Interfaith Children: Born This Way

I often wonder if people who are not born into interfaith families can ever truly understand, on the gut level, the positive aspects of growing up in an interfaith family. Whether we grow up practicing one religion, two religions, or no religions, as interfaith children we are nourished by parents who model the art of communication, respect for the other, and love that transcends boundaries. And often, in December, that communication and respect and transcendence involve Christmas trees.

This week, Debra Nussbaum Cohen, a blogger for The Jewish Daily Forward, wrote a post in the form of a letter addressed to me, entitled “Interfaith Mom is Wrong About Chrismukkah.” She was responding to the recent Huffington Post piece in which I explain why my interfaith family celebrates both Hanukkah and Christmas. I respect Debra’s point of view that children being raised Jewish should not celebrate Christmas in any form. I do not believe that strategy will work for every interfaith family, not even for every interfaith family raising Jewish children, but it is a point of view that has gotten a lot of play this season.

It was interesting (and, of course, for me, heartening) to note the backlash in her post’s comment section, and on twitter, mainly from adult interfaith children, many of them with strong Jewish identities, who took great exception to the tone (and to some extent, the content) of her column.

Since Ms. Cohen has initiated a sort of virtual correspondence with me, I guess I should write back and clarify a few points:

Dear Debra Nussbaum Cohen,

I am puzzled by the headline of your story, since my family does not celebrate “Chrismukkah” or any other “mash-up” holiday. I know, as a journalist, that sometimes editors write the headlines, so maybe that wasn’t your fault. But let me respond to some of your specific concerns:

1. You write that Christianity was a radical departure from “Judaism’s basic tenets.” Many of us who have studied both religions simply don’t see it that way. I see the basic tenets of both religions as monotheism, love, and social justice. The prophet Micah, Rabbi Hillel and Jesus all seem to agree on this one. Who am I to disagree?

2. You write of the irony of “someone born Jewish” (presumably me) now “advocating” for “assimilation.” First of all, according to the Conservative and Orthodox movements, I wasn’t born Jewish (because I’m a patrilineal Jew). And I am not advocating for assimilation. I am advocating for the right of interfaith families to teach their children love for and knowledge of Judaism, even if we do not (cannot) choose Judaism as the only religion practiced in our family. Perhaps you would prefer that I just raise my children as Christians, but I am not sure why that would be good for the Jews. And I don’t happen to think it’s the best choice for my particular family, or for my children.

3. You write that interfaith families should only celebrate Christmas at the homes of their Christian relatives. But not everyone has living parents, or family close by, to host Christmas celebrations. My mother had no aunts or uncles or cousins. When my grandparents were gone, we began celebrating Christmas in our (Jewish) home with her. This was very much the right choice, for our interfaith family.

4. You write that the celebration of Hanukkah is a celebration of the fact that “to be Jewish is to be different than the American Christian mainstream.” I am troubled when Judaism is defined negatively, in opposition to Christianity. For me, Judaism is defined by ancient ritual, by the possibilities for spiritual and even mystical experience, by love of language and law and justice. Hanukkah, in our family, reminds us of the freedom we experience in America to maintain our relationship to Judaism, and the opportunity to reflect on the idea of the miraculous.

5. You write that “having a clear religious and cultural identity in the home is better for the kids.” Apparently, you are stating your opinion that interfaith parents should choose one religion. We have no robust data actually comparing children raised in different interfaith family configurations. As an interfaith child raised with only Judaism, I can testify to the benefits and drawbacks of being raised in one religion. And I can describe the benefits and drawbacks of raising my children with both. I don’t think anyone has the research to support a statement of which strategy is “better for the kids.”

6. Okay, here’s where it got kind of bizarre. In an effort to provide a little leavening to a rather weighty topic, I alluded to the well-known fact that many great Christmas songs were written by Jewish composers, and added that if Christmas was good enough for them, it’s good enough for me. Somehow, this inspired you to retort, “Dressing as a fancy-hot-pants prostitute is good enough for Barbie…is it good enough for you?” Um, I don’t know, but comparing celebrating Christmas to dressing as a prostitute is pretty offensive, even to a “half-Christian.”

You then go on to suggest that I would be a “cooler Mom” if I played the music of Matisyahu, instead of “subjecting” my children to Irving Berlin.

