We Made Our Bris Inclusive. Here’s How.

  
Sarah and her husband with their new baby

Photo by Melissa Naclerio, Modern Birdcage Photography

At just nine weeks pregnant, my doctor ran a blood test and we waited on the results, full of anticipation. When they came back, we found out our baby was a healthy baby boy! Seeing is believing for me, so I waited until the anatomy scan to be sure we needed to start preparing for a boy. Sure enough, the blood test didn’t lie.

Our first baby was a girl, so after the birth, there was no rush to pull off a Jewish lifecycle event. We had done a simchat bat (also called a brit bat) celebration for her (a Jewish naming ceremony for a baby girl), but it was almost two months after she was born, so we had already started to settle into a routine and we were somewhat rested. This time would be very different. This boy would have a bris on his eighth day of life, no matter when that would fall. For my Type A personality, it was going to be tricky to relinquish control.

Sarah with her babyI started planning right away, months ahead of time. I figured we wouldn’t have many attendees with the last minute nature of it, so I planned on holding it at home, unlike the simchat bat. The one detail I needed to really research was finding the right mohel or mohelet (the person trained to perform the ritual circumcision).

Because the majority of our family and friends are Christian, I wanted to be sure we found a mohel who had experience in interfaith settings. We needed someone who could explain the tradition well because for most people in the room, this would be their first experience with it. It was also important that some of our guests who were not Jewish could take part in ceremonial honors.

A few of the mohalim we reached out to required that the sandek (the person who holds the baby during the circumcision) be a Jewish male. I started making a list of all the Jewish men we knew, realizing that if one was not available on the eighth day, we would have to move on to the next. Of course, the majority of the list was out of state. My cousin seemed like the best fit, but if baby decided to arrive later than expected, my cousin would be away at college and I would have to fly another relative or friend in, or end up with someone we didn’t know well to hold the baby during his circumcision. This was not ideal and rather stressful.

I kept looking and reached out to a local JCC group of moms to see who they had used. One name kept coming up and it was a local mohelet. I reached out and she allowed anyone, Jewish or not Jewish, male or female, to serve as sandek, kvatter, and kvatterin (messengers who carry the baby from the parent to the mohel). She also fit the bill as far as my other requests were concerned: no nerve block injection, no restraining board, and a ceremony conducted in both Hebrew and English. I was really hopeful she would be available on the right day, but found a backup mohel who had similar policies. His only difference was that the sandek had to be Jewish, but not necessarily a Jewish male. We could make that happen if needed.

Baby boy was born 12 days late and within hours of his birth, I reached out to my top choice mohelet. Luckily, she was available. As I had imagined, we had very few Jewish attendees and no male Jews. We were able to honor loved ones, regardless of religious affiliation and they enjoyed being able to take part in such a momentous occasion. We named the baby for my deceased grandfather, while my grandmother held him. It was a really beautiful ritual and we were so pleased with the mohelet and the ceremony she performed.

After she left, we ate a meal with our guests and we kept hearing how much everyone enjoyed the ceremony. Most came up to tell us they had never been to a bris and didn’t know what to expect. I had been most anxious about it being strange and foreign to our guests, so I was relieved at the comments about it being a beautiful occasion. One of my aunts put it best when she said that she had her sons circumcised at the hospital and after witnessing this bris, she wished her boys could have been in loving arms, surrounded by loved ones, the way our boy was.

Though it was quite a process to find the right mohelet for this bris, I am so thankful we found one who could cater to our unique wishes. She gave us and our guests a memorable and connected occasion as we celebrated this new light in our lives.

Planning a Jewish lifecycle event and looking for an interfaith-friendly officiant? We can help.

My Son’s Bris: Why I Was Not Prepared for This

  
Jack's Bris: Sam, Anne, Jack

Jack’s Bris: Sam, Anne & baby Jack

Before Jack was born, I thought I prepared as much as I could for his bris. With the help of my mother-in-law, Pennye, we compiled a list of invitees, researched kosher caterers, and created to-do lists. Pennye bought paper goods, readied the room with tables and folding chairs, and lots of gauze pads. She also explained the ceremony to my parents so they would know what to expect. (I also had to do some research myself, as I had never been to a bris before.)

