Having a Yahrzeit For My Lutheran Dad

  

By Tara Worthey Segal

I formally converted to Judaism one month after I lost my father and two weeks before getting married.

I hadn’t been raised with much religion. I was baptized Lutheran, but always joked that my parents did that more out of superstition than dogma. They didn’t do much to disabuse me of this notion—we attended services at the local Lutheran church on Christmas Eve, but beyond that and spending a week or so at an Episcopal church camp for a few summers, I didn’t have much of a religious identity.

My parents said they didn’t want to force religion on us. Other kids in that situation might never have gravitated toward organized religion at all, but my sister and I both wound up finding our own. She became a Mormon, drawn to it by the community she found in her Idaho college town and by the man who would become her husband. Mine also came through the man I’d eventually marry. Matt was raised in a conservative Jewish household, and though he wasn’t hugely religious himself, it was important to him that he marry a Jew.

As I began to study for my conversion, I was relieved that no one told me what to think and instead discussed with me how we see and live life through a Jewish lens. I was invited to take part in conversations rather than evaluated on obedience. Always uncomfortable with the idea of pledging allegiance to a transcribed set of beliefs, I was drawn to the idea that I could keep my curiosity, that it was OK to question leaders and make sense of the world myself, using the values of Judaism as a guide.

One reservation I did have was my father. He didn’t object to me marrying a Jewish man; to the contrary, he loved Matt and was incredibly proud of his achievements. As for his own daughter becoming Jewish… I’m not sure he understood the necessity. We didn’t speak about my conversion process much, as he was sick and I was planning a wedding. And then, before we had the chance to really discuss it, he was gone.

I wanted him to know that my conversion wasn’t a rejection of him and my mother, or of our upbringing. In fact, it was because of the way I was raised that becoming Jewish came to make sense to me. People often talk about their finding their spiritual homes, but for me, arriving at Judaism was less of a homecoming and more of a recognition of something that was always there. An emphasis on family. Intellectual curiosity. Passing on a shared history and traditions to the next generations.

The things that eventually drew me to Judaism were my father’s values, as well. From him, I learned that knowledge is liberating. He didn’t have much formal education but he shared with me his love for reading (he gave me his tattered copy of “The Diary of Anne Frank” when I was 8), and said attending college was a non-negotiable.

From him, I learned the value of being able to stand up for my own views. He played devil’s advocate every time we talked politics, driving me to distraction at times (though in the end he voted for Obama).

From him, I learned never to be passive or complacent. He may not have recognized the term tikkun olam (repairing the world), but I also never saw him turn away from somebody who he had the ability to help in any capacity. And he felt guilty when he didn’t have spare change for someone asking on the street.

These are all things that, as far as I can tell, embody Jewishness.

After he died, I found comfort in that oft-repeated phrase “may his memory be a blessing.” It doesn’t promise that I will see him again or that he is in a better place. It doesn’t force me to place hope in something that I’m not sure exists. It allows me, simply, to find joy in the fact that I had him for 27 years—and I have as many years’ worth of memories to hold close, when I can no longer pick up the phone to call him and argue about Hillary Clinton.

My husband and I had a traditional Jewish wedding, with the chuppah and the ketubah (marriage contract) and the hora and even—because both of our siblings had married before us—a double mezinke (a dance for parents whose last child is marrying). And as I watched the endless line of wedding guests dance around my husband’s mother and father and my own mother, and as I saw the mix of grief, pleasure, and bewilderment on my mom’s face, I wondered what my father would have thought of it all.

He knew that he would be leaving me before his time, and he never spoke about concrete ideas of heaven or hell, redemption, or eternal kingdoms. I think, though, that he would be at peace knowing that Judaism gave me a way to grieve him without clinging to a narrative that wouldn’t feel genuine to either of us.

It’s been three years now since I lost him. Every winter, both his birthday and the anniversary of his death pass in the same week. Every year, the anniversary of my conversion and the anniversary of my marriage follow close behind. The later dates are inextricably tied to the earlier ones. I light a candle and stand to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish—for a man who was not Jewish and who likely did not know what a yahrzeit was.