Wow. Irving Berlin, the son of a cantor, was one of the greatest American popular songwriters of the 20th century. (I bet you Matt Miller might even agree.) I cannot imagine what could dissuade me from subjecting my children to Irving Berlin. As for my coolness quotient, you’re picking on the wrong mom. I may not wear hot pants, but I have pronounced hipster-mom tendencies. I took my teens to see Matisyahu, live, for Hanukkah last year. We danced together under the giant electrified dreidel.

In short, I am doing everything I can to instill in my children an appreciation for Judaism (and Christianity). My kids feel “pleasure and pride” in both sides of their family, in both religious traditions. I hope you will surf around a little on this blog, getting to know my interfaith family. I know you would be happier if we could be 100% Jewish, but that’s just not how we define ourselves.

Advent, Christmas, Hanukkah, Welcome Yule! Interfaith Families Doing the Most

This time of year, interfaith families make our annual appearance in the media. The world wants to know: How do we do it all? Are we confused? Are we superficial? Are we exhausted? For readers of this blog, my current column at Huffington Post, about why we celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas, may seem rather obvious, but it is still stirring up a snowball fight of comments, both from people who insist we cannot do what we are doing, and people who appreciate our approach. Join the fray!

Meanwhile, here’s a series of small moments from the interfaith holiday season in our family.

Advent. I asked the kids (both now officially bigger than me, at ages 17 and 14) if they wanted an Advent calendar. They said yes. I bought the ubiquitous chocolate-filled cardboard calendar, at a suspiciously cheap price of $5. I checked that it was “made in Canada” and not in China. Nevertheless, the chocolate was so crummy that my son ran outside to spit it in the driveway.  Advent Fail. On the other hand, I have been touched by some of the Advent offerings posted on facebook by my friends, including glorious music by the Mediaeval Baebes, and a frenetic and surreal liturgical dance by Steven Colbert, which I find somehow deeply spiritual, perhaps because I know that in spite of his hilarious cynicism, he is an ardent Catholic and Sunday School teacher. Advent win.

Hanukkah. We already shopped, as a family, at an Alternative Gift Fair this year, and identified charities to fund for various nights of Hanukkah. We gave each of our two teenagers $50 to spend, and they picked out delivery of a bicycle through Bikes for the World, dental checkups for 10 Mayan children in Guatemala, one week of fresh vegetables for a local family from our local farmer’s market, and socks and underwear for our local soup kitchen.

A Sprinkling of Christmas, and Hanukkah. I made Christmas and Hanukkah cookies with a fabulous group of women friends. I try not to mix the holidays together, and I am not the least bit comfortable with the star-of-David tree-topper being marketed this year, but I think it’s kosher to let Hanukkah and Christmas cookies co-exist on a counter-top for a few seconds before they are devoured.

Christmas, with a Little Hanukkah. We trimmed our tree this week. My husband wrapped our porch with lights, and then the kids had their trip down memory lane unwrapping the ornaments. Usually, we listen to Christmas classics while tree-trimming, but because we are all still smitten with the Pink Martini holiday album from last year, we allowed a tiny bit of Christmas/Hanukkah crossover to occur when their irresistible version of Flory Jagoda’s Sephardic Hanukkah song “Ocho Candelikas” (with guest vocals by NPR correspondent Ari Shapiro) came on.

Welcome Yule! We heard a rousing live version of Ocho Candelikas this week, at the Christmas Revels, believe it or not. Every year, the Revels weave together some of the pagan and Celtic influences on Christmas. This year’s Revels was a brave departure, as it was set in the “golden age of Al-Andalus,” on the Iberian Peninsula in the medieval period when Jewish, Muslim and Christian cultures co-existed and recombined. We have been cautioned by academics, recently, not to over-romanticize this period, and the program at the show carefully pointed out that the “level of tolerance varied significantly by time and place.” Nevertheless, after years of Christmas Revels set in different historical periods and geographic settings, it was gratifying to see Judaism, and Islam, represented on the stage. And I see no reason not to be inspired in this season by the vision, however ethereal and ephemeral, of a time and place for religious harmony.

Being Both: The Book

Recently, I hopped into a cab at Boston’s Logan airport and asked the driver to drop me at the corner of Charles and Revere, on Beacon Hill. Once there, I stood gazing up at the windows of the apartment where I spent my first five years, where my parents started their pioneering interfaith marriage some 50 years ago. As it happens, they met when they shared a taxi from Logan airport to Beacon Hill. I wandered into the  antique shop on the ground floor of our old building, and pulled up distant memories of this hushed emporium filled with magical objects and dusty golden light. I selected a small totem to bring me luck at the start of an ambitious new adventure. Then, I dragged my roll-on bag over the cobblestone crest of the Hill, to the venerable Beacon Press, to meet my editor.

