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Reconciliation: Embracing a Gay Interfaith Relationship

April 2003

Growing up gay, it's easy to be mired in shame. We are programmed by society to feel inferior, like biological aberrations, perverts, disappointments and failures. For those of us who don't slit our wrists or live life in a closet, there are periods of enormous reconciliation with our true selves, where we must constantly remind and reaffirm ourselves that we're okay, that our love is real love. It's hard enough for straight people to deal with a new relationship. Tack on the challenges of society's disavowal of gay relationships, and pile on an interfaith existence, and you have the recipe for a great challenge.

When I fell in love with my partner, I fell into a reckless abandon I had been waiting for my whole life. I fell in love with another man--the two of us little boys, really--and together we began a journey of comfort and discovery and passion. There were moments of pain and fears of impending abandonment. There was sexuality, acquaintanceship, Nutella and sloppy kisses. Indeed, there was love as boundless as we'd allow at that given moment in time.

It came up one evening after seeing the Sissy Spacek movie In the Bedroom, a film about vigilante justice. We had been dating for three weeks, and clearly we were falling hard for each other. The movie touched a raw nerve. Our discussion about Law led to Values, led to Right vs. Wrong, led to God, led to Religion. Suddenly, a terrible truth: he did not plan on raising his children with any religion, and I, with absolute certainty, wanted to raise my children Jewish. Our convictions were so strong that we cried ourselves to sleep that night in each other's arms, sure that that night would be our last together.

The next day I demanded a pause. "We don't know where we're going," I told him. "It's only been three weeks. We don't know how we really feel about each other or how our minds might change if we stay together." I didn't want to give up the greatest present life had bestowed upon me in a long while. I was greedy for love.

This all was happening within the context of September 11th. Suddenly, Israel was again a target of unbridled, unparalleled world criticism. Global anti-Semitism reached heights I never imagined I'd see in my lifetime. My mother's persecution complex didn't seem so irrational anymore. The moment the towers crumbled--I felt it literally then--I was more Jewish than I had ever been before.

We didn't revisit the religion topic for a while--with words. Meanwhile, I brought him to a film about gay and lesbian Orthodox Jews and he joined me for services at the local LGBT-affirming shul. He lit the Hanukkah candles with the shamash (middle candle that lights all others). He spent Rosh Hashanah with my parents, siblings, and 97-year-old grandmother, and he endured a moderately torturous service at my parents' synagogue. A few months later we celebrated Christmas with his parents, 80-year-old grandmother, sister, and her boyfriend. In between it all, he and I spent evenings walking and loving my dog, mornings with the crossword puzzle and brunch. We slipped into a comfortable and affirming love--spooning, soothing, sharing our fears about the world and ourselves while underneath the stars in my mesh tent.

Meanwhile, I was struggling.

My relationship with Judaism is complex and ever-evolving, as it should be. Just as I had survived two decades of life in the closet, afraid of myself, so did I survive nearly casting Judaism out of my life after coming out. Standing on the bimah (podium) and chanting the infamous Leviticus passage ("You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female; it is an abomination") on Yom Kippur as a teenager had done little to endear my parents' faith to me. I would have to reclaim Judaism for myself and rediscover myself within Judaism. Thankfully, and perhaps divinely, a few years after college I rediscovered both the beauty of Judaism and my Jewish self.

So here I was, in love with a non-Jew, just a few years after rediscovering how much I loved being a Jew. I was scared. Deeply scared. Was I betraying my parents, my ancestors--God? Would I be able to know my identity completely with a non-Jewish partner? Would we truly be able to speak the same language, deep down, when I felt I had a yellow star emblazoned to my chest?

This was to say nothing of his feelings. While I dealt with my own internal waves, he, too, was on a journey no less important. With no religious grounding, his experience could not have been more divergent from mine had he been raised accepting sacrament. Christmas and Easter were high on his family's agenda, but those holidays consisted of ornaments, food, presents, and painted eggs. There was no church or prayer, no baptism, no Jesus, and no clear spirituality. While I was learning Hebrew, studying for my bar mitzvah, wrapping tefillin (leather phylacteries with a parchment), in summer camp, and reading Torah, he was hanging candy canes on a Christmas tree, going on Easter egg hunts, and wondering what his Catholic and Jewish 8th grade classmates thought of him, as they all got ready for their Confirmations and Bar Mitzvahs.

