Today I claim Barack Obama as a fellow interfaith child. Of course he’s a Christian. He made that choice, and has every right to do so. I waited years to claim him as an interfaith child because I so badly wanted him to be President, and I willingly participated in the liberal media conspiracy to downplay his Muslim roots.
But at this moment, I am filled with nachas (Yiddish for pride in the accomplishment of a relative) because Obama will be drinking beer this evening at the White House with a black professor and a white police officer. I see this inspired gesture as quintessential interfaith, or bicultural, behavior. He sees the conflict from both perspectives, and inserts himself in the middle to become the human bridge between the two.
Of course, race is still the primary identifier in America, and Obama’s status as a mixed-race child trumps his interfaith background. But when you listen to his moving speech in Cairo last month, it is clear that he benefits from his formative experiences with Islam. While he did not know his Muslim biological father, growing up with knowledge of this family connection can have a strong effect on an interfaith child’s identity. Even more important was his experience as a boy in Indonesia, the most populous Muslim country in the world, with a Muslim stepfather. Obama is both a practicing Christian and someone raised with an intimate knowledge of Islam. I celebrate his interfaithness, and see that the world has already benefitted from it.
As an interfaith child, I am proud to share the “both/and” perspective with many other Americans–children who embody two or more races, immigrants who straddle two cultures, expatriate offspring raised in other countries. All of us see ourselves in Obama. Many of us aspire to use our “both/and” status to become religious bridges, Obama-style. I don’t happen to like beer, which is just as well given the different religious perspectives on alcohol. Anyone want to come over for a root beer?
A fascinating story in today’s Washington Post describes how some Japanese children develop perfect pitch after their parents train them throughout the day, over a period of years. I admire these parents, just as I admire the parents who work hard to instill Jewish identity in their children through daily practice and sacrifice. I certainly admire my own mother, who schlepped us to Hebrew school, came with us to temple, and even tried studying Hebrew, though she never converted to Judaism.
I regret a bit that I did not work with my children to help them develop perfect pitch. It seems like a magical quality. But at the conclusion of the article, an American music professor states that he’s not sure many Americans would want their children to be so specialized at such a young age. He says, “In our culture…we seem to want our children to be well-rounded, involved in a multitude of activities.”
In choosing dual religious training for my children, I decided I wanted them to be well-rounded, even though I knew I was forgoing the benefits of total immersion in one religion. The musical metaphor for their training might be polyrhythms—the simultaneous playing of more than one independent rhythm.
Is it possible to become a musician without perfect pitch? Of course. I suspect American musicians even have some easy, swinging quality they might not have had with more rigid musical training early in childhood. Is it possible to become a good Jew or a good Christian after a childhood straddling both religions? Those who convert later in life often have a zeal, or flair, which comes from the experience of choosing a religion as an adult.
I made my choices for my children, knowing that there would be benefits and drawbacks. I realize they may never have the ability to name the individual notes in a piece of music, as if hearing in a third dimension. And it will be harder for them to develop fluency in Hebrew or the sense of unquestioned belonging in either religion. But if they decide they want to convert to Judaism, or Christianity, they will have a well-rounded religious training on which to build. I don’t have any expectation that they will choose one religion, or not choose. I do expect them to improvise, to swing, and feel music and spirit in their bones, whatever music it may be.
My teenager and pre-teen are off at a sleepaway camp founded by Quakers: it has a lovely weekly ecumenical reflection time outdoors, called “dell.” I have often thought about sending them to a Jewish summer camp to reinforce their knowledge of things Jewish and give them a stronger sense of the Jewish community. But I can’t quite get over the reality that “sending them to Jewish camp” is an overt part of the institutional strategy to get interfaith kids to identify as Jews. Which in the case of my kids, would require them to convert. Jews are not generally known for their missionary zeal, but in the case of interfaith families, there has been some pretty aggressive recruiting going on, and I have tried to protect my children from being exposed to this, at least until adulthood. They are perfectly happy with their interfaith identities.
Meanwhile, interfaith communities–with religious education programs, community service programs, adult discussion groups, holiday celebrations, and even weekly services of music and reflection—are sprouting up around the country. I would love to see an interfaith camp for children and teens evolve as a next step. Interfaith children from across America could meet each other, understand that they are part of a nationwide movement, and explore their interfaith identities without pressure to choose a particular religion. They could celebrate Shabbat and get a taste of communal kibbutz living with other interfaith kids, but also sing “Peace Like A River” and “Dona Nobis Pacem.”