Yes, my editor. I am thrilled to announce that in 2013, Beacon Press will publish my book on interfaith life. The working title is The Joy of Being Both: Embracing Two Religions in One Interfaith Family.

I want to thank you, my readers, for speaking out in your comments on this blog, and in your daily conversations, about the joys and challenges of creating an interfaith future together. You have pushed my thinking and helped me to hone my description of this novel pathway. I see my job, on this blog and now in the book, as chronicling your efforts to create a place in the world for families celebrating more than one religion. All of you–blog readers, twitter followers–helped to demonstrate that this vision merits publication in book form.

The book will depict the independent interfaith families movement, based on original reporting and surveys I have been conducting for years now with families who have chosen both religions, and with adult and teen interfaith children raised with two religions.

After meeting with my fearless editor, I continued on to the home of my parents, who are still happily intermarried after 50 years. I told them of my pilgrimage to our old apartment, and unwrapped my antique-shop purchase. What appeared, to me, to be an elegant but mysterious object, they recognized immediately as an ink blotter. My dad then retold his famous story of getting in trouble in grammar school when he reached out and grabbed the pigtail of the girl who sat in front of him, and dipped it into an inkwell.

The world has changed dramatically in my father’s lifetime. Interfaith families have far more options than they did when my parents married. But also, I don’t use any form of ink at all, as I write on a laptop. I am grateful that my publishers will use ink to print the book–that they continue to resist the idea that books made from paper pulp are becoming as antiquated as quill pens and ink blotters.

I plan to keep my ink blotter within sight as I write over the next year. I will take inspiration from my chosen ritual object: from the fine craftsmanship, the pleasing form, the useful nature, the connection to history and to my own autobiography.

Again, thanks to all of you for speaking out on both the needs of interfaith families, and the creative energy we draw from our interfaith experience. And thank you for virtually demanding the documentation of this experience in the form of a book.

The Appeal of Buddhism in Interfaith Families

We are raising our children with Judaism and Christianity, the two religions in our family. Yet various friends and teachers have also exposed them to Buddhism, and at 14, my son currently identifies his religious identity on Facebook as “Jew/Christian swirl interested in Buddhism.”

Buddhism, like Unitarianism-Universalism (UU), has long provided a home for interfaith families and adult interfaith children, especially in places where there is no community specifically for interfaith families.

One of the friends who has brought Buddhism into my family is Sharron Mendel Swain, who was raised by one Jewish and one Christian parent, found a spiritual home in Buddhism in her 20s, and now runs a UU religious education program. Her Buddhist practice is based on the teachings of peace activist and Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, who was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize by Martin Luther King Jr., and created the Plum Village community in France. Recently, I asked Sharron about the appeal of Buddhism for her, as an interfaith child.

Why does Buddhism seem to have particular appeal for some intermarried or interfaith people?

The beautiful thing about Buddhism is that it never, in my experience, asks someone to choose.  For example, in the Plum Village tradition in which I practice, it would be unthinkable to ask someone of mixed race parentage, “are you Black or are you White”?  Same with asking someone with Vietnamese parents who was raised in the US:  ”are you Vietnamese or are you American?”  Anyone who’s been around for any time would get it that you’re both!  It would be like asking a child “are you your father’s child or your mother’s child”?  Of course you are the child of both. . .

One of the central tenets, if you can call it that, of this practice is the notion of “interbeing.”  Interbeing is a deep recognition of how intricately interconnected our world is, from the subatomic level to the level of the cosmos.  Looking deeply, it is possible to see that Christianity cannot exist without Judaism, and Judaism as it is today cannot exist independently of Christianity.

For me, it is as if Christianity and Judaism are two rivers of my family’s experience flowing into the ocean of my life and experience.  Buddhism is the one place I have found that is big enough to embrace the whole ocean, never asking me to choose.

Do you see Buddhism as having particular benefits for interfaith people/families?

Buddhism doesn’t concern itself with the same questions, and is therefore focused on something other than the arguments that have been plaguing Christians and Jews for centuries, if not millennia.  The Buddha himself said he was not interested in the question of whether or not there was a God, and therefore focused his efforts and attention in a whole different direction.  Buddhism (when not practiced in a rote or devotional way, like anything else) is deeply experiential by nature.  It has a built-in “out” in that the Buddha basically said “look, try this, and decide based on your experience, not what I say.”  This is extraordinarily appealing to folks who have probably already broken a number of rules by venturing far enough outside their birth faith to marry someone raised in another faith.  Buddhism has countless practices that, if applied skillfully, can significantly assist in the process of transforming suffering, no matter what someone’s “religious” orientation may be.

