My First Passover, as a Non-Jew

Today is Passover. 

This holiday has no real significance to me, other than the fact that my husband is Jewish. I say this as if it’s an aside, even though that makes it important in the eyes of almost anyone else.

I was raised by one parent who grew up in the Eastern Orthodox Church and the other became a born-again Christian upon meeting my Mom. She wanted to convert to Catholicism, as her brother had when he married his Irish Catholic wife, but my father refused to have anything to do with the Catholic Church. So, they became Lutherans.

I was raised in a midwestern conglomerate of Catholicism and Lutheranism, a girl living between two worlds (more so than you would think! The two sects are very, very different in how they practice and interpret scripture). Okay, maybe it wasn’t that dramatic, but I always felt a divide between the way I was learning and engaging in worship in my school and church and the way in which my circle of extended family and friends were. 

Always a skeptic, I decided that agnosticism best fit me around age 14. I found the intellectual rigor of atheist scholarship rewarding and never felt that the religious teachings and traditions I learned were sound or just. Don’t get me wrong, I know that many people find morality, peace or community through their faith. That was just not something I found. Whenever I so much as asked a question about a teaching using critical thinking, I was met with scorn from both adults and peers. I also saw how many people were completely contradictory in their preaching of religious values that they completely failed to live up to in their own lives. All of this hypocrisy, dogma, and blind loyalty felt nothing short of toxic and I wanted no part of it.

The ironic part is that I actually found some solace in Judaism. I read a few books on Jewish theology that really moved me; it’s actually considered to be intellectually lazy to not question God or religious teachings. The themes of intelligent debate, healthy skepticism, and unconditional love were quite refreshing, compared to the hostility I’d experienced in school and church. At that point in time, I actively longed to know someone who was Jewish or experience some type of Jewish community, but the opportunity wasn’t there.

Fast forward 15 years and I’m now married to a Jew, who has family that is clergy. Yet, I couldn’t want to be any further away from it. I have a bad taste in my mouth as I type these words, that feels strangely similar to the sentiments I had back then. Seeing people who call themselves committed to their faith treat others in a way that is antithetical to their self-professed beliefs. I see others obsessing over fasting, lighting a candle, or obeying some 3000 year old book of laws with precision failing to even offer an ounce of compassion, grace, or consideration in their personal lives. I see blind devotion to looking good, presenting a picture-perfect image to the world, all the while knowing what lies beneath the surface is nothing short of a mess.

As this holiday comes and goes, it occurs to me that I should be happy. Even if I am secretly relieved that I don’t have to choose how and if I’m going to engage with a Jewish holiday, I can’t help but feel that I’m being coerced into joining a religion, when the people practicing this religion seem to have selective application of its moral tenets. 

It’s hard to be caught in the middle of this tug-of-war between truth and so-called ‘propriety.’ I got what I wanted and it doesn’t feel good. I had an ideal of marrying a Jewish lawyer for years and…I married a Jewish lawyer. I wanted to be with someone who was a rebel and…I sort of got that. I didn’t want to marry into a family who didn’t like nor approve of my non-Jewishness, but I did get that, even if they won’t acknowledge this to my face. When I first met them over the high holidays last year, I thought my dedication to attending services and being in a sacred environment together would show my appreciation for their traditions and reverence to what they hold in esteem. Somehow, this effort fell flat and they didn’t seem to notice or even care that I was there, taking part.

All of this goes into the reasons why Passover feels painful; my husband is sad that the seder’s of his loved ones are happening across the country in Los Angeles. I feel grateful for the chance to use my voice and separate myself from these experiences that only remind me of past pain. I appreciate that he is showing strength in his resolve and not condoning the actions that don’t mirror the words. I hold dear that we don’t follow a faith unquestioningly, that we hold moral courage above appearance or ritual. Perhaps, I realize, I am practicing the values of the faith, without realizing it.