Let Us Now Praise Famous Mensches: Celebrating Interfaith Marriage

This morning I put a cross into a drawer. It was a cradle cross that Leacock Presbyterian Church gave my parents when I was born. My mother returned it to me on the day of Shannon’s bridal shower. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want it or not,” she said. I wasn’t sure either. It’s the symbol of a tradition I left behind. If it ever hung over my crib, which was its intent, I don’t remember it. My earliest memory is of being held by my mother and draping a handkerchief over head like it was a tablecloth. There’s a picture of that moment: I was proud of myself, smiling ear-to-ear. That I remember the moment at all might be a result of its having been caught on film. Memory is like that: fluid, permeable, changing over time. Our memories shift to better inform our narratives of who we are and who we want to be.

The foundation of Jewish peoplehood is our historical memory. From the hasidim who believe literally in the revelation at Sinai, to secular Yiddishists who recall the travails of Ashkenaz, or, like most Jews, somewhere in between, we are united by our shared memories. The Hebrew calendar is structured around our stories: we are liberated during Passover, wander the wilderness during Sukkot and receive Torah on Shavuot. The irony of Jewish time is that, although we were among the first peoples to insist upon a linear, rather than a cyclical, view of history, we relive the same events from year to year. Perhaps that’s why, despite our disagreements, we persevere, why we remain one people. It reminds me of Romi Somek’s “A Poem of Bliss”: “We are placed upon a wedding cake/like two dolls, bride and groom./When the knife strikes,/We’ll try to stay on the same piece.”

The sense of foreboding evident in the last lines of Somek’s poem looms large in Jewish memory. The Shoah casts a long shadow over us all, as it rightly should. So too do other tragedies, from the expulsion of our people from Spain in 1492, to the Munich Olympics, to the countless injustices done to men and women long gone to dust. The price of Never Forgetting is Eternal Vigilance, necessary but wearying to the psyche. Watchfulness has engendered in some quarters of the Jewish community a sense of permanent crisis, that the “knife” of Somek’s poem is always poised to strike. We see bogeymen at every turn: the president’s policy towards Israel, Muslim immigration to the West, Iran, assimilation, intermarriage. For some Jews, intermarriage is the most insidious crisis of all, “perpetrated” by its own “victims.”

That attitude toward intermarriage is further exacerbated by nostalgia. Some Jews shield themselves against the anxieties of the present by retreating into sentimentality. Informed by wisps of history, family memory, and pop culture (think Fiddler on the Roof), we have constructed a dreamworld alternative to the present, an eternal shtetl cast always in the golden sunlight of American afternoons. We smile at the women baking challah. We nod at the old men praying in shul. We’re comforted by the singsong strains of Yiddish bubbling forth from homes. But to remember it thus is to do our ancestors a disservice. The shtetlach were nothing like our dreamworld; rather, they were characterized by poverty, wretchedness, superstition and filth. Walk the cramped and muddy streets. Here women served men, for they had no choice. Here bellies growled for want of food. Here the rebbes studied while their people suffered. If you ever hear anyone hearken back to how it was in the Old Country, ask them if they’d really like to visit. They may: There are haredi communities here and in Israel in which one may readily access “the world we have lost.”

Cross

The cradle cross given to my parents when I was born, and the Star of David I wear every day.

American Jews have no need to retreat into fear or sentimentality. We’re thriving. We’re more accepted than we have ever been, anywhere, at any other time in history. That you can no longer identify a Jew by peyot, by curly hair, or by surname, is not a cause for alarm, but for excitement. We’re not disappearing; we’re diversifying. Our contributions to American society speak to our success. We were at the forefront of white support for the Civil Rights movement in the 1960s, when Abraham Joshua Heschel marched with Martin Luther King, Jr. Now we’re leading the charge into ethical and sustainable foodways through organizations such as Hazon and, in Philadelphia, Cafe Olam.

I’ve written this blog to demonstrate one thing: that we who intermarry are in no way enemies of Judaism or the Jewish people. We are individuals who have fallen in love with other individuals who are not themselves Jewish. Our partners love us, in part, because we’re Jewish; after all, it’s part of who we are. Writing in The Forward, Yoel Finkelman notes that the argument against intermarriage is a difficult one “because it’s hard to muster much moral indignation against a loving, caring couple whose differing religious convictions are an accident of birth.” Finkelman goes on to advocate synagogues’ acceptance of homosexual Jewish couples as an antidote to intermarriage, but his argument is weakened by his previous statement. Finkelman, and all those who rant against intermarriage, should come to a hard stop: it is not ancestry or religion (or sexuality) that matters in a relationship, but love. Embrace loving couples and they will respond.

A Jewish friend of Shannon and I volunteered to teach our families the hora at our wedding party. Consider the image of dozens of non-Jews celebrating by learning a Jewish dance. Our union is but a tiny thread in the grand tapestry of our people’s history. How lovely, and how appropriate, that it is a wedding that will bring Jews and non-Jews together, if only for a moment. We’ll be wed the evening of Saturday, October 26. You’re welcome to dance with us.

L’shalom,

Matt

P.S. Please check back later for some final words from my friend and teacher Rabbi Eli Freedman of Congregation Rodeph Shalom.

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One thought on “Let Us Now Praise Famous Mensches: Celebrating Interfaith Marriage

  1. I’m troubled by the tone, and lack of specifics, in this article. The question isn’t interfaith marriage. It already exists, for various reasons. The question is Jewish continuity: How do people build Jewish homes, so that they have children and grandchildren who identify as Jews, who are part of the Jewish community, and have Jewish lives?

    All the article’s photos of crucifixes and crosses overlying a Star of David don’t make this more acceptable to Jews, especially since are numbers are still dwindling.

    Beware of “rabbis for hire”, who’ll officiate at any marriage for a quick buck, and good rabbis who do their real job: rabbis are educators who work to hold together and build the Jewish community.

    When two people marry, if they have a family in such a way that they raise their kids Jewish, they send their kids to Hebrew school, they role model a Jewish way of life, then that’s good for the Jewish community. And yes, this can happen between two Jews, or between a Jew and a non-Jew.

    However, when two people marry, and they don’t raise their kids Jewish, they don’t send their kids to Hebrew school, they don’t role model a Jewish way of life, then that’s bad for the Jewish community. And yes, this can happen between two Jews, or between a Jew and a non-Jew.

    Everyone misses this: It’s not how one someone is born, or what church or synagogue they used to go to. It’s how someone lives their life, and role models a life to their children. That is what matters.

    - – - – - –

    Also, this entire issue has a different format for older people who marry, who already have children from previous marriages. If a Jewish parent marries a non-Jewish parent, then it would be silly – or even offensive – to expect the parents to want to convert each other’s children.

    In these cases – which are very common – what the Jewish community wants is merely for the Jewish children to continue to be raised in a way that role models a Jewish life, Jewish education, etc.

    If I married a non-Jewish mother, I wouldn’t expect or want her children to change their faith to match that of me and my daughter. And the converse is true. I just want to be able to raise my daughter in the same way that she’s always been raised: Jewishly. Holidays, keeping kosher, celebrating Shabbat, Hebrew School, etc.

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