And, an ironic thing about Buddhist practice is that it almost invariably leads the practitioner into a much closer examination of, and often deeper appreciation of, the religion (family, etc.) with which they were raised.  This often helps people arrive at a much more mature appreciation of the treasures buried in their birth traditions, and an ability to see the “garbage” for what it is.

Why do you think it seems to be easier for some people to combine the practice of Buddhism with Judaism, or Buddhism with Christianity, than it is to combine Judaism and Christianity?

The Buddha is completely innocent when it comes to the question of Christ’s death. Jews have been burdened for centuries with false allegations around this event, and all manner of prejudice and discrimination that flows from that.  Neither the Buddha, nor Buddhists, to my knowledge, participated in Crusades, or Inquisitions, or other bloody ways of spreading their faith.  Jews also, in many cases, have developed a strong (and justified) “fortress mentality” in the face of centuries of persecution.  The fact that the Holocaust was the experience of the older generation of Jews that is still living has undoubtedly created cultural and generational wounds that may take centuries to heal.

Nonviolence and nonharm are central to Buddhism.  People come into Buddhism with all kinds of wounds and baggage, but if they stick with it long enough, it helps transform all that.  There’s a recognition, perhaps like the Christian acknowledgement of sin, that we all suffer, but there’s no judgement with that.  It’s more like “we are alive, and so we suffer, we feel rage, we discriminate, etc. And we have the power to transform that suffering.  We’ve got all the ‘wholesome seeds’ within us, too.  This means that no matter how much anger or hatred is in us, we can shift the focus and nurture the altruism, the forgiveness, the kindness, and so on.”

This is a profoundly healing perspective, and when it is combined with skillful teachers and real practice, it changes lives.

Could you expand on the idea of Interbeing, a concept that sounds very relevant to interfaith families?

The first three mindfulness trainings of the Order of Interbeing (at least in Thich Nhat Hanh’s tradition) may give some insight into what Buddhism offers:

1. The First Mindfulness Training: Openness

Aware of the suffering created by fanaticism and intolerance, we are determined not to be idolatrous about or bound to any doctrine, theory, or ideology, even Buddhist ones. Buddhist teachings are guiding means to help us learn to look deeply and to develop our understanding and compassion. They are not doctrines to fight, kill, or die for.

2. The Second Mindfulness Training: Nonattachment from Views

Aware of the suffering created by attachment to views and wrong perceptions, we are determined to avoid being narrow-minded and bound to present views. We shall learn and practice nonattachment from views in order to be open to others’ insights and experiences. We are aware that the knowledge we presently possess is not changeless, absolute truth. Truth is found in life, and we will observe life within and around us in every moment, ready to learn throughout our lives.

3. The Third Mindfulness Training: Freedom of Thought

Aware of the suffering brought about when we impose our views on others, we are committed not to force others, even our children, by any means whatsoever – such as authority, threat, money, propaganda, or indoctrination – to adopt our views. We will respect the right of others to be different and to choose what to believe and how to decide. We will, however, help others renounce fanaticism and narrowness through practicing deeply and engaging in compassionate dialogue.

Has Buddhism been helpful to you in your interfaith family? Post your comments…

Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur: Interfaith Connections

When we experience the religious rituals of the “other,” we usually cannot help but respond with an internal running commentary, seeking connections to our own past. I know that when I hear the blast of a conch shell blown at an Afro-Brazilian rite, my mind skips back to the sound of the shofar in my childhood temple.

On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, many non-Jewish partners, and interfaith children, find themselves attending services with Jewish family members. These services, while tremendously important to Jews, can be difficult for non-Jews to access, due to length, solemnity, and the density of Hebrew.  Nevertheless, I always strongly recommend that non-Jews accompany their Jewish partners to synagogue services, both to keep them from feeling lonely, and for educational purposes.

