Have Faith Will Travel
Have I committed a mortal sin if I've taken Holy Communion from Cardinal Mahoney and I'm not a Catholic? God only knows.
Over the years I've been a religious traveller and found the very little resistance from the gatekeepers. Unlike my status as a resident alien in the U.S. I am not required to show proof of religious citizenship so if I show up regularly at, say, a church or a synagogue, I'm taken at face value. As my Haida friend once said, to become a member of their tribe you must put on the button blanket. But that's another story.
In April this year I attended Easter Vigil at Our Lady of Angels Cathedral with my friend Mari, a devout if worldly Catholic, and I knew enough of their prayers and songs from my early days as an Anglican, that no-one was the wiser when it came time to take Communion. From the Cardinal, no less. Nevermind the fact that several adults were being baptized at this service having spent several months in religious instruction for the priviledge of taking in the body and blood of Christ and yet I could just waltz up there and take a share without so much as a Hail Mary.
As I sat in the pew surrounded by tapestries of the saints, a pale light over the altar flowing through alabaster stone sliced as thin as eggshell, I remembered years earlier when I was asked by the Rabbi at the shul I was attending regularly to come up and read from the Torah.
I had become over the previous decade a practicing Jew. Not by birthright, nor by formal conversion. I just showed up at Temple on a regular basis with my Conservadox boyfriend and after a while I lost the look of a confused tourist when there was a reading, I davened with the best of them, and I learned enough Hebrew to make it through most of the prayers like a native. I had special plates for our Passover seders, and I kashered the kitchen before the holidays. I had a drawer full of Haggadahs, Hanukah candles, and draydls. I spent Yom Kippur in Temple and fasted, resting only during the brief afternoon break before returning for afternoon prayers.
So when the Rabbi invited us up to participate in the Rosh Hashanah services, to stand with him during prayers, and then to take up the instrument to follow the Hebrew and read from the Torah, slicha but I said yes without a moment's hestiation. I felt deeply honored and humbled for the privledge, but somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that if anyone found out that I was just a goy in disguise, there would have been a revolt amongst the small, pious congregation and I might rightly have been sent out in shame and disgrace.
Up I went, and my friend let me know with subtle hand signals when it was time to kneel, to stand, and then the moment came when I stepped up to the ancient and holy book and read my passage. The Rabbi helped me a bit (not everyone is fluent in Hebrew) and I felt his kindly and supportive presence close to me in case I faltered. At that moment I loved him dearly for his confidence and generosity, and I wanted very much to be the person he thought me to be. Perhaps I was, perhaps the spirit of a genuine Jew found a home in me for a while. I know I felt blessed and close to God. The same God who was speaking down the street at Harbor Light Baptist Church, a point I've been trying to make at cocktail parties for ages.
Later I was allowed to carry the Torah down the aisles while we sang and danced. Others reached out with their prayer shawls and books to touch it reverently. With awe I held it close to my heart, resting on my chest, the beautiful scrolled silver so close to my breath it was like magic.
The boyfriend and I broke up a few months later and I never went back to the Temple. I gave up trying to be a Jew to please the relationship, but the Jew in me never quite went away. I realize as I wait my turn to drink from the chalice my faith is so much a part of who I am that whether I carry the Torah or take Communion, God is always going to be there.
He may not be clothed in the familiar, but he is flexible enough to work with me and I have to respect that.
And I hope to teach Sweetpea the joys of finding faith on whatever path it takes her, and to build and cross as many bridges as she can. To that end we're starting by joining the Unitarian Universalist Church which takes a world view on faith. Which would be good except my brother-in-law the Baptist minister and my Rabbi friend both agree that those Unitarians are agnostic nutcases.
Oy! You can't win.
Over the years I've been a religious traveller and found the very little resistance from the gatekeepers. Unlike my status as a resident alien in the U.S. I am not required to show proof of religious citizenship so if I show up regularly at, say, a church or a synagogue, I'm taken at face value. As my Haida friend once said, to become a member of their tribe you must put on the button blanket. But that's another story.
In April this year I attended Easter Vigil at Our Lady of Angels Cathedral with my friend Mari, a devout if worldly Catholic, and I knew enough of their prayers and songs from my early days as an Anglican, that no-one was the wiser when it came time to take Communion. From the Cardinal, no less. Nevermind the fact that several adults were being baptized at this service having spent several months in religious instruction for the priviledge of taking in the body and blood of Christ and yet I could just waltz up there and take a share without so much as a Hail Mary.
As I sat in the pew surrounded by tapestries of the saints, a pale light over the altar flowing through alabaster stone sliced as thin as eggshell, I remembered years earlier when I was asked by the Rabbi at the shul I was attending regularly to come up and read from the Torah.
I had become over the previous decade a practicing Jew. Not by birthright, nor by formal conversion. I just showed up at Temple on a regular basis with my Conservadox boyfriend and after a while I lost the look of a confused tourist when there was a reading, I davened with the best of them, and I learned enough Hebrew to make it through most of the prayers like a native. I had special plates for our Passover seders, and I kashered the kitchen before the holidays. I had a drawer full of Haggadahs, Hanukah candles, and draydls. I spent Yom Kippur in Temple and fasted, resting only during the brief afternoon break before returning for afternoon prayers.
So when the Rabbi invited us up to participate in the Rosh Hashanah services, to stand with him during prayers, and then to take up the instrument to follow the Hebrew and read from the Torah, slicha but I said yes without a moment's hestiation. I felt deeply honored and humbled for the privledge, but somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that if anyone found out that I was just a goy in disguise, there would have been a revolt amongst the small, pious congregation and I might rightly have been sent out in shame and disgrace.
Up I went, and my friend let me know with subtle hand signals when it was time to kneel, to stand, and then the moment came when I stepped up to the ancient and holy book and read my passage. The Rabbi helped me a bit (not everyone is fluent in Hebrew) and I felt his kindly and supportive presence close to me in case I faltered. At that moment I loved him dearly for his confidence and generosity, and I wanted very much to be the person he thought me to be. Perhaps I was, perhaps the spirit of a genuine Jew found a home in me for a while. I know I felt blessed and close to God. The same God who was speaking down the street at Harbor Light Baptist Church, a point I've been trying to make at cocktail parties for ages.
Later I was allowed to carry the Torah down the aisles while we sang and danced. Others reached out with their prayer shawls and books to touch it reverently. With awe I held it close to my heart, resting on my chest, the beautiful scrolled silver so close to my breath it was like magic.
The boyfriend and I broke up a few months later and I never went back to the Temple. I gave up trying to be a Jew to please the relationship, but the Jew in me never quite went away. I realize as I wait my turn to drink from the chalice my faith is so much a part of who I am that whether I carry the Torah or take Communion, God is always going to be there.
He may not be clothed in the familiar, but he is flexible enough to work with me and I have to respect that.
And I hope to teach Sweetpea the joys of finding faith on whatever path it takes her, and to build and cross as many bridges as she can. To that end we're starting by joining the Unitarian Universalist Church which takes a world view on faith. Which would be good except my brother-in-law the Baptist minister and my Rabbi friend both agree that those Unitarians are agnostic nutcases.
Oy! You can't win.
posted by vallie at 7:52 PM
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