Jew . . . ish 2: Moses Never Sleeps/

For those interested, read part one here:

Now comes the other side of the coin.

In the midst of this religious uncertainty, as I am striving discover a side of myself that was, up until now, explored in large part through the ingestion of latkes (so crispy) and the freedom to make Jew jokes while condemning virtual strangers as anti-Semites, I also became godfather to my niece. 

I had to go from Judaism to Christianity faster than Mel Gibson’s agent. (Jew jibe and Anti-Semite slam all in one.  Thank you)

I was a little unsure of how that was going to turn out too.

We got to the temple church.

The pastor greeted us upon entering. He was youngish and White and southern and silver-haired and friendly like a politician.

The church was more of a chapel/office/classroom/religious compound (nervous chuckle). The building had an up-to-date elementary school vibe. The chaple was blond wood beams and pews, polished wood cross, big windows letting in lots of natural light, colorful cloth banners, almost like quilts (Jesus Quilts. Patent Pending). There were large flat screen tv’s showing the words to the prayers and hymns.  It was all very Fellowship of the Sun.

The service mostly went off without a hitch.  It was done lovingly and no vampires were exploded.  My favorite part was when the Peanut Man got swept up in one of the hymns. “Paaays Jeeezis!”  He bellowed as the rapture overtook him.  Dude loves to sing.

 So far, the best part of being the godfather is that, with the exception of the parents, I get to take the baby from anyone whenever I want. God says they have to give her up.  I march over to whoever is holding her, “Give me the child.”  I command.  If they refuse, I up the anti. 

“The Power Of Christ compels you!”  I roar as my eyes glow, alight with my new godfather superpowers.  You can do that.  It’s totally in the bible. Or maybe the Constitution.

Either way, people are usually startled enough that it works.

He second best part is that I do a more than passable Brando imitation.  Most annoying godfather ever.

It’s pretty cool.

*From part one:  We got a call from the president of the temple.  She told us that she hated hearing we couldn’t come because of money and that there was a misunderstanding because the family service was supposed to be free anyway. 

She invited us to a Tot Shabbat (yes) service. For Sukkot.  Sukkot is the harvest holiday and it’s pretty kid friendly.  Tot Shabbat was . . .ok.  The person who usually ran it wasn’t there, so we’ll have to give them a second chance.  Everyone was pretty nice and we got to go outside and hangout in the Sukkah.  The Sukkah is a temporary hut that we are supposed to build and then we’re traditionally supposed to eat all our meals in it for the whole week of Sukkot.  Jews know how to party.  

Jew . . .ish

We’re looking for a religion.  There, I said it now.  It’s out there.

We’re doing it so the kids have a religious identity.  And a cultural one.  And, when they reach teen hood, something to rebel against other than their parents.  Sic’em on God. 

We’re looking for a religion, and we’ve decided to look in the direction of Judaism. I think we have to face toward New York.

I’m Jewish.  Via genetics/ Jewish law.  My mother is Jewish so I’m Jewish.   My wife grew up Methodist and went to Catholic High School and then minored in religious studies.  Studied her way right out of a faith.  Now though, she’s rethinking things.  She may be ready to accept Jesus Christ into her heart as a nice Jewish boy.  Who wouldn’t?

God and I don’t hang out either, as a rule.  Different social circles.  I don’t believe in him, he doesn’t believe in me, and we’re comfortable with that.

I’d like to note here, I’m not a strident, angry atheist.  I’ve made peace with my lack of faith.  I don’t want to demean religion. There is nothing worse than a proselytizing atheist.

 “You must not believe or nothing will happen to you!”   Settle down, heathen. 

And, I’m open to the possibility of faith.  It could happen.   I’m not open in a  “so I went to a psychic and she told me I recently underwent an important change and I was like OMG you’re totally right, I just got these pants!” way.  But I’m open.

Like if Moses suddenly showed up on a tortilla, I might believe.  Probably not though, since he didn’t even eat Mexican food.  “Oy, with the spicy,” he used to say.

I joke because the Jews have always been funny.  That’s why God chose us.

I’m also pretty uncomfortable with the subject.  I have never before had to really face up to my lack of religious training or knowledge about my own culture. My formal religious training consists of one month of Hebrew school when I was 7.  My mother was dating the teacher.