In our Interfaith Families Project, we have the great fortune to have services led by Rabbi Harold White, a rabbi who spent 40 years in a Jesuit environment at Georgetown University. Recently, he shared some interfaith interconnections to look for on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur:

1. Awe. Since the highest of holy days in Judaism is actually the weekly Shabbat, many rabbis prefer the term “The Days of Awe” to describe Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  Think of awe not as fear, but as a mystic trembling meant to “stir up divine sparks.” Rabbi White compared the swaying of Jews at prayer (known in Yiddish as shuckling) to the quaking of Quakers and the shaking of Shakers.  Rhythmic body movement during prayer, whether it’s dancing or repeated bowing, occurs in virtually every religion, from Africa to Asia to American Indian traditions: the mind and body come together, self-consciousness falls away. Says Rabbi White, “Evangelicals have the right idea on this, with hands thrown up in the air.”

1. Mystical numbers.  Yom Kippur marks the end of an annual 40-day spiritual quest in Judaism. All three Abrahamic religions share an obsession with the number 40, which Rabbi White describes as “a magical number in the Middle East. Moses was on Sinai for 40 days, Jesus was in the desert for 40 days, even Ali Baba and the 40 thieves. You think it’s a coincidence. It’s not.”

1. Asking for Forgiveness.  The liturgy of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur hinges on the idea that all of us have sinned. “I know that sounds very Christian, but it’s very Jewish at the same time,” says Rabbi White. “There is no one on the face of the earth who hasn’t sinned.”

1. Praying for Material Well-Being. For most of the year, Jewish prayer focuses on praise and adoration, rather than petition. Asking for direct intervention tends to be more closely associated with Christian prayer. But Rosh Hashanah is the exception, when Jews pray for health and life. “We don’t ask for anything the rest of the year,” says Rabbi White. “But on the Days of Awe, we ask.”

1. Birth of Three Faiths. On Rosh Hashanah, the Torah reading describes the arrival of Abraham’s two sons: Sarah gives birth to Isaac, Hagar gives birth to Ishmael. Sarah becomes the matriarch of Judaism (and thus Christianity), Abraham sends Hagar into exile. But in Muslim writings, the heroic Hagar (Hajir) becomes the mother of Islam. Charlotte Gordon (an adult interfaith child) has written a deep and sensitive analysis of the story of Hagar in her book The Woman Who Named God: Abraham’s Dilemma and the Birth of Three Faiths.

1. Miracles. Sometimes Jewish students approach Rabbi White and assert, with a certain smugness, that Christianity requires belief in miracles and Judaism does not. The Rabbi points to the miracle of the birth of Isaac, when Abraham and Sarah are in deep old-age (Abraham is 100). Genesis specifies that Sarah not only has suffered from lifelong infertility, but is post-menopausal.  Virgin birth, post-menopausal birth, both miracles.

1. Songs and Canticles. The Biblical passage known as the Song of Hannah, a reading from the prophet Samuel, is the haftara reading chosen to complement the Torah reading on the first day of Rosh Hashanah. The infertile Hannah has prayed for and been given a son, and her song of Thanksgiving is thought to have inspired the most famous of all canticles in the Christian liturgy, the Song of Mary, known as the Magnificat.

Finding a welcoming service, getting off work, arranging childcare, sitting through services, fasting, gleaning meaning from ancient prayers in an unfamiliar language. None of this is easy, but it is still essential experiential education for any family connected to Judaism. So, forgive me for any sins of blogging I have committed against you in this past year. And Happy New Year!

Authenticity, Judaism, and Encounters with Menachem Youlus

I will admit to experiencing a moment of schadenfreude this week when I read of the indictment of the self-styled “Jewish Indiana Jones,” Rabbi Menachem Youlus, on charges of fraud. Youlus presides over our local Jewish bookstore, and I often shopped there, and listened to his elaborate stories of rescuing torah scrolls hidden from the Nazis. Prosecutors now charge that he was telling tall tales, and embezzling funds from his own “Save a Torah” foundation. But why should I gain any satisfaction from what now appears to be an appalling scam?

I am confident about my own strong connection to Judaism. And yet, entering a Jewish bookstore like the one Youlus runs can be intimidating and frustrating for members of interfaith families. I know I am going to run smack into questions like “what shul do you go to?” It is always hard to explain why I am shopping for ritual objects for my children (a Torah study guide, a mezuzah), and why they would be learning Hebrew when they are (patrilinial) “quarter-Jews,” and why we don’t belong to a shul at all. I understand that a Rabbi who runs such a store will often come from an Orthodox background, and will not consider me or my children Jewish, but I really don’t want to get into defending my identity when I’m just trying to buy a Bar Mitzvah gift. In Wheaton, it was always hard not to engage with the loquacious and entertaining Rabbi Youlus.

