In an attempt to shake off the above title, not so kindly bestowed on me by my brother via Twitter when I mis-spelled mohel, I will say a few words about Passover.
As a child I had two sets of friends. My Jewish friends and my Catholic friends. My Jewish friends were closer friends, having nothing to do with their religion, but simply for the reason one chooses friends at 6 or 7; cool toys, nice Mom, and later, at maybe 11 or 12, cute older brother.
Having a regular Friday night sleepover at Rachel R.'s house guaranteed me a trip to Shul- Synagogue on Saturday morning. "Bring a dress", Rachel's Swedish convert mother would tell me, "something nice, but not too fancy." When we arrived at the Temple the kids would run to the coat closet where we would find lace doilies and bobby pins for the girls, and mini prayer shawls for the boys. The lace always seemed so elegant and precious in my hands. We would hastily pin the doily to our braids or ponytails and file into the sanctuary.
I, of course, was not Jewish. Though my father is Jewish and in some, more liberal circles I might be accepted, in this Conservative temple I was about as Jewish as pork tenderloin. I tried to blend in with Rachel's family. We whispered a hushed plan to tell the Rabbi I was a cousin visiting from a nearby town. Because I knew, somehow, that if I was outed I wouldn't be able to participate in the rituals I was growing to love and look forward to.
One of the best parts of the service is when the Rabbi, surrounded by a handful of lucky kids, processes into the Sanctuary carrying the Torah scrolls, high above his head. Because the Torah is sacred, I was told, it can never touch the ground. So the job of helping to carry the giant, sacred book, was an important one. Even if our part was merely symbolic, it was an honor to be called on for this job.
Christians also love to process. In some circles at least. It's dramatic and powerful. I remember being particularly moved by seeing a handful of Episcopal priests file past me on a Sunday night as I sat daydreaming in a garden beside St. Martin's Church. Robed and focused, one cheerful looking teenaged girl- arms outstretched balancing a Medieval looking banner- smiled at me as our eyes met.
Back to being Jewish.
One Saturday, I suppose my regular attendance and the "cousin" story had worked because I found myself at the top of the aisle behind a curtain, nervously standing beside the Rabbi as we were about to make our way to the front of the Synagogue with the Torah. I avoided eye contact with him. I repeated the story in my head, "I'm the cousin from Ft. Lee," I thought, hoping my lie would go undetected if I was called upon to identify myself before taking part in this holy errand.
Though this is not my favorite Jewish memory, for some reason it's the first that comes to mind. It wasn't Passover, it wasn't a high holiday of any sort. It was just a regular old Sabbath day, but yet, it was important. The work of God's people was as important on this morning as it was on any night of Hannukah, or Purim, or Passover for that matter. At least it was to me. And it was important for the children to be involved, to have ownership in this glorious, everyday activity.
It certainly was important to the Rabbi. My goy hands never touched the Torah. I watched teary eyed from behind the curtain, exposed, sort of, as the non Jew I was. But I get it. I understand now. I had no idea, except for the crumbs of Hebrew, culture and tradition that I gobbled up at every opportunity; I had no idea what it all really meant.
Passover memories are better. More inclusive, more encouraging. A myriad of seder dinners were attended by our family, one resulting in my little brother getting a cauldron of matzoh ball soup accidentally dumped on his head, but generally they were undramatic, regular sorts of events.
My friend Leah, another one whose family occasionally let me tag along to Shul, had a grandfather who was in the Jewish mafia in Pennsylvania. I learned of this years later when her parents got divorced and all the family secrets came spilling out, as they tend to do. But my memories of spending Passover at her mafia don grandfather's house are some of the happiest of my childhood.
They had a huge, gorgeous house surrounded by manicured gardens and 12 foot high hedges sculpted into a labrinyth. I remember the cool, pre-Spring evenings we would run around the backyard, waiting for the ritual to begin. As the sun began to set we would all take our places at the giant dining room table. Each place was set with a pocket sized prayer book, the prayers in both Hebrew and English. "Now this is something I can do," I thought. When it was my turn to read a prayer someone kindly suggested I read in English, acknowledging that I knew no Hebrew. My heart was pounding and my palms were sweating. I proudly and carefully read aloud the designated prayer, to smiles and nods of encouragement from Leah's family. To them, at least in that moment, I was Jewish enough.
Later we would all hunt for the Afikomen, slip sliding on the polished mahogany floors in our socks. We would be given mesh bags of chocolate money, whether or not we were lucky enough to find the hidden matzoh.
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