But my father deserves to be honored, and his Jewish daughter intends to do so.

This article was reprinted with permission from Kveller.com, a fast-growing, award-winning website for parents raising Jewish and interfaith kids. Follow Kveller on Facebook and sign up for their newsletters here.

 

3 Reasons Why Mary Tyler Moore Was a Feminist Icon

  

By Joanna Valente

Mary Tyler Moore show

Mary Tyler Moore, Valerie Harper and Cloris Leachman. The last Mary Tyler Moore show; 1977. By CBS Television via Wikimedia Commons

TV icon and women’s rights advocate Mary Tyler Moore, who was in an interfaith marriage, died today after being hospitalized in Connecticut. She was 80 years old. Her representative, Mara Buxbaum, told the Huffington Post in a statement:

“Today, beloved icon, Mary Tyler Moore, passed away at the age of 80 in the company of friends and her loving husband of over 33 years, Dr. S. Robert Levine. A groundbreaking actress, producer, and passionate advocate for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, Mary will be remembered as a fearless visionary who turned the world on with her smile.”

That statement isn’t hyperbole either. Without Tyler, the way women are portrayed in media–and treated in real life, especially at work–would not be the same. The Mary Tyler Moore Show was the first show to give serious attention to independent working women. Moore, who initially got her big break on the 1960s sitcom The Dick Van Dyke Show, started her own show in the ’70s, where she played a 30-year-old working woman who never married–something unheard of on TV at the time. 

Here are three reasons Mary Tyler Moore was a feminist icon:

1. Moore’s character, Mary Richards, famously asked for equal pay to her male co-worker in Season 3, episode 1. The fact that equal pay for women is still largely up for debate is, well, depressing.

2. There’s also that episode where Mary goes on the pill. Hello, women’s lib. You can watch it here on Hulu.

3. Moore ran the show. Literally. Moore was a boss lady. The Mary Tyler Moore Show director Alan Rafkin recalled in his autobiography how this was the case, stating:

“First and foremost Mary was a businesswoman and she ran her series beautifully. She was the boss, and although you weren’t always wedded to doing things exactly her way, you never forgot for a second that she was in charge.” 

Even Oprah famously said in a PBS documentary celebrating the actress that Moore “has probably had more influence on my career than any other single person or force.” Moore herself identified as a feminist–and she told Larry King on his show that her character certainly was:

“She wasn’t aggressive about it, but she surely was. The writers never forgot that. They had her in situations where she had to deal with it.”

The show itself ran for seven seasons and held the record for most Emmys won at a whopping 29, until “Frasier” broke it in 2002. Besides her acting, Moore was also an animal rights activist, as she founded Broadway Barks 15, an annual homeless cat and dog adoption event in New York City, and fought for legislation to protect farm animals from inhumane suffering.

But that’s not it either. Moore was also an advocate for researching cures for diabetes and served as the international chairman of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. Moore herself suffered from type 1 diabetes (and was diagnosed at age 33), and nearly became blind from it in recent years.

Moore, who was not Jewish, is survived by her husband Robert Levine. She and Levine (who is Jewish) were married for 33 years. She was a mother to her son, Richard, who died in 1980 of an accidental gunshot.

We will miss you, Mary Tyler Moore.

This article was reprinted with permission from Kveller.com, a fast-growing, award-winning website for parents raising Jewish and interfaith kids. Follow Kveller on Facebook and sign up for their newsletters here.

Joanna ValenteJoanna Valente is the Editorial Assistant at Kveller. She is the author of Sirs & Madams, The Gods Are Dead, Xenos, and Marys of the Sea, and received her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College. You can follow her @joannasaid on Twitter, @joannacvalente on Instagram, or email her at joanna@kveller.com.

Why I Officiated My Grandfather’s Funeral (Even Though I’m Not a Rabbi)

  

By Jared David Berezin

Placing stone on graveSometimes it’s nice to have others make minor decisions for me. I’m happy when my wife decides what we’re cooking for dinner. It’s more convenient when a friend suggests a specific date to get together. If I look in my closet and see only one pair of pants (the others being in the laundry), no problem, it makes deciding what to wear very easy.