Growing up in an interfaith family practicing Reform Judaism, I had no real cause to shop for ritual objects. My Jewish father had the necessities: a kiddush cup, Shabbat candlesticks, a brass menorah. In Sunday School at our temple, my siblings and I embroidered a yarmulke for my father, a challah cover for our Sabbath table, a matzoh cover for the Passover seder. We needed little else.

After forming my own interfaith family, my self-designated religious role has been to build my children’s knowledge of and affection for Judaism to the point where they feel a right to claim that identity in adulthood (while remaining open to the possibility that they will choose a Christian identity, or some other identity). Part of that process has meant exposing them to as much “authentic” Jewish practice as possible, in some ways going beyond the somewhat minimalist practice of my own Reform Jewish childhood. Ironically, part of that exposure has included exploring our local Jewish bookstore, owned by Menachem Youlus.

So, on multiple occasions, starting about five years ago when we were planning my older child’s interfaith coming-of-age and Bat Mitzvah ceremony, we have shopped at Y0ulus’s musty emporium, crammed to overflowing with phylacteries and havdalah spice boxes, yads and Hebrew lotto sets, tomes of Jewish history and prayer books. The shop happens to be located in one of my favorite urban corners of the world, in the diverse and bustling DC suburb of Wheaton, within a block of both West African and Brazilian food (and thus a corner that seems to represent my entire cross-cultural journey, which is somehow very satisfying).

Usually, we have been the only customers in the bookshop, and we would immediately face the well-meaning but irritating questions from the shop clerks, playing Jewish geography and probing our tribal membership. For our interfaith family, and many others, you could say this membership exists only through the force of our stubborn collective imagination.

Perhaps as a strategy to deflect simple identity questions with complex answers, I fell into a pattern of redirecting Rabbi Youlus (which was easy to do) to regale us with his swashbuckling exploits of rescuing torahs from former concentration camps and other exotic locales. We would visit his workroom, piled with scrolls in various states of repair. We admired torahs already purchased and awaiting pickup, displayed in velvet mantles with the names of benefactors embroidered in gold.

I feel sadness now for those apparently bamboozled by Youlus, for the patrons who paid high prices for his torahs and repeated what now appear to be romantic confabulations as truth. As a self-identified member of the tribe, I also share the sense of collective shame as Youlus joins the notorious “not good for the Jews” roster.

But for me, and for my children, the comeuppance of Youlus, if he is found guilty of these charges, will also serve as a reminder that neither tribal membership nor elaborate practice with all of the correct ritual objects serves as proof of goodness, or even, as far as I’m concerned, proof of superior or essential Jewishness. Objects are necessary for ritual; their value is based in part on esthetics and in part on family and communal history. And the torah plays a central role in Judaism. But fetishizing objects, and their history, can be risky. The Judaism (and the Christianity) I want for my children is about justice, kindness and truth. These values can’t be purchased at a religious bookstore, even from a Rabbi.

Black and Jewish, Interfaith and Interracial, Hilarious and Offensive

I have two teenagers, and rapper Wiz Khalifa’s “Black and Yellow,” a tribute to his hometown of Pittsburgh, got plenty of play in our house this year. So when I watched the new parody video hit “Black and Jewish,” I got the joke on several levels. I also knew it was going to make a lot of people uncomfortable. After mulling it over, I wanted to weigh in with my perspective as an adult interfaith child.

First off, I realize that not all black and Jewish people are interfaith children. Some are converts (most famously, Sammy Davis Jr.). And some African-American families have been Jewish for generations, including the family of brilliant blogger MaNishtana. The point is, being black and Jewish is not necessarily an interfaith issue: black is a race, Jewish is a religion, no necessary conflict or mixing involved.

Nevertheless, most “black and Jewish” people are a subset of interfaith children, (including stars referenced in the video such as Lenny Kravitz (who identifies himself as Christian), Drake, and Rashida Jones). The lead actors in the video, Kali Hawk (“Bridesmaids”) and Kat Graham (“Vampire Diaries), each have one black and one (white) Jewish parent. In the video, they depict themselves as both 100% black, and 100% Jewish. I believe that all interfaith children have a right to choose their own identities. And there are historical and political and sociological reasons for biracial children to choose to be black, just as there are parallel reasons for interfaith children to choose to be Jewish.

The problem is that “Black and Jewish” trades on the broadest and basest stereotypes about both blacks and Ashkenazi Jews (“my nose and ass, they’re both big”). It’s a little bit Lenny Bruce, a little bit Dave Chappelle. The video is hilarious to insiders, but it also might be a bad idea for people in China who don’t actually know any blacks or Jews to view it (or people in Nebraska, for that matter).