Once Jack was born, we were able to set a date for the bris (which takes place on a baby’s eighth day), and she and Sam created the order of the ceremony, finalized the details with the mohel, and gathered RSVPs. Everything was prepared, except me. Nothing could have fully prepared me for that day.

I wasn’t mentally prepared to be one of the centers of attention just three days after coming home from the hospital after giving birth. My brain was mush after a week of not sleeping and trying to adjust to this new lifestyle. All I could think of was whatever Jack required at the moment. Why is he crying and how do I make him stop his crying? Is he hungry? Why is he not eating? Should I swaddle him? Rock him? Change his diaper? There was minimal spare room in my brain to make small talk with the 60+ guests during the bris.

I also wasn’t spiritually ready to hear the mohel (the Hebrew word for someone who performs a ritual circumcision) explain that our son was to be raised Jewish. Part of me knew that our son was to be raised Jewish. I had even said these words out loud. Sam and I had discussed this at length. We came to the conclusion that Jack was to be Jewish and I was comfortable with that decision. But, when the mohel started talking about how this ceremony physically marks Jack as a Jew, for first time it finally sunk in. Our child will not be Catholic; he will not be receiving the sacraments (baptism, first holy communion, etc.). He will not share my spiritual journey or that of my parents. Rather, Jack will be on a similar spiritual path as Sam, one that, despite many discussions and much private study, is still somewhat foreign to me.

Finally, I wasn’t emotionally prepared to hear those painful screams of my first born, as the mohel performed the physical act of Jack’s circumcision. At that moment, I had escaped to the darkness of my bedroom, and was convulsing in tears, wanting it to end. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to hold him, feed him and tell him that I would protect him from all the harm and dangers in the world. I wanted to create a protective bubble around him, so that he would never ever get hurt again. Instead, the experience made me feel alone and helpless. My body felt like a wreck after the birth, my mind was mush, and now my heart was breaking.

After the mohel finished, Sam brought Jack to me so I could feed him. The three of us shared a quiet moment together before I wiped my tears away, mustered up a smile and brought Jack back to the party, where he was passed around and photographed like a prized possession. I spent the rest of the party making small talk with whatever space was left in my brain.

Looking back, the ceremony was beautiful. Sam’s extended family was there to celebrate, including Jack’s great grandmother, great grandfather and great-great aunt. Jack’s namesake’s daughter spoke wonderfully of her father and wished all of Uncle Jack’s best qualities to be passed on to little Jack. My parents and some of my siblings were in attendance, supporting our decision to raise Jack as a Jew. We even honored both sets of parents during the ceremony. It was wonderful to have everyone here upholding the oldest Jewish tradition, and I have no regrets about our decision to do so, though I wish I could have been more prepared.

Congratulations! It’s a …

  

Pregnancy woman holding bellyThe conversation went something like this:

Amy: So we’re just going to be surprised when I give birth, right? Like when the doctor says, “Congratulations! It’s a ___!!”

Matt: Have you lost your mind? No, we’re not going to be surprised. Isn’t being pregnant at 40 surprise enough for you?

Amy: (laughing) Well, I didn’t know what Roxy and Everett were until they were born. You knew with YOUR son?!

Matt: (laughing) Uhhhhh, yeah I did! I NEED to know. NEED. How else are you supposed to prepare???

And then I sat there overthinking, a skill I’ve mastered, while remembering my previous pregnancies. I remember the panic I felt as a first-time mom-to-be, not totally secure in my decision to “not find out” and continually telling people my standard line of, “Well how many things can you truly be surprised about these days?” But I went with it, even as I started a baby registry with the urging of friends and family who were eager to celebrate with me. I picked out generic yellow and green everything, with frogs and duckies all while telling myself that I didn’t believe in perpetuating traditional gender roles but deep inside longing for pink, or blue, or ruffles or dinosaurs.

My freak out continued as my belly grew, wondering how I was possibly going to get all the things I was going to need as a first-time parent without having a baby shower—our traditional Jewish families didn’t believe in having one, as Jewish culture can dictate superstition for some people. No bringing baby stuff into the house! It’s bad luck!  We settled on the garage as a safe zone as my due date loomed closer. My mom kept assuring me, don’t worry Amy, stuff will just arrive. I didn’t believe her for a minute.