 Most of what I know about Judaism, I learned on the streets. Late night games of spin the dreidel in the back of all night delis with tough looking boys named Schlomo and even tougher girls named Sylvia. 

I’m finding some aspects of the Jewish faith fascinating.  Yom Kippur is our day of atonement.  We fast and pray and ask for forgiveness for the year.  The neat thing is, while you’re asking for forgiveness and promising to try harder in the coming year, you’re supposed to be asking the same thing of God.  Imagine that. 

“So . . . sorry about the sloth, drinking, and internet porn this year there God.  I’ll do better, I promise.  But while we’re at it, let’s talk about what you need to work on. Specifically: Everything else bad in the entire universe.  Those who live in glass houses . . .” God’s way into solar energy.  Of course.

(Open dialogue with God.  And so begat the Jewish Lawyer Paradigm.)

It’s a big leap, especially for my wife.  Converting to Judaism means months of classes and rituals and examinations. 

If we’re going to do this we need to do it right.  Shop around.  Take a few temples for a spin.

That part has been a little bumpy.

For Rosh Hashanah, we were invited to a temple about ten minutes away. It was the Pumpkin man’s first time in a yarmulke and he looked handsome.  I wore the traditional Schettleverth.  What’s a Schettleverth?  About 2 dollars.  Zing (to my knowledge, there is no such thing).

We went to temple.  This particular temple, not our scene.  The temple was 2/3 full—tops-- on one of the holiest of holy days in all Jewdom.  And that 2/3 consisted mostly of people who remember the feeling of wet sand against the bottoms of their feet from when they crossed the Red Sea.  Much more Jackie Mason than John Stewart. 

My daughter hated temple.  Hated it.  Why?  No yarmulke for her. As she put it, she couldn’t “wear a fancy hat like daddy and the Pumpkin man.”

She went on to say that she “hated going into temple naked.”

Who can blame her?

The Pumpkin man spent the entire time we were there yelling “Wha’ Dat?  Who’dat?  Wha’dat sound?”  Like a Cajun fire alarm. 

Then Yom Kippur came.  I fasted.  I reflected.  We did not go to temple.  We looked for one.  Found a website for one nearby that promised a short family service for families with young kids. 

Seats had to be reserved because it’s the high holidays and popular temples get banged out pretty quick for these shows.  The seats cost 95$ per for the adults.*  So, we didn’t go.  If we’re gonna spend 95$ for tickets, it better be because a terrific revival of West Side Story is in town. 

That’s a temple with which we’re familiar.

To Be Continued . . . 

HM

This post brought to you by fatherhood friday at dad-blogs.com

Worship with a Schmear

We worshipped yesterday morning.  What passes for worship in our family.  We drove around with klezmer music blaring, eventually ending up at our favorite bagel bakery where we purchased a baker’s dozen, still hot from the oven.  Then we sat in the car and just pulled the hot bagels apart and dipped them in fresh made cream cheese and ate while the klezmer pelted us with it's goofy tones.  That's temple, more or less.  Sans beards.  And yarmulkes.  And praying.  And other Jews.

For those that don’t know, klezmer is music from the European Jewish tradition.  It’s full of horns and violins and accordians and mournful clarinets and peppy glishpiezel-phones.  It has chords that represent the sounds of laughing and crying.  It’s wacky, ironic music.  Sort of like what you might hear in a Dr. Seuss book, if the Cat in The Hat had gone through great suffering yet still come out with an intact sense of humor.  

We only listen to it once a week on a local college radio show.  No one needs more than a couple hours of mournful clarinet solos per week.  Tops.  Which is how many people feel about the Jews.  And that is the story of anti-semitism.  The end.  

The music starts at about the 1:00 mark.  I think the non-jews who aren't familiar with the term klezmer this will recognize it as something they've heard before.

Homemaker Man

P.S.  I know we're supposed to worship on Saturday.  So sue me.

P.P.S.  There were better videos, but the embed option was disabled.  Psshh.  Jews.

P.P.S.  A special thank you to Suburban Correspondent.  She writes one of my favoritest blogs,  The More, The Messier.  Apparently. Peter Sagal of Wait Wait . . . Don't Tell Me fame reads her blog.
Also, apparently he borrows some of his material from there as well.  Psshh.  Jews.

Thanks for the mention, S.C.

HM