Nevertheless, as an interfaith child, I cannot help responding to the optimism inherent in this video: all ages, colors, and religions dance joyously together at the climax. The fictional black father and Jewish mother appear to be a warm and loving couple, and the progeny appear to be anything but confused. These young women project defiance and confidence, claiming and celebrating both sides of their heritage. Unlike the cautionary tales of black and Jewish relationships from a generation ago (see James McBride’s The Color of Water, or Rebecca Walker’s Black, White and Jewish), this video hints at some of the benefits of interfaith and interracial marriage embraced by a new generation of interfaith children, and could help to offset some of the antiquated fear-mongering and tribalism of religious institutions and the press when writing about interfaith and interracial families.

Being a Quarter-Jew: One Interfaith Family, One Quirky Film

I went to see the charming independent film “Beginners” this week with my teenage daughter (three-quarters Episcopalian, one-quarter Jewish). We usually identify ourselves as members of an interfaith family, rather than by religious fractions. But I was interested to discover that half-Jewish and quarter-Jewish identity play a role in this film. Director Mike Mills is an interfaith child, and this unabashedly autobiographical story struck me at times as funny, at times as moving, at times as oppressive in its sadness. While being half-Jewish has become common in film and fiction, I think this was the first time I have noticed a character portrayed specifically as one-quarter Jewish.

The film’s protagonist, Oliver (played by Ewan McGregor), discovers after the death of his mother that his father (the marvelous Christopher Plummer) is gay. In flashbacks, the mother (who identifies herself as half-Jewish) informs her only child (the narrator and stand-in for the filmmaker) that he is a quarter-Jew, and that their superior ability to emote comes from their Jewish blood. And yet, the mother is cold and emotionally abusive to her son, presumably because she is twisted by decades of living in a sort of closet with a gay husband. She is also clearly ambivalent about her Jewish background. In the film, the narrator mentions that she was kicked off a swim-team in 1938 for being half-Jewish, and that she abandoned Judaism when she married her WASP husband. Mills has said that this happened to his mother in real life.

In the film, Oliver seeks redemption from repression through his passion for Anna, an equally sad and depressed young woman who is wholly Jewish, played by French (and Jewish) actress Melanie Laurent. While the scenes between Oliver and his father were touching and delightful, the relationship between Oliver and Anna seemed to meander at times.

Anyway, in a flashback, Oliver’s mother tries to impress on her son that being one-quarter Jewish is somehow important or defining. Her theory underscores the “red sock effect” described in the book Between Two Worlds: that like a red sock in a load of white laundry, even a single Jewish forbear seems to exert an outsize effect, coloring all the clothes pink.

The autobiographical films of Woody Allen have clearly influenced Mills, and reviewers have compared “Beginners” to a reverse “Annie Hall,” with Oliver as a WASP and Anna as a Jew (in lieu of the very Jewish Allen and the WASP Diane Keaton). But Oliver’s ruminations on the anti-Semitism faced by his mother, his mother’s declarations about the importance of her own half-Jewish identity, and her awkward attempts to communicate some sense of the importance of even the quarter-Jewish identity of her son, make the “Annie Hall” analogy imperfect. Everyone in this film shares some degree of repression, everyone shares some degree of neuroticism, and, as is common in our increasingly interfaith world, everyone crosses boundaries and confounds labels.

A Small But Significant Torah: Interfaith Musings on Shavuot

The Jewish festival of Shavuot starts tonight, and the Christian celebration of Pentecost arrives Sunday. Shavuot commemorates the gift of the Torah on Mount Sinai. My rabbi waxes wise and eloquent, as always, on how these two holidays intertwine. But I have to admit that my interfaith family will not take much notice of either one this year: we are still exhausted from our profound Bar Mitzvah experience, and both my teenagers are in the middle of finals in school and must stick to secular studies this evening.

I love the idea of studying Torah all night long, a Shavuot custom, or of attending some hipster downtown alternative (like the ones at Jews United for Justice, or the Historic 6th and I Synagogue). But the truth is that the most I will probably do this year is buy some cheesecake from our fabulous local bakery, run by an interfaith family who promote cheesecake-consumption for Shavuot. The tradition of eating dairy products on Shavuot apparently evolved from the fact that animals were weaned in late spring, creating a sudden abundance of milk.