Our interfaith community is often described as a utopian bubble, someplace apart from the “real world.” Interfaith Camp would be a summertime utopian bubble—a safe place out in the woods somewhere for kids to be who they are, without pressure from an adult world obsessed with binary “either/or” labeling. I wish I had been to such a camp. I still wish I could go. Maybe if we build it, they will come. We could even have a “Family Week” for all ages. I’m going to grab my ukulele and my watercolor set, and meet you there.
I appreciate the in-your-face “we can call ourselves whatever we want” quality of the half-Jew movement. Many of us have issues with the fact that Jews can’t even agree on who is a Jew, and yet they try to tell us we can’t call ourselves half-Jews.
Traditional Jewish law known as halacha specifies that either you’re a Jew (because your mother was a Jew) or you’re not. Your Jewish father? He’s, uh, chopped liver. But since 1983, Reform Jews have officially accepted either matrilineal or patrineal half-Jews as Jews, as long as they have been “raised Jewish.” The seemingly endless arguments over “Who is a Jew” continue to alienate interfaith families.
Meanwhile, many of us insist that being half-Jewish is a unique and even positive state, despite widespread disapproval. A spunky website called halfJew.org died an untimely death after vicious flaming shut down the comments section. But in the 21st century, it will be hard to ignore half-Jews as we come into our own. By the year 2030, there will be more half-Jewish children than there will be “full-blooded” Jewish children in America. As Robin Margolis, founder of the Half-Jewish Network points out, “If we’re the majority, we’ll decide who’s a Jew.” You can read great blog posts just this month about being half-Jewish at jezebel.com and thefbomb.com.
Personally, while I’m cheering on the half-Jew movement, I usually identify myself as an interfaith child rather than a half-Jew. I like the positive associations of interfaith—of cooperation, of interweaving, and even the possibility that we are talking about faith or spirituality, as well as culture. I don’t like the way “half-Jew” ignores and diminishes my other half. I identify myself as a whole, not as a fractional Jew. And I have common ground with interfaith children who aren’t Jewish at all—whether they’re Muslim/Hindu, or Christian/Buddhist. Finally, I think about my own children, who are only one-quarter Jewish, and the “wrong” patrilineal quarter at that. Our family shares a label, a community, a history now. We’re not a half-Jewish family. We’re an interfaith family.
I didn’t grow up with Jesus. My parents raised us as Jews, and the topic never came up at our dinner table. So no, I don’t believe Jesus is my personal savior. So you could call me a Jew who is particularly knowledgeable about Christianity. Or you could call me a Unitarian I guess. But go and ask ten of your Christian-born friends if they believe that Jesus is their personal savior. If you’re reading this blog, I’m going to make an educated guess that most of you born or raised Christian think of Jesus as a role model, an important historical figure, a revolutionary rabbi, an inexplicable mystery, or even an inspiring myth. Or as the son of God, in the sense that we are all sons and daughters of God. All of which works for me just fine. It is rare that I find I actually disagree on theological grounds with the Christians in my circle of family and friends.
It wasn’t until I came of age, and got safely through my Bat Mitzvah, that I began to tentatively probe at my Christian roots. As a teenager in the 1970s, I would privately indulge in Jesus Christ Superstar or Godspell and feel like I was gobbling forbidden fruit. Jewish composer and lyricist Stephen Schwartz apparently understood the primal appeal of the Jesus story. I’m glad that he, and so many other Jewish writers and artists throughout history, felt free to infuse the story with such passion (so to speak). And I’m glad that my children can feel swept away by these stories, without feeling a lot of Jewish guilt. The head rush I know as spirituality is almost always the direct result of great art, music, or community action. Ideology, not so much.
Susan Katz Miller’s book, Being Both: Embracing Two Religions in One Interfaith Family is available now in hardcover, paperback and eBook from Beacon Press.
I’m an interfaith child. I’m not confused or lost. I embrace my Jewish and Christian family. I explore the history and rituals of both religions. It is natural for me to switch off between my Jewish and Christian lenses, the way I switch between my reading glasses and my distance glasses. Each pair is useful. I carry them both with me. I need both perspectives.
I’m also an interfaith parent. My children are not confused or lost. They have been raised to celebrate both their family religions. They have learned about both traditions in a religious education program with over 100 other interfaith children in Washington, DC. Our interfaith community here is part of a growing, international movement of interfaith families who do not want to choose one parent’s religion over the other. My children know that this choice is still unusual and highly controversial. They take pride in being different, in learning both Hebrew and parables. They wear the progressive lenses that fuse two ways of looking at the world.
I have hesitated for years before launching this blog, in part because I know it will attract some anger from both individuals and institutions. But as I advise interfaith families and groups around the country, as we forge this hybrid universe together, I wanted to create a forum to share our stories. I invite you to be brave, and do just that.