By Harriet Cooper
I believe in God, but I'm not too clear on the other details.
~Bill Veeck
A few years ago, I was sitting across the restaurant table from my best friend Susan eating my usual Sunday breakfast of scrambled eggs, tomatoes and toast.
Susan popped a bit of bacon into her mouth and then turned to me. "So, time to discuss this year's menu."
I stared at her blankly. "Menu for what?"
"Rosh Hashanah," she said, waving her fork in the air. "You know, the High Holidays. Jewish New Year." She sighed as she speared another piece of bacon. "And you call yourself a Jew."
I shrugged. "What can I say? My mother usually reminds me at least two weeks ahead. She's late this year. Besides," I said, staring at her fork, "I'm not the one eating bacon."
She laughed, and we decided on that year's dinner: chicken, asparagus, salad and tsimmes.
"Don't forget the prunes in the tsimmes," I said. "My mother always put in prunes with the carrots. But if you want to put in sweet potato like last year, that's fine. In fact, I prefer it with sweet potatoes, but don't tell my mother."
After the High Holidays, I usually shelve religion until the next Jewish holiday rolls around. This time was different. A couple of weeks later, I came across a quiz on the Internet titled "What kind of Jew are you?" I couldn't resist, especially when the answers labeled me in terms of food. You can't get more Jewish than that.
According to the quiz, I fit into the haroseth category, named after a Passover fruit and nut mixture. As haroseth, my Jewish identity blends tradition and innovation, and revolves around holidays and lifecycle events, rather than religion.
The next Sunday, I told Susan about the quiz. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It's not like I attended parochial school. I went to a regular public school that was mostly Protestant. Jewish students were allowed to take off the Jewish holidays, giving us twice the number of holidays the other students got, although you'd never find a single dreidel among the Christmas decorations or a Hanukkah song at the Christmas concert. For the most part, Jews were invisible."
"No wonder you turned into a WASH."
"A what?"
"White Anglo Saxon Hebrew."
I thought about Susan's comment. My mother kept kosher in that solid North American tradition: meat and dairy, with a special set of glass dishes for non-kosher food. As a kid, I went to synagogue on the High Holidays and spent most of the time bored to death by our rabbi's long sermons. I was far more interested in seeing who wore the ugliest hat than in learning anything about my place as a Jew in the world.
As I grew older, I drifted further away from religion. When I left home to attend university, I lived in an ethnically diverse area, and my friends reflected that diversity. The thought of joining a synagogue never crossed my mind — that was for families.
Suddenly, it was twenty years later. I had a house in a nice but overwhelmingly Protestant area of the city and was the only person on the block who didn't put up Christmas lights. I still remember a neighbor's astonished face when I said I didn't celebrate Christmas. She automatically assumed I was too mean-spirited. It never occurred to her that I wasn't Christian.
That Sunday, in the restaurant, I realized Susan was my only Jewish friend. If she didn't invite me over for Hanukkah and Passover, I would probably ignore both holidays.
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After our conversation, I went back to being a WASH. But something had sparked in my mind, a small flame that grew as I began to read more and more newspaper articles about religious violence. That flame prompted me to write several letters to the editor and ultimately a full-page newspaper feature in which I argued against fundamentalism of any type.
Two weeks after the feature came out, I got a phone call from a small Unitarian Fellowship congregation that wanted me to speak at one of their meetings.
"But I'm Jewish," I said. "Well, sort of Jewish."
Assured that my religion or lack of it wasn't a problem, I agreed to speak. I also persuaded Susan to go with me. "Just in case they try to convert me," I joked. "My mother would kill me."
I spent days researching and writing, distilling everything I thought about religion and God into a forty-five-minute presentation, with an emphasis on what I disliked about organized, fundamental religions.
That Sunday, I introduced myself as half-Jewish, half-agnostic, and then launched into my topic. During the question-and-answer period, one of the members of the congregation asked me if I ever felt a need to believe in God and religion.
"No," I started to respond and then stopped. That answer simply didn't feel right. I started again, feeling my way as I spoke. "I may not be ready to believe in God with a capital G or religion with a capital R, but I do feel a need for a connection to something greater than I am. I just don't know what that is yet. I'm stumbling around in the dark, looking for the light."
After my presentation, I drank tea and chatted with the congregation. But part of my mind was still mulling over my answer about God and religion. Putting my half-formed thoughts into words started me on a path to learn more. I began to buy books, both on Judaism and religion in general.
A few weeks ago, I was walking along a busy street when something caught my eye: a small sign in the window of a nondescript building. All it said was: "If you want to learn more about Judaism, call this number." For a minute, I felt as if the universe was shining a light on me.
I wrote down the number, but I haven't called. I've kept it, though. As a Jew and wavering agnostic, I'm still stumbling toward an ill-defined something beyond myself. Who knows? One day soon, I might be ready to take a leap of faith. When I am, at least I'll know who to call.
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