But coincidentally, or not, the Torah has been much on my mind lately. Over the last few weeks, we had the great privilege to live with a Torah that is loaned to our interfaith community by a member who inherited it from her grandfather. I call it the teeny-tiny-Torah. It isn’t as small, of course, as the little toy plastic-and-paper Torahs my temple gave out on Shavuot or Simchat Torah in my childhood. (I just came across a lovely essay about those toy Torahs, and the idea that both sacred objects and sacred texts have meaning.)

Our Torah is, in fact, exactly the right size for my adolescent son to cradle and prop affectionately on one shoulder like a baby. I love the simple blue velvet mantle our Torah wears. I love the patina on the deco amber and ivory beaded finials (called rimonim since they resemble pomegranates growing on the wooden spindles, known as eytz chayim or trees). I love the simple pine ark our Torah lives in, made by an interfaith teenager who created it, complete with a curtain of golden cloth, as part of his coming-of-age community service project. I am profoundly grateful that we could spend time with this Torah, while my son mastered reading the Hebrew calligraphy lettered onto the parchment.

Anticipating our ceremony, I thought often of the radical Shabbat service I attended during the Dovetail Institute for Interfaith Families National Conference, in Chicago, in 2002. Chicago has pioneered support for interfaith families celebrating both religions: progressive Catholic clergy have long worked with progressive Jewish clergy to help interfaith couples achieve both balance and depth. On that Shabbat, the Makon Shalom synagogue welcomed the conference participants–interfaith families, outreach workers, clergy of all stripes–and we passed the Torah from lap to lap, around the sanctuary, so that every single person could commune with it. For some of the Christian spouses, who may have been barred from handling the Torah in their own family syngagogues, this act was radical and cathartic. Many wiped away tears.

So I was determined to share our tiny Torah with as many people as I could while I had the chance. At our ceremony, we passed it carefully down through all three generations of grandparents, parents, and children in our family, incuding both Christian grandmothers. For they, too, had ancestors who received the ten commandments from Moses. What’s not to share? And we processed through the sanctuary, singing, and showing off our tiny Torah for all to see and touch.

Much later, as I was packing up to leave the Unitarian Universalist (UU) sanctuary where we had our ceremony, the church administrator admitted that he had never seen a Torah up close, so we sat down again to show it to him. He very much appreciated this gesture, and repaid us by telling this UU joke: “A priest, a rabbi, and a UU minister are commiserating in a bar. All three of their houses of worship have just burned down in a terrible fire. The priest says, ‘At least I was able to run back in and save the carved wooden crucifix.’ The rabbi says, ‘At least I was able to run back in and save the Torah.’ And the UU minister says, ‘At least I was able to run back in and save the coffee urn and the copy machine.’” Like a lot of interfaith dialogue, this moment was both amusing and awkward.

This year, on Shavuot, I am grateful for the time I spent over the past year struggling over my son’s difficult Torah portion with him. I am grateful for the Ten Commandments, which seem miraculously relevant and not particularly archaic at all. I am grateful for the up-close-and-personal opportunity my family had with this Torah, with this compelling and resonant sacred object, filled with ancient mysteries.

Passover, Easter, Oy! Interfaith debate on HuffPost…

Yesterday, my debut column went up on Huffington Post.  The debate in the comment section has been lively, to say the least, with disgruntled atheists, disgruntled Christians, disgruntled Jews, and disgruntled Pagans all weighing in. It is hard to encompass, in a single post, the entire philosophy of interfaith families communities. At Huffington Post, I will continue over time to present my perspective as a member of an interfaith community, as an interfaith child, and as an interfaith parent who has chosen to educate my children about two religions. Please join the conversation there! At the same time, no worries, I will continue to post at On Being Both.

The most urgent need is explaining to the world, again and again, that we are not attempting to mix two religions together, but to recognize and celebrate the differences. I think the terms “Interfaith Passover” and “Interfaith Easter” cue assumptions that we are creating mash-up celebrations, even though I stated otherwise. I explained this most recently, here, in my “Interfaith Purim” post. Purim is Purim. Passover is Passover. Easter is Easter. We celebrate these holidays together as an interfaith community, because we are a community, and because the experience of celebrating together as interfaith families is powerful. But the liturgy, the traditions, the contents of the celebrations may well be more traditional than you would find in some “monofaith” communities.

Please read my Passover and Easter post at HuffPost, and join me in explaining why we do what we do: become my HuffPost “fan,” click “like” on the article, and most importantly, post a comment and join the discussion there. To engender greater acceptance, we need to stick our necks out of the happy interfaith bubble we have created, and engage with the world at large.