Not only was Judaism a foreign religion to him, but religion itself was a fairly foreign concept. In his eyes, would I ever be able to accept him as he was? Would raising children steeped in a Jewish environment create a natural distance between a non-Jewish father and his offspring?

Always, I was worth it to him, and he was worth it to me. With time, he reassured me that his feelings about having a partner with a strong religious affiliation were changing by being with and getting to know me. He was no longer threatened by it. And I became less threatened by the concept of not having a Jewish partner. I told him I accepted him for who he is.

In a conversation that left me shaking and in tears, he told me we could raise our children as Jews. He could not give up the two holidays that had imbued such a strong sense of family within him. We would still celebrate Christmas and Easter as non-religious holidays--a concept that makes perfect sense to him since that is his only experience. He told me he expected to have a say in where the kids go to synagogue or Hebrew school or summer camp. Nu--should I expect any less?

I had made the decision that he was It and, gloriously, I was It for him too.

Now, we are building a home for us. We are at the beginning of what we hope is a long and wonderful journey. Seders and matzah balls and shul (synagogue) tryouts lie ahead--so do egg hunts and tinsel and Yiddish explanations and a host of other experiences we will share together. As we answer some questions, new ones will arise. While we continue to discover ourselves, we will continue to discover each other. While my relationship with Judaism evolves, we can learn together how it shapes our family.



Hebrew for "Head of the Year," the Jewish New Year. With Yom Kippur, known as the High Holy Days. Hebrew for "son of the commandments." In modern Jewish practice, Jewish boys come of age at 13. When a boy comes of age, he is officially a bar mitzvah and considered an adult. The term is commonly used as a short-hand for the bar mitzvah's coming-of-age ceremony and/or celebration. The female equivalent is "bat mitzvah." Hebrew for "Day of Atonement," the final of ten Days of Awe that begin with Rosh Hashanah. Occurs during the fall and is marked by a 24-hour fast. One of the most important Jewish holidays. Derived from the Greek word for "assembly," a Jewish house of prayer. Synagogue refers to both the room where prayer services are held and the building where it occurs. In Yiddish, "shul." Reform synagogues are often called "temple." Hanukkah (known by many spellings) is an eight-day Jewish holiday commemorating the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem at the time of the Maccabean Revolt of the 2nd Century BCE. It is marked by the lighting of a menorah and the eating of fried foods. Hebrew term derived from the word "to pray," and translated into English as the unhelpful word "phylacteries." A set of small black leather boxes containing scrolls on which the Torah verses are written, one goes on the upper arm (with the black leather straps wrapping down the arm and around the hand and fingers) and the other goes around the head (with the straps dropping down the back of the head). Plural form of the Hebrew word "mitzvah" which means "commandment," it has two meanings. The first are the commandments given in the Torah. ("You should obey the mitzvah of honoring your parents!") The second is a good deed. ("Helping her carry her groceries home was such a mitzvah!") A language, literally meaning "Jewish," once widely used by Ashkenazi communities. It is influenced by German, Hebrew and Slavic languages, and is written with the Hebrew alphabet. It is comparable to the language of many Sephardi communities, Ladino. Hebrew for "helper," a candle used to light all the other candles in the Hanukkah menorah. A language of West Semitic origins, culturally considered to be the language of the Jewish people. Ancient or Classical Hebrew is the language of Jewish prayer or study. Modern Hebrew was developed in the late-19th and early 20th centuries as a revival language; today it is spoken by most Israelis.
Hebrew word for an unleavened bread, traditionally eaten during the holiday of Passover. The first five books of the Hebrew Bible (Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy), or the scroll that contains them. The elevated area or platform in a synagogue, from which Torah is read. Worship service leaders, such as clergy, may lead services from the bimah as well. Yiddish for "synagogue."
Daniel Seymour

Daniel Seymour works for the country's largest gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender civil rights organization, as a grassroots political organizer for the Western United States. When he is not on the road organizing, he lives with his wonderful partner of nearly two years and their dog in downtown Silver Spring, Maryland.

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