Getting Religion

Last night I went to Friday night services at our synagogue. It was a special night: family dinner and a service led by the primary grades. Family dinner started at 6:00, so I raced home from work early. I'll bet some of you are probably wondering why the heck I was doing this. I must admit that there were moments during the cacophony that is also known as "tot shabbat" that I was wondering that myself. My kids are thirteen and fifteen, and started their "formal" religious educations at the age of around two, so for many years my husband, mom and I sat in the pews, alternately giggling behind our hands and kvelling, while watching our miniature people sing songs and read from the prayer book, and ultimately, the Torah. But now the boy child, you see, is a madrich, a sort of "teaching assistant," and these were his kids leading the service. And he asked me to come. So I did.

My husband is Filipino and Catholic. He grew up in a large family that kneeled together each evening, praying the rosary in front of an alter in his living room. My family is Jewish. I grew up in a family that ate lox and bagels almost every Sunday morning, and if you whined enough, you didn't have to go to Sunday school. Occasionally we attended services at the Reform synagogue on the high holidays. So, it was pretty much a no brainer that when my husband and I got married, we decided to raise the kids . . . Jewish.

It's not as strange as it might sound. We knew we wanted to raise the kids some religion. We both felt it was important. From my standpoint, I felt that if my kids were going to reject religion, they'd better have a reason for it, and it wouldn't be out of ignorance. And maybe they would like it, would feel like they belonged somewhere. My husband, on the other hand, just wanted to raise good people, and he felt that a religious foundation would contribute to that. He thought that since my family was close by, and since religious education often winds up with the mom, he would hand the responsibility over to me. Our religions are based on the same fundamental principles anyway, so it wasn't really that much of a stretch.

So yes, it's true that as a teen I spent most of my time in the train station underpass or in the temple ladies room smoking cigarettes while I should have been at services. But in my late 20s and early 30s, I was living in New York, I was single, and with a little prodding from my modern orthodox girlfriend, I did a bit of a crash course in orthodox judaism. My girlfriend was a baal teshuvah, (someone who returns to a commitment to Judaism) and she and I had spent many a Friday night in high school eating pepperoni pizzas and cruising the circuit made famous by a very popular rock 'n' roller. I agreed to go with her to a couple of "learner's services" at an Upper West Side synagogue that shall remain nameless simply because I can't remember its name, a few religion classes for women (which I must admit I found about as informative as the Catholic pre-cana classes we were "encouraged" to take prior to getting married, but that is for another day), and more than a few Shabbat dinners, some at the home of a guy that I wound up kind of dating for awhile. I know, hard to believe, right? I was also dating a pagan at the same time. He was an artist and he used to read tarot cards and astrology charts at a little shop on 9th Street. He was in a band, too. It was an interesting time. Boy, I used to have fun.

Anyway, the kids started Jewish preschool at the age of around two. We wanted to take advantage of that time in a kid's life when "magical thinking" comes naturally. When they could easily believe all the stuff that becomes way more difficult to wrap your head around when you become older. And they also got to learn their aleph bet right alongside their alphabet. And how to pray. You wouldn't think that's something you would have to learn, but you kind of do. Especially if you have to do it in another language. We also lit the Shabbat candles and had dinners on Friday nights like I did with my orthodox friends. OK, maybe not exactly like those dinners. It's possible that pork products might have been involved. But similar.

So now, at fifteen, my girl child tells me that she doesn't believe in God. OK. And she also tells me that she is going to probably marry someone who's not Jewish with short hair who wears a suit and keeps regular work hours. (Fact: my husband has long hair and works at home in jeans or sweats. She's a rebel.) But when I ask her how she's going to raise her kids she says "Jewish, of course." And she still attends religious high school, even though she doesn't have to. Uh, OK. And the boy child? He's the king of comparative religion. I think he's contemplated trying at least a few of them on for size, including Pastafarianism. You know, the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Go ahead. Look it up.

It was for the boy child that I rushed to services last night. My husband couldn't come, busy chauffeuring the girl child to her first winter formal. I must admit, Mom and I sat in the pews and giggled a little behind our hands as the boy child shooed the little ones up onto the bima.  And, I also have to admit that I'd be lying if I said I didn't kvell just a little bit when he went up to recite the kiddush, the blessing over the wine, at the beginning of the service. Even if he is already a teenager.