In the meantime, my worry grew, as my Jewish ex-husband and I put a mohel on hold (my gut told me it was a girl but, let’s be real, it was a 50/50 shot in the dark) and discussed plans for a potential baby naming ceremony should we not be planning a bris, and I did my best to go with the flow and embrace tradition. All the while I truly wanted to ignore everything I was taught to believe and just do what I wanted to in order to ease my mind.

But true to my mom’s word, Roxy was born and I became best friends with the UPS guy and I’m pretty sure the recycling truck was tired of picking up boxes. Baby items kept showing up after she was born, and plenty of pink was there among the green and yellow.  Roxy’s naming ceremony happened as close to eight days after her birth as possible, because I was a true believer that if a bris needed to happen in eight days for a boy, I wasn’t going to differentiate. I felt solace in my Judaism and was comforted by my decisions as the weeks went on, certain that at least I fulfilled connections of generations that came before me.

Two years later, I did it again with Everett—this time feeling a little better knowing I had the essentials already in place (and justifying because Roxy still used a lot of it) but still feeling an empty longing while painting his future room my favorite color orange and some jealousy over attending other baby showers knowing I wouldn’t be having one. I kept trying to make peace with tradition and telling myself it’s OK—if it’s a boy, the blue dinosaur onesies will be on my doorstep after this baby is born. I listened to our families and let tradition guide me, and lo and behold, Everett was born, there was plenty of blue, the mohel on hold showed up on day eight and all was right with my world.

Fast forward almost seven years later.

I’m laying on the ultrasound table with nervous anticipation. It’s my third child but it’s been awhile since my days of diapers and bottles. I’m on the edge of a total meltdown and I can hardly look at Matt, afraid if we make eye contact I’m totally going to lose it and start crying because it feels so new.

“So are we finding out?” the ultrasound tech asks us, as she guides the wand across my belly and pictures of the baby appear on the screen. Matt and I lock eyes and I look away quickly and answer before I can change my mind.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. He (pointing at Matt) needs to know.  And I can’t have him know and me not, so let’s do this. Tell us. Tell us.”

The room is silent. In my brain I’m thinking please say it’s a girl. Please. It will be so much easier if it’s a girl. Matt already agreed with me that our child will be raised Jewish, but parameters haven’t been worked out and reconciling my desire to connect to tradition while honoring his beliefs has never been more overwhelming. Come on. Say it. Girl. It needs to be a girl. I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with the reality of boy. Putting the mohel on hold. I don’t know if I can do this. Girl. Girl. Girl.

I’m doing this chant on repeat in my head. Yet in my heart I know what she’s going to say before the words come out. I woke up at 3 a.m. knowing. The definite knowledge of what this baby is. And my gut is rarely wrong.

amy's ultrasound

Amy and Matt’s baby boy

She zooms in and points to the screen.

There it is she says. Congratulations, you’re having a baby boy.

Matt laughs and says, “I knew it.”

So did I my love. So did I.

My heart is overflowing with joy, our perfectly imperfect family is growing, and ladies and gentlemen, we’re having a boy. Everett is beyond thrilled. Roxy whined that she already hassssss a little brother, but it’s OK mommy, I’ll love him anyway. Matt jokes to me about having a “brisk”—doing it on purpose to make me laugh and lighten my worry as I roll my eyes and say “It’s a BRIS!!!!” as he questions me about the food that I tell him people are going to show up with on day eight.

I have no idea how any of this is going to actually happen, or who the mohelim in Maine are or the myriad of questions that we still have unanswered or have yet to discuss. Bring on the blue dinosaurs and bottles. A baby boy. I stare at the printed ultrasound picture, hugging it close to my chest. The unknown has time to wait. Matt grasps my hand and kisses my forehead. I can’t wait to meet you my baby boy.

For more information, check out IFF’s Guide to Birth Ceremonies for Interfaith Families.

Baby Namings and the Flexibility of Tradition

  

When I was pregnant with our first daughter, my husband and I were living in the mountains of North Carolina. We spent the first several months of my pregnancy worrying that we’d need to bring in a mohel from who-knows-where, if we happened to have a baby boy. Would we have to ask someone to drive in from Atlanta, three hours away? Or perhaps Charlotte, a mere two-and-a-half?

When we found out that the baby would be a girl, we breathed a sigh of relief on that score, at least. Understanding what happened at a baby naming, though, seemed much more complicated than the task assigned to a mohel.

