Op Ed: The Un-Chosen People
By Lee Seham
November 2, 2007
Growing up, some of my best friends were Jewish. Actually, my very best friend – my dad.
My dad, however, chose to marry one of the two white Protestant girls who attended Midwood High. While the four of us kids were raised without religious instruction, my two older sisters grew up as cultural Jews.
I was on that path too. I used my own savings to join AIPAC as a student. I spent a summer on an Israeli kibbutz. I was (and am) an ardent Zionist.
At my public high school, I was in all the honors classes so, naturally, virtually all my classmates were Jewish. I went to a lot of Bar Mitzvahs, learned a fair amount of Yiddish, and some Hebrew. My family celebrated Passover and Channukah every year. But not Yom Kippur because dad said he had nothing to atone for. And, in any case, he preferred the eating holidays.
My siblings and I intuitively knew that being Jewish was very cool. You were smart. You were funny. You were white, but you weren’t part of that white America responsible for killing the Indians and victimizing the black underclass. You were an oppressed minority, but an affluent professional at the same time. Best of both worlds.
But, every so often, one of my high school friends would stop short and pointedly remind me that, due to the matrilineal rule, I wasn’t Jewish at all.
My best friend in college said he had to marry a Jewish girl because he didn’t want his children to be like me. It hurt to hear that, but I actually understood and sympathized.
My best friend in law school was troubled by my status and went to this rabbi to investigate. “Sorry,” he shook his head ruefully, “you’re just not.” And, yes, I know that there are rabbis with more liberal views on the subject, but a certain native pride always prevented me from wending my way through that Talmudic maze. When an Irish Catholic girl friend expressed her concern that she might be “schicksa-ed,” I wistfully assured her that I was not in a position to do so.
Years went by and I had two boys. I thought they should have the opportunity I never had – a spiritual foundation and the chance to reject it when they became angry teenagers. So, when I came to Chappaqua, I did the rounds of mainstream Protestant churches that I thought would scare me the least.
By the sheerest of coincidences, my youngest sister and I investigated Congregational churches in our respective towns at the same time. In tones just a half-step from defiance, she advised the deacon visiting her home of her determination to stay faithful to both sides of her heritage. The older woman put an arm around my sister and said tenderly: “honey, we are all half-Jewish.”
I had a different schtick. I told the minister in frank tones that, while I admired Jesus, I thought it was too late in life for me to accept all the doctrine. He wanted me any way. So, naturally, I suspected that I wouldn’t want to join a church that would have me as a member. But I did. For the kids.
Years later my son was eating birthday cake with friends at the dining room table. In that direct manner that some boys have – obnoxious yet somehow refreshing – one of the guests piped up and said: “OK, hands up, who’s Jewish. OK, who’s Christian.” My son’s hand shot up for the latter tally and suddenly I felt sad. We still celebrate Passover and Channuhak every year and I remind them of their proud heritage. But, of course, we’re down to a quarter. My college friend was right.
Yet notwithstanding an occasional sensation of guilt at the dissipation of my father’s cultural inheritance (ah, that heritage kicking in), some of my happiest and proudest moments since moving to New Castle are directly associated with my church. We staffed the huge memorial event at the Rec Field on September 15, 2001. We’ve built homes for earthquake victims in Nicaragua and shelter the local homeless in our own parish hall during the worst of the winter. We raise money to support battered women and host environmental events. We cook meals for co-parishioners when they are sick or injured and pray for them when their family members are stricken with cancer. Then of course there is the singing and occasional cocktail party. And Christmas. And Easter.
I worry about the decline of mainstream Protestant churches. My dad always said that it was difficult for moderates to obtain adherents. Standing for love, tolerance and community doesn’t seem to be a loud enough message.
But though I must confess to skipping a lot of Sundays, I’m almost always glad when I have gone. There are a lot of good people there doing good things. And anyone is welcome. Even me.
Lee Seham is a labor, employment and immigration attorney who is grateful that his south Texas clients have not yet discovered that he is a gentile.
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