older, she rediscovered her Catholic faith. After the divorce, she quietly resumed attending Sunday mass.
Faith is something that seems to imprint on you when you’re young. After the divorce, I grew very close to my mom, and part of that meant I went with her to mass. Though my father and I never spoke about it, he must have worried I would convert to Catholicism. But I never found it hard to separate spirituality and dogma. Being raised Jewish had taken hold,and even after my mom began attending mass regularly, even after I started going with her, I enjoyed the spirituality of Catholic service without being confused by dogma.
Obviously the doctrines of the two religions are different, which is why many people can’t look past their incompatibility. Perhaps it’s because I was raised by parents who found a way to reconcile that conflict that I found myself attracted to the sense of quiet gratitude for the beauty and preciousness of life that is such a big part of both services. Catholic worship is also a visual feast. The beautiful stained-glass windows, the robes—even the churches themselves—create a sense of peaceful serenity. I understood why my mother craved it. Nothing else must have ever felt quite right to her. The songs, the words, the language, weren’t the same, but after a few years of reciting the same prayers side by side with my mother, I found the same comfort, the same peacefulness, the same sense of hope that I found from chanting the Kaddish or the Shema in synagogue.
As I hang up the phone, it occurs to me again that if I told my mom the reason I left school, if I told her about Raphael’s visit, she would believe me. I’m not sure if this is a flaw or not, but my mom always believes whatever Mo and I tell her. It used to be a game we played, to tell her outrageous stories about the things we saw on the way to school, the people we met. She would listen and ask questions and never seem to doubt the possibility that maybe we didn’t really meet the president of the United States at school or weren’t really invited to join the NASA program as the first children inspace. When I started to giggle and Mo would admit we were “just teasing” or “making a joke,” she would laugh right along with us. The one time we fooled my dad, telling him we’d been expelled from school for refusing to take communion—this was a public school, mind you—he was angrier at the fact that we tricked him than at the thought that the school had mandatory communion.
But I don’t tell my mom the truth. For one, it seems much too late to start admitting I met an angel. For another, not telling anyone (except Mo, and he doesn’t count) hasn’t gotten me into trouble. What if telling my mom brings the angel back? What if this time he’s angry? It was bad enough to meet him for a routine—if that’s what you can call it—assignment. Having an encounter where he’s angry just might kill me.
The thought that I am being punished bubbles up from the dark, bitter part of my mind, but I brush it aside.
When I call my dad for our weekly check-in, my unhappiness with God comes up in a sort of vague, theoretical way.
“Doubt is built into Judaism,” he says as soon as I tell him I’m struggling. I don’t explain that it isn’t my faith that’s wavering, it’s what to do about my newfound religiosity. “The name Israel means ‘he who struggles with God.’ Notice it doesn’t say ‘doubts’; it says ‘struggles.’ The important thing is to
do
, to
act.
” My father is passionate about this, and it’s obvious it’s something he’s thought about. His words give me chills. “The rabbis say we’re judged by our deeds, not our words—and never by our thoughts. So when you have doubt, when you feel anger or bitterness toward God, no one is marking demerits on your soul.”
I wonder when he had his moments of doubt. Perhaps he still does.
“But what if your acts aren’t good enough? What if they
Faith is something that seems to imprint on you when you’re young. After the divorce, I grew very close to my mom, and part of that meant I went with her to mass. Though my father and I never spoke about it, he must have worried I would convert to Catholicism. But I never found it hard to separate spirituality and dogma. Being raised Jewish had taken hold,and even after my mom began attending mass regularly, even after I started going with her, I enjoyed the spirituality of Catholic service without being confused by dogma.
Obviously the doctrines of the two religions are different, which is why many people can’t look past their incompatibility. Perhaps it’s because I was raised by parents who found a way to reconcile that conflict that I found myself attracted to the sense of quiet gratitude for the beauty and preciousness of life that is such a big part of both services. Catholic worship is also a visual feast. The beautiful stained-glass windows, the robes—even the churches themselves—create a sense of peaceful serenity. I understood why my mother craved it. Nothing else must have ever felt quite right to her. The songs, the words, the language, weren’t the same, but after a few years of reciting the same prayers side by side with my mother, I found the same comfort, the same peacefulness, the same sense of hope that I found from chanting the Kaddish or the Shema in synagogue.
As I hang up the phone, it occurs to me again that if I told my mom the reason I left school, if I told her about Raphael’s visit, she would believe me. I’m not sure if this is a flaw or not, but my mom always believes whatever Mo and I tell her. It used to be a game we played, to tell her outrageous stories about the things we saw on the way to school, the people we met. She would listen and ask questions and never seem to doubt the possibility that maybe we didn’t really meet the president of the United States at school or weren’t really invited to join the NASA program as the first children inspace. When I started to giggle and Mo would admit we were “just teasing” or “making a joke,” she would laugh right along with us. The one time we fooled my dad, telling him we’d been expelled from school for refusing to take communion—this was a public school, mind you—he was angrier at the fact that we tricked him than at the thought that the school had mandatory communion.
But I don’t tell my mom the truth. For one, it seems much too late to start admitting I met an angel. For another, not telling anyone (except Mo, and he doesn’t count) hasn’t gotten me into trouble. What if telling my mom brings the angel back? What if this time he’s angry? It was bad enough to meet him for a routine—if that’s what you can call it—assignment. Having an encounter where he’s angry just might kill me.
The thought that I am being punished bubbles up from the dark, bitter part of my mind, but I brush it aside.
When I call my dad for our weekly check-in, my unhappiness with God comes up in a sort of vague, theoretical way.
“Doubt is built into Judaism,” he says as soon as I tell him I’m struggling. I don’t explain that it isn’t my faith that’s wavering, it’s what to do about my newfound religiosity. “The name Israel means ‘he who struggles with God.’ Notice it doesn’t say ‘doubts’; it says ‘struggles.’ The important thing is to
do
, to
act.
” My father is passionate about this, and it’s obvious it’s something he’s thought about. His words give me chills. “The rabbis say we’re judged by our deeds, not our words—and never by our thoughts. So when you have doubt, when you feel anger or bitterness toward God, no one is marking demerits on your soul.”
I wonder when he had his moments of doubt. Perhaps he still does.
“But what if your acts aren’t good enough? What if they
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