home for Christmas and Passover, we gave little thought to our religious lives for the next few years.  We didn’t really know anyone our age who did – religion hardly seemed relevant to our crowd of twenty-somethings, and it certainly wasn’t convenient, since Friday nights are meant for going out and Sunday mornings for recovering over brunch.  We were sophisticated and intellectual, part of the liberal elite and proud of it, and somehow that meant we couldn’t, shouldn’t be religious.  The thought we’d put into honoring our religious traditions in our wedding faded, as I explained that I’d been “raised Catholic” and Ari laughingly described himself as “Jew-ish.”

Things began to change, strangely enough, when we moved to Maine.  I was unpacking wine glasses one Friday night when a neighbor knocked on our door. 

“Hi, I’m Jill,” she said.  “Are you Jewish?”  I must have looked puzzled, because she quickly added, “I saw you getting out wine glasses, and I thought maybe you were getting ready for Shabbat.”

“No, no,” I laughed.  “Just unpacking.  I’m not Jewish, but Ari is, sort of.”

And that was it for a while.  We were friendly with Jill and Dan, but they were a few years ahead of us, already busy with parenthood and living a life we couldn’t yet imagine.  Something about them captivated me – they seemed so grown up, so secure in their family life, so like us and yet so different, maybe because of their children, or maybe because of their faith.  Jill and Dan were sophisticated, intellectual, part of the liberal elite and proud of it – and religious.  They were a mystery.

I couldn’t wait to tell them when I became pregnant.  Parenthood would transform me in many ways, and I suspected it would change my friendship with my neighbors somehow too.  They were thrilled at the news, and eagerly began passing on maternity clothes, bouncy seats, and the best birthing advice I got (“Don’t get me wrong:  It really fucking hurts… but you can do it.”).  Best of all, they invited us to celebrate Hanukkah with them. 

By that time my belly was big with my growing baby, and my head was full of questions about how we would raise her.  I knew I wanted some kind of religious life for our child, and I’d already attended several different services looking for the right one.  Ari loved Quaker Meeting, but it gave me a panic attack.  I have a long history of anxiety, and sitting quietly with my thoughts, without the distraction of readings or singing, was too much for me.  We both loved the inclusiveness of the Unitarian Universalists, but it’s just too hard for a Catholic to take seriously any service that includes “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”  (The Red Sox were in the World Series at the time, but still.)  The religions we had grown up with didn’t seem right either: My devout but increasingly frustrated father had confessed, “I can’t really recommend Catholicism at this point,” and I felt too intimidated by all that Hebrew at temple.

So when we walked next door on the first night of Hanukkah, we curious to see what a party full of babies and preschoolers would be like, and also curious about the holiday itself.  We had a menorah, but it was packed in the trunk of Christmas stuff, and we never seemed to get it out in time.  To be honest, it didn’t seem that important.  That night was a revelation.  Standing in Jill and Dan’s dining room, arms around my belly, I saw for the first time that it was important – in a way I had never anticipated.  It was important to the kids.  They were intent and reverent during the ceremony, full of connection to their families, their faith, and their heritage.  When four year-old Jacob lit the candles and led the prayers, it took my breath away.

Baruch ata Adonai

Elohenu melech ha-olam

Asher kideshanu be-mitzvotov

ve-tzivanu

le-hadlik ner

shel Hanukkah.

Tessa was born a few months later, and we welcomed her with a blessing of our own creation.  Our little family didn’t have a formal faith community, but I could feel something bubbling up around the edges. 

We attended Quaker Meeting off and on, and I settled down and enjoyed the peacefulness.  Holding my baby in my arms grounded me and kept the anxiety at bay, and I loved sharing her with the Quaker community they way my parents had shared me with their Catholic one. 

We began to celebrate Shabbat with Jill and Dan pretty regularly, and I noticed the routine it created in their family life – an afternoon of simmering chicken soup and braiding challah, an evening of candles and prayers, and a day of rest.  I remembered to put the menorah in the candle drawer so we could find it easily, and invested in a book called Jewish Holidays All the Year Round. 

We attended Christmas Eve Mass at the Cathedral and watched Tessa marvel over the Baby Jesus in His manger.  We got her an illustrated Bible, which is very much like the one I had as a child.  Our religious life was vague and undefined, but it was there.

For us, as for the new parents my family visited as part of the baptismal committee so many years ago, our children have both confirmed our desire for a religious community and helped us articulate our faith.  As Tessa has grown older, the vague ideas of good and tradition and Bible stories that carried us through her infancy just don’t seem to cut it.  She’s now a extremely verbal, inquisitive three year-old; she wants to know what we believe, and she wants to own our traditions.  And now that we have another child – Calder is nine months old – it’s time for our family to settle into our own life and faith.

Besides, Jill and Dan have moved.  At first, it seemed like they’d taken our fledgling Judaism with them, but gradually we began to celebrate Shabbat on our own.  We have a weekly order for challah from a local bakery, and after a few weeks of reading the prayers as we lit the candles and blessed the wine and bread, we all learned them by heart.  Now Tessa is the one who takes my breath away with her beautiful, flawless Hebrew.

Baruch ata Adonai

Elohenu melech ha-olam

Asher kideshanu be-mitzvotov

ve-tzivanu

le-hadlik ner

 shel Shabbat.

We’ve still never been to temple – even Ari can’t remember going to temple other than for a bar mitzvah – but one of the things I love about Judaism is its emphasis on home and family.  Celebrating Shabbat is simple and important, and as my children’s book of Jewish holidays has taught me, the high holy days lend themselves to family celebrations.  There are tons of cooking projects, craft projects, and even some construction projects to be done.  We suddenly have a bunch of Jewish friends, though I really wish Jill and Dan could come over to light the candles in the sukkah we so proudly built for Sukkot.

Claiming Judaism in our own way has left plenty of room for Catholicism too.  Tessa is already decorating her dollhouse for Christmas, and though she’s certainly looking forward to Santa, the dolls are at this minute getting ready for church so they can see the Baby Jesus.  Our bedtime routine includes the prayers I said every night growing up, and Tessa says them as beautifully as she says the Shabbat prayers.

Night night, sleep tight,

Pleasant dreams

See you in the morning,

Amen.

 

Dear God,

Please bless Tessa, and her little brother Calder,

And their Mommy and Daddy,

And their dog Sadie,

And all of our family and all of our friends.

Please help us to be happy, and healthy,

And to love one another,

And to love You.

Amen.

We don’t attend Quaker Meeting anymore, but we’ve added a little Quaker reflection to our nighttime routine, sharing what we are each thankful for that day.  Sometimes Tessa rambles on and on, expressing thanks for every single thing in her room, but her sweet, heartfelt gratefulness shines through.  She’s even begun telling us what Calder is thankful for – almost always “milk.”

Finally, we’ve returned to the thoughtfulness we showed in writing our wedding ceremony, and created a combination of traditions feels right to us.  We have daily, weekly, and annual rituals that bring our little family together and connect us to our extended families and friends.  I’m proud to be liberal and religious, just like Jill and Dan, just like my parents and grandparents.  My kids may not be able to name their religion with one word, but they will, I hope, be clear about the values, family traditions, and faithfulness I care so much about.