I recently told the story of how, when I was 8 or 9 years
old, my feelings were hurt by a little girl in dance class who told me - in no
uncertain terms - that it was not possible for me to be both Christian and
Jewish. At the time, I didn't understand
how or why she thought this was just not possible, and I chalked her up to
being some version of an 8-year-old intolerant asshole. In my mind, there was no question: I was Christian and Jewish, dammit. Me, and my life, and my worldview...I just
thought they were big enough to be both.
And now at 29, when I go home for a Passover Seder and sit
at a table with a traditional Seder plate and a cup of wine for Elijah as well as bunny candle holders and
Easter egg tchotchkes adorning the centerpiece and the mantle, I think to
myself, yes...yes 8-year-old me wasn't
quite so far off.
Because I am both,
you see...my lineage trickles down through my veins to necessitate both the
telling and witnessing of the Passover story, and the celebration of life and rebirth that is Easter and
Ostara. I grew up attempting to swallow
Grandmother's overcooked peas for Easter and Bubby's gefilte fish for
Passover. I sat in pretty dresses and
little white shoes at Grandmother's house before searching for Easter eggs, and
also sat in pretty dresses and little white shoes at Bubby's house before
searching for the afikomen. I grew up
knowing all the words to Jesus Loves Me, and joining in a rousing chorus of
Dayenu with my 42 relatives. My history
of religion has always been yes, and... Yes, I can recite the Four Questions in
Hebrew, AND I can sit on the Easter Bunny's lap. Yes, I can eat ham and Grandmother's lumpy
mashed potatoes for Easter AND eat matzos and charoset and the god-awful liver
pate for Passover. Yes, I can say amen
after my Grandfather thanks God for the good food before us for Easter dinner,
AND I can take my turn stumbling over the names of Rabbi Akibah and Rabbi
Eliezer in the Hagaddah. Yes, and.
Yes, and. Yes, and.
But now I am 29, and my chosen religion dictates as one of
its 7 principles that part of my living tradition is to continually engage in a
"free and responsible search for truth and meaning." I'll be honest: the past several years, my
response to the holidays this time of year has been much less "yes,
and" and much more "nope."
Not feeling it. Any of it. I identify these days as an agnostic; I believe
Jesus may have been just a cool, historical dude; and I have never found much
meaning or cultural understanding in the Maxwell House Hagaddah with its
obscure text, its repetition, and its nearly meaningless passages. I find my meaning in my church community and in
our flower communion and its celebration of beauty and spring and rebirth
following winter. This is where my
"yes" is living these days.
And yet I found myself this year sitting at a table, in a
pretty dress and nice heels, looking at little statues of bunnies holding
colored eggs, eating gefilte fish and horseradish on matzos, dipping my finger
into my wine and counting out the 10 plagues: Dom (blood). Tzfardeyah (frogs). Kinim (lice).
Arov (flies). Dever (disease on
livestock). Sh'chin (boils). Barad (hail).
Arbeh (locusts). Choschech
(darkness). Makat Bechorot (slaying of
the first-born).
Honestly, as we kept reading, I was getting progressively
more annoyed. The whole story seemed to
be saying: "...and then God (Blessed be He) did this other really horrible
thing. And then we suffered. And then more horrible things were done to
us, and God is good (Blessed be He). And
still we suffered, and we suffered, and we suffered...and we give thanks to God
(Blessed be He)."
But, you know, I went with it. It seemed important to family that I
participate in this, and so I did. However,
after a good 30 minutes of reading, my sister got to a section where they
listed all of the livestock that died of disease...you know the livestock,
right? The cows, and horses, and the
asses...and my sister (blessed be she), said "asses" and busted up
laughing so hard she couldn't pull herself together. I, of course, joined her, because it was
hilarious...and then there we were, two adults completely unable to get through
the remainder of the Seder, tears running out of our eyes, because she read the
word "asses."
When it comes down to it, though, it wasn't really about the
word asses. It was about the fact that
we were 30 minutes in, hadn't even gotten the matzos with the horseradish on it
yet, and we were starving. It was about
the fact that this telling of the story meant nothing to me at 10 years old,
and continues to mean nothing, as the version is so full of obscure language
and meaningless passages that I can't follow what it is saying. It's about the fact that this particular
tradition just does not work for me, and it's hard for me to sit through. It's about the fact that I don't want to believe in a God that caused all this shit to
happen. I don't want to believe in a God that killed all of the firstborn
children. I don't want to believe in a God to whom the Jews had to go with
their "bloody and mutilated children" to remind Him of their suffering. I don't want to believe in that God, and I
certainly don't want to thank him. I
don't want to read about the ways I should devote my life to this God who has
created and permitted such suffering, and the ways I, as a partly
Jewish-by-heritage person, am supposed to live and offer my life and heart to
God.
Somewhere in the Seder, the text stated that a Jew defines
himself by his capacity to be grateful.