Sometimes though it can be difficult to avoid others trying to make decisions for me. From political commentators telling me who “won” a debate, to companies telling me what product will make me happy, to programmers at Netflix creating algorithms that tell me what movies to watch, I’m bombarded with recommendations from people I’ve never met.

For important lifecycle events—baby naming ceremonies, bat and bar mitzvahs, weddings and funerals—affiliated and unaffiliated Jews alike tend to rely heavily on others, most often experienced and knowledgeable rabbis. For unaffiliated Jews and interfaith couples who do not belong to a synagogue, however, rabbis are often strangers whom we don’t know and who don’t know us.

Stepping away from the cast of strangers

The day my grandfather died, my mother said aloud what we were all thinking, “Arrangements need to be made.” I immediately pictured the typical funeral service with a rabbi we didn’t know talking to us about a man he didn’t know. Something inside me cried out, “No more strangers!”

Since my grandfather suffered from dementia, the nurses, doctors and staff at the assisted living facility were always strangers. As my grandfather’s dementia progressed, the cast of strangers in his life expanded to include even us, his own family. I was extremely grateful for the care he received, and yet I wondered, “Why must we rely on someone we don’t know to care for Papa even after he’s dead? Do we really need a stranger to show us how to say goodbye to the man we loved so much?”

Rabbis, like all individuals, can be wonderful people, but I was hesitant to have a rabbi who did not know my grandfather lead us through such an emotional experience. Although a rabbi would help ensure that Jewish rituals were met with accuracy, this had never been a priority for my grandfather. He loved to poke holes in theology and remind us not to take ourselves too seriously. I wanted a service that was as loving and authentic as my grandfather; an experience that was both Jewish and completely tailored for the man I admired.

I asked my mother and aunt—my grandfather’s daughters—if I could lead the funeral service. Initially, they said they’d think about it. In our next conversation I learned that their hesitation stemmed only out of concern for me. “Would you be OK?” they asked. “Would it be too difficult, since you and Papa were so close?” Truth is, I was scared to get what I asked for. Even thinking about attending a funeral makes me nervous.

Interfaith marriage as a confidence-booster

The determination to create and lead my grandfather’s funeral service grew in large part from my experiences in an interfaith marriage—I was raised a Reform Jew and my wife was raised Christian, though she has since developed an aversion to all organized religion. To build rituals and Jewish holiday celebrations that are meaningful for both of us (and our friends who are Jewish and of other faiths), we experiment with ideas from within and outside Judaism. Together, we’ve learned that we can try anything—if a ritual works we can do it again; if it doesn’t we can try something new.

Developing a practice of spiritual self-reliance and interfaith experimentation gave me the strength to take responsibility for my grandfather’s funeral, to help lead rather than be led and to do so without the pressure of trying to be exactly perfect.

Shoveling dirtGetting my hands dirty in self-reliance

The Jewish ritual at the end of a burial service is to place dirt atop the casket. This voluntary ritual gives loved ones an opportunity to participate in the burial process. Creating and officiating my grandfather’s funeral service felt like an extension of this dirt ritual, a way for me to get my hands dirty, to get involved and to get uncomfortable for the sake of love and gratitude.

Preparing the funeral service also helped me appreciate all of the work done by strangers of all faiths whom we rely on to help us say goodbye, particularly the gravediggers. I prepared the words; they prepared the land. After they carefully lowered the patriarch of my family into the earth, I thanked the cemetery workers for their work. A couple of the men nodded in recognition as they walked away wordlessly to their next task.

“I am officiating this funeral service as a grandson mourning the loss of my grandfather, my Papa,” I said at the start of the service to the group of family and friends gathered in front of me. Minutes later as my wife and I were performing the song “Lechi Lach” on flute and guitar—a duet my Papa always treasured—a gust of wind sent my yarmulke flying. As a family friend chased after the yarmulke and plopped it back on my head, I cherished the intimacy of the imperfect graveside service.