Interfaithful

I’m Jewish and my husband is Catholic, and we were as happy as two gefilte fish in a holy water pond. At first, the differences in our faiths seemed negligible.  Quaint.  It made our lives easier and richer- Christmas at his parents’ house, Passover at my parents’, Easter at his aunt’s, a bitch-load of presents during the holidays.  I learned what the sacraments were, dozed through Midnight Mass, and got excited whenever I heard a jingle bell on the radio.  My husband phonetically read Hanukkah prayers from a cell phone app, insisted on eating potato pancakes year-round, and begged to be lifted in a chair at our wedding. It was almost too easy to negotiate.

And then we had children, and it all became a complicated mess.

Both of our families have strong connections to their respective faiths, and religious institutions and events dominate their social activities.  Which is great, except we are both people who hate to disappoint our families.   The first inkling I had that religion might be a relationship complication was during our first Easter together, when I accompanied my husband’s family to church.  Late in the mass, everyone stood up to receive communion.   I instinctively knew that I was not to partake, so I stood awkwardly on the pew while lines of parishioners climbed around me.  Other than a toddler two rows ahead of me, I was the only one excluded from the ritual.  When I shared my discomfort with my husband, he replied “Now you know why I fell asleep during your cousin’s bar mitzvah.”  Everyone falls asleep at bar mitzvahs; I immediately dismissed it as my husband being bored and tired.  But the truth of it was: he did not speak Hebrew.  Never would.  I asked him to sit through a ceremony in another language that everyone could follow except him. Exclusion ran both ways.

Although interfaith marriage was hardly groundbreaking, we felt like religious pioneers.   Our particular situation felt unusual because many divergently religious couples get nipped in the bud, Darwin-style, long before marriage and kids come into play.  I have several Jewish friends who won’t date anyone who isn’t Jewish (even if he or she is “smokin’ hot,” apparently).  Even dating sites help people narrow their romantic prospects so that the question of what faith to raise children isn’t actually a question after all.

All the interfaith couples we know chose from two options: doing nothing, or leaning toward one faith.  Both my husband and I felt enough of a connection to our religion that we wanted it to play a role in our lives, and we each felt equally religious.  We considered picking one religion to raise our children in, and just teaching them the basics of the other faith, but neither of us wanted to explain why we were the outsider in our own family.  “Mommy can’t receive communion.”  “Daddy isn’t one of the Chosen People.”  “Jesus loves you, but he’s still on the fence about Mommy.” “Daddy will be in a different Heaven.”

We considered raising our kids in both faiths.  But the reality of our daughters attending both Sunday school and Hebrew school, receiving sacraments and bat mitzvahs, seemed like an overwhelming time-suck and a sure-fire way to get our kids to hate organized religion.  We decided to eliminate the milestones and teach them the traditions of both, and if they wanted to, they could choose one faith as they got older.  This seemed like a reasonable compromise, although as the Jewish parent, I still fear that no child will ever give up Christmas.

I suppose this is where I reveal our solution to the interfaith conundrum; a fix-all that is inclusive and supportive to both parents.  Truthfully, we don’t have one.  My husband wishes we had a more concrete plan; I prefer to address each issue as it arises.  As awkward as the resulting conversations can be, they help us solidify what is truly important to us.  We both want our children to be happy.   We want them to feel a sense of community.  We want them to have the spiritual safety net of believing in a force larger than themselves.  We want them to hunt for Easter eggs as well as the Afikomen, and understand why they do both.  And hell, we want to please our families.  We would focus on our faith’s similarities (believing in God, praying, all the tenets of being a good person) and explain the differences.  While this may devastate our parents, it seems like a way to keep our children from being spiritually adrift and have faith play a role in their lives.

I doubt we can pull this off flawlessly.  Our parents tear up every time they attend another child’s baptism or bar mitzvah, knowing their granddaughters will never have that experience.  I realize that my daughters will never be able to read Hebrew.  My husband attends church on Sundays solo.  Our holiday card is “winter” themed.  Some day, one of our daughters may want to marry someone Jewish.  Or Catholic.  Or Hindu.  They may choose to ignore faith entirely.  They will probably always celebrate Christmas (as they should).  But most importantly, they will know that “something larger than themselves” can sometimes mean “family,” and that, like our own families, we will always support them.

Even if it breaks our hearts.

Bio:
Ali Solomon is an art teacher and cartoonist who lives in NYC with her husband and two wee daughters. She illustrates for Harper Collins, NickMom, and numerous parenting sites.  You can read more of her nonsense on http://wiggleroomblog.com and @AliCoaster.