Passover is a celebration of freedom -- which I can get behind - but I
have a hard time believing in an all-powerful, loving, and merciful God who
causes such intense suffering. And I
have an even harder time responding to that with repetitive words of gratitude.
So I lost it during the Seder because my sister read the
word asses, yes, but also because if I had to say one more "blessed be
He," I was going to chug the rest of my glass of wine, throw my matzos to
the dogs, and go out for pizza. I was
just done.
But then today is Easter, right? If I am a partly Jewish-by-heritage person, I
am also a partly Christian-by-heritage person, and I have a grandfather who is
urging us to go to church and get right with God and "all be Christian
together." I was wished Happy
Easter today by parking garage attendants and the man who made my coffee at
Dunkin' Donuts. I passed church after
church celebrating the fact that "He is risen!," and there is
something in me that has to recognize that this, too, is part of who I am. This is, like it or not, part of my yes, and.
This day -- this celebration of resurrection -- it's not so
much unlike Passover as it may seem. Easter
is the day that God's only son, who was sacrificed on the cross, rose from the
dead. In short: this Easter day celebrates
renewal, and rebirth, and life, much in the way that Passover celebrates the
Jews surviving and leaving behind the oppression and suffering they faced.
For some reason, as I was driving home this afternoon, all
of these thoughts and all of these realizations just made me feel sad. It didn't feel like yes, and. It felt like nope.
It felt like participating in holidays that do not hold meaning for
me. It felt like I should find meaning in these traditions. It felt like I should believe in a God that loves me, and that I should continue
to love that God even if and when He causes great suffering. It felt like I should be able to be grateful in spite of suffering. For reasons that are complex and hard for me
to sort out, the whole thing left me feeling unworthy and shameful. It left me feeling broken, and it left me
feeling less than whole. As I drove home
this afternoon, I was angry at myself for my seeming incapacity for gratitude,
and my inability to believe in a god. In
the spring holiday department, I was officially giving myself a big, red F.
When I got home and sat down to write this, I first opened
up Facebook...because every writer knows that Facebook is essential to the
writing process. I was greeted by the
smiling faces of children and families who attend church with me, and the text
above the pictures expressed gratitude and love for the community -- our
community. One status in particular
brought tears to my eyes: writing about flower communion, a friend wrote, "the
abundance of flowers (in spite of us forgetting to bring ours) was a bright
reminder of how often my children and I are cared for in spite of our mistakes
and faults. Well, not in spite of, but right through them - as if the mistakes
and faults are insignificant."
And there it is: the resurrection. The rebirth.
The way that I can come back from that shame-filled place of spring
holiday failure. The way that we all can
come back from that place, no matter the way we got there, or how frequently we
feel we visit Unworthyville and all her highways of shame, and guilt, and
failure. In that statement, I found it
-- my meaning today, on this free and responsible search: this day is the day
we celebrate our year-long process of being born, and reborn, as worthy. This day is the day we celebrate and acknowledge
that we -- each of us -- faces a terrible suffering, and we -- each of us -- is
here to go in and side-by-side through that suffering. We are here to resurrect one another from
those ashes of despair. To bring each
other from the place of emptiness, and lack, and struggle through to the land
of connection and worth. We are here to
forgive one another, and to love anyway -- "not in spite of, but right
through" the mistakes, and faults, and failures. Not in spite of, but right through.
When I was a child, my "yes, and" consisted of
"yes I am Christian, AND I am Jewish." I don't want my "yes, and" to
become a "nope." I want my "yes,
and" back, but I want it to be different.
So maybe today, this is where my free and responsible search has brought
me: yes, I am figuring out what I believe, and I am worthy through that
process. Not in spite of, but right
through.
Yes, I laugh during Seders, and I am slow to forgive, and I
am imperfect and sometimes fail, and I am worthy through that process. Not in spite of, but right through.
Yes, I travel the highway to Unworthyville so often I have
carved ruts in the road, and I am worthy through that process. Not in spite of, but right through.
Yes, that is my journey out of Egypt, and my
resurrection. Yes, I have the community
I need to take that journey, and I am part of that community for others. Yes, I love you and am willing to stand with
you in that emptiness, and struggle, and lack, and I am here to forgive, and
embrace, and love you.
Not in spite of, but right through.
Not in spite of, but right through.
Not in spite of, but right through.
Not in spite of, but right through.
I was raised Jewish as well, but for me Judaism has always been my culture and not at all my religion. Jewish religious services were nothing but boredom and endurance. Oddly, though, the passover seder *did* have meaning for me. My father chose a Reconstructionist Hagaddah that deemphasized the prayers and the ceremony and instead told the story of Moses as an impetus to celebrate freedom and to be aware and mindful of those who were not yet free. It's kind of a shame that your Hagaddah led you in the opposite direction, because it was the way I most connected with being Jewish.
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