I had dozens of questions for my husband, though, about baby namings for Jewish girls. What happens at them? Did it require synagogue membership, or a rabbi? Were there set prayers or actions to follow? The lack of clear guidance on what to do in such a ceremony baffled me, given my greater familiarity with baptism and the UU baby-welcoming tradition which often feature a rose in addition to water. Our nearest local Jewish community at the time consisted of a dozen wonderful retirees led by a retired cantor and an active layman who served as the group’s unofficial rabbi. We attended Friday night services sporadically in the fellowship hall of the local Catholic church. The Jewish community had just celebrated a milestone by purchasing a Torah, housing it in an ark-on-wheels in the priest’s personal study.

When Laurel was born several months later, the community was thrilled to host her baby naming. I seemed to think that a naming needed to happen soon after a baby’s birth, so we scheduled ours for a few weeks after she was born, despite her somewhat premature arrival. Relatives from both sides of the family poured in from across the country to celebrate the arrival of their first grandchild, first great-niece, and newest second cousin once-removed (etc).

baby-naming

At the baby naming ceremony for our first daughter

We held her baby naming during one of the Friday night services. It happened to be the 99th birthday of the community’s oldest member, and everyone’s eyes were alight with wonder at this dual celebration of someone at the very start of their life, and someone else whose life had lasted for a remarkably long time, and who remained quite spry besides.

The ceremony opened with an affirmation of our choice to raise Laurel in the Jewish tradition (see, I didn’t think I was mistaken), as well as our identity as an interfaith family. In the ceremony, we expressed our desire to welcome Laurel into the covenant and the revelation of the Torah. The congregation said the Shehecheyanu, and Ben and I said a Brachah for bringing her into the covenant. We wrapped Laurel in her grandmother’s tallit as L’Dor v’Dor (From Generation to Generation) was read. There was not a dry eye in the room, from Laurel’s Catholic great-grandparents and Jewish grandparents on her father’s side to her Episcopalian grandparents on her mother’s side.

After the formal blessings, we brought out one of our menorahs, a brass, silver, and bronze affair with arms that could be arranged in a row, or in a circle. We arranged the arms in a circle, and relatives from all sides of the family read pre-assigned passages from the Hebrew Bible about light coming into the world, as if to emphasize the new light that shines with the birth of any baby.

Several years later, our second daughter was born, even more premature than the first. We didn’t hold a baby naming ceremony for her until almost six months after she was born. We were not yet affiliated with any synagogue in the area, so we held Holly’s naming at home, and conducted the ceremony ourselves. It hadn’t occurred to me that a rabbi could come to our home to do the ceremony, but my Jewish other-half assured me that really, we could just do it ourselves – say words and prayers that would enter her into the wider Jewish community of the covenant. Relatives who lived far away “attended” via Skype, and one set of maternal grandparents sent a pre-recorded video to play during the ceremony. Instead of meeting in a Catholic church’s fellowship hall, we met in our living room, guests scattered on couches and folding chairs.

second-baby-naming

We had the baby naming ceremony for our second daughter at our home.

I’m somewhat embarrassed to say that we changed very little of the first ceremony for the second. I’ll never forget when Laurel quickly rushed through her own words of welcome to her still-new sister—“I-love-you-Holly-I’m-so-glad-you’re-my-sister”—in front of her assembled relatives. The main difference was that we asked each guest to say a few words of welcome to Holly as they lit a tea light, rather than the pre-arranged readings using the menorah. We also chose a version of L’Dor v’Dor taken from the Unitarian Universalist hymnal.

Looking back on it, I am glad we held the ceremonies in the way that we did. Both ceremonies upheld our decision to give our children a Jewish identity, and I did not feel too strange about not doing something ritualistic to include each baby in Unitarian Universalism. After all, it was difficult enough to coordinate the schedules of so many scattered relatives for one ceremony, that I cannot imagine how we might have tried to fit in a second baby-welcoming ceremony in another tradition as well!

As someone with an enduring academic interest in ritual, it feels right that we held ceremonies for welcoming our children. If learning about Jewish baby-naming ceremonies taught me anything about ritual, they gave me an appreciation for the flexibility of tradition. Our ceremonies reminded me of the ways in which something (like religion or ritual) that can seem hallowed by time can actually be quite ad-hoc, adapted to the moment, while still feeling like something time-honored.