In my last post on antisemitism, I touched on Christians celebrating Jewish feasts, and how it causes offense to many Jewish people. I’d be a hypocrite to not expound further on how my own actions as a Jew-“ish” believer can be just as offensive.
To an extent, there’s not a whole lot I can do about that. Simply admitting I am a Christian with Jewish heritage can deem me untrustworthy, or a turncoat.
I still remember the emails I received as a newly converted college student: people I considered friends at the Hillel Jewish Student Center at Kent State University told me I was a traitor. It hurt, but I understood, and couldn’t be upset about it. Years earlier, I’d have reacted the same way.
***
I spent years wanting everything to be tidy: the Christian parts in one box, the Jewish parts in another, completely separate and organized. But time revealed that the two are commingled, like a knot in a necklace chain. Whether due to exhaustion or occasional contentment, I’ve learned to just leave it.
That’s my relationship with Judaism: I left, but can’t fully leave.
***
When my mom flew out to Colorado for my baby shower last spring, she brought some items she retrieved from my childhood bedroom. Among the books and faded baby clothes was the mezuzah that hung on my bedroom doorpost. In my family, such an item was less about religiosity and more of a nod to our ancestry, which is the way I appreciate it today.
I hung it outside my daughter’s bedroom, and one day I’ll tell her what it means. What I lack in Jewish practice, I intend to make up for with knowledge and remembrance. It’s her heritage, too.
Also in Millie’s bedroom is a sign with the Hebrew word for “life,” which is a symbol my father wore on a necklace chain that was a gift from his father. It’s also tattooed on the inside of my wrist. The word is a link to the grandfather she never got to meet.
I bought the sign off Etsy, during a time when I was deep in depression and spiritual deconstruction. I still considered myself a Christian, albeit one with heavy doubts. I carried deep hurt on top of that from fellow believers who shamed me when I dared to speak them aloud.
I didn’t know if I would ever feel welcome in the Body of Christ again, but I knew that I’d always have my Jewish roots. So I went searching for Jewish art. The search algorithm brought me to a page called JoBella Wood Designs, owned by a Jewish artist in Tennessee.
I purchased the Hebrew sign, as well as one with the word “Shalom,” which greets us when we enter through the garage door. Both pieces arrived within two weeks, carefully packaged, and with a handwritten thank-you note.
For reasons I can’t explain, I felt compelled to message the artist, and tell her what the pieces meant to me. I held off for a while, concerned that I’d be sharing too much, and might get myself blacklisted or something (maybe she’d be offended at having sold her art to a traitor?).
I pushed those thoughts aside, and sent a message anyway – something to the effect of “I just wanted to say that even though I’m a Christian now, I was raised Jewish, and I really miss Judaism sometimes. Your art has brought me a good deal of comfort, and it makes me smile when I see it.” Simple, not too detailed, not too whiny. So I hoped. I clicked “send” before I could talk myself out of it.
I didn’t expect a response, but one came within a day. The artist, Joelle, thanked me for messaging her, said she was so happy her work resonated, and she wished me well. We messaged back and forth for a while after that, and eventually moved the friendship over to Facebook. I sent her a Hanukkah card that year. We still talk today.
***
I still sometimes wish I could take the emphasis off of the “ish” in Jewish and simply be one thing or another, without caveats. Above all else, I am the Lord’s. This world can bring trouble and confusion, with or without a complex heritage. There are all kinds of boxes calling our names, saying “belong here,” or “identify this way,” promising safety and inclusion. But those things, ultimately, are temporal.
There are times when I am inclined to complain, “Why did you make me this way?” As a clay pot rages against the potter.
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