I am a spiritual hybrid. I was born into an ethnically, religiously, traditionally practicing and gastronomically Jewish immigrant family. My dad’s parents fled Russia during the pogrom as children since it was not a safe place to be a Jew. They crossed the ocean to a country in which they felt more free to do so. I am particularly grateful that none of my ancestors remained in Europe, thus escaping the horrors of the Holocaust. My grandparents met via an arranged marriage, raised four children to successful adulthood in an Orthodox Jewish home. That meant keeping kosher and observing the various rituals as proscribed in the Torah and Talmud. When my parents met and married, they were no less Jewish but did not strictly adhere to what I consider restrictive and not particularly honoring of gender equality practices. My father wanted to be sure that his two daughters were included. We went to synagogue as a family.
On the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, since women couldn’t wear a tallis (fringed prayer shawl), he would wrap one side of his around me. He led a Sunday morning breakfast club for boys for years. My sister and I broke the gender barrier and then our friends attended too. When my sister and I each turned 13, we became Bat Mitzvah and were considered adult members of the congregation. When I came home from college to visit, he stood up to a Rabbi who wasn’t welcoming my sister and me in the minyan (a 10 person quorum needed to say certain prayers) at a Friday night Shabbat service that was sparsely attended because there was a freak April snowstorm. Even though my dad told him, “My daughters should count,” the misogynistic Rabbi (when he met my mother for the first time, she pointed upward and said, “My eyes are up here.”) “That’s very nice and we still need two more men.” If my dad really wanted to make a point, he would have left with us, and said, “Now you need three more men.” He wasn’t willing to push the envelope that much. It was when I decided that it wasn’t about God, it was about what I thought of as ‘men’s stupid rules.’
I became a more diverse spiritual explorer at that point. I had gone to church with Christian friends in childhood. My parents encouraged it so I could learn, with the caveat, “Remember who you are,” translated to “Don’t convert.” In college, I studied Eastern religions, I met people who engaged in Earth based and pagan practices, in my 20s, went to services occasionally at a Jewish Renewal synagogue in Philadelphia called P’nai Or. There we prayed, sang, danced and meditated. It felt more genuine to the beauty of the Judaism that I witnessed in snippets growing up. When I moved to Florida, my husband and I (he was a recent convert to Judaism) were seeking a community. One day, I was in a book store and a book literally fell off a shelf into my hands. It was about recovery for Jews, which fascinated me, since most 12 step recovery programs are Christian in nature. I turned it over and on the back was a photo and name of the author, Rabbi Rami Shapiro who is a Reform Rabbi. Turns out, the synagogue at which he led services was in our neck of the woods and when I got home, I told my husband, “We’ve found our new congregation.” When we stepped through the door of Beth Or which translates to House of Light, I knew we had also found a home. Rami’s sermons were poignant and powerful, born of deep immersion into many spiritual traditions in addition to Judaism. We stayed there for two years when a biblically epic storm called Hurricane Andrew blew through Homestead, Florida in August of 1992 and we moved back up to PA.
Once back in our old stomping grounds, we attended services at an interfaith community I had been part of since 1984, called Pebble Hill in Doylestown, PA. When my husband became ill with Hepatitis C, he decided to pivot his career from being a magazine publisher to an interfaith minister. He enrolled in The New Seminary in NYC to complete his studies, graduate from the two year program and walk down the aisle of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and receive his ordination. I had no interest in pursuing that path, but assisted him in his studies, reading to him, typing his papers, listening/watching the audio and video recordings of the classes. All of this, because as he was deteriorating, he was not able to do those things on his own. He held firm to the saying, “Ha Kol B’seder,” which translates to “All is in Divine order.” Clearly, it was. At the end of 1998, he entered the ICU in a coma and when the doctor turned off life support, I heard what I call The Voice for God, saying clearly, “Call the seminary and ask to finish what Michael started.” That I did and was welcomed into the class with the instruction that I could graduate with them on two conditions.
1-that I was doing it for myself and not just for him.
2-that I needed to do both year’s working simultaneously, or one year at a time and graduate the following year.
Because I was familiar with the course work, it was far easier and I completed the requirements in six months and I was the one walking down the aisle in white robe and vestments, carrying his picture. I chose not to head up a congregation, but be a freelancer, offering wedding, funeral and baby blessing ceremonies. Far less complicated that way.
Now, 27 years later, I have incorporated many teachings that I put into practice each day. I use the title Rev. sparingly, but always when I sign progressive petitions. Part of my spiritual orientation is peace and social justice activism. I put legs under my beliefs, walking the talk, practicing Tikkun Olam (Repair of the World). I live by these words that came to me as if whispered in my ear. “May everything we think, say and do benefit the whole of the world. May our actions be conscious and intentional. May we come together to mend the rends.”
If you were to look around my home, you would see prayer icons of various faiths. A mezuzah on my front door, a stylized cross and angels in the window to the right of the door. Native American dream catchers, my parent’s Shabbat candles and Hanukkah menorah, Om symbols, dancing Shivas, the Goddess of compassion Kwan Yin, meditative and smiling Buddhas, a round Mayan calendar, and Tibetan prayer flags, as well as Buddhist mala beads, and the white khata (prayer shawl) I wore when I met and interviewed His Holiness the Dalai Lama in 2008, greet me each day.
I commune with Jesus as fellow member of the ‘Tribe’, as he was a nice Jewish boy. He is a template, model and guide for how to walk through the world for me. One of my Easter rituals is to watch Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell.
In these times of chaos and confusion, turmoil and tumult, I shake my head in bewilderment how anyone can call themselves a ‘good Jew, Christian, Muslim, Hindu or Buddhist,’ if their religion is not Love that welcomes the stranger, that houses the homeless, that embraces the lonely, that accepts those for whom bigotry has made life dangerous. I see articles and social media posts that cast aspersions on all of those groups.
As this is being written, tomorrow is Easter Sunday and Christians will gather to honor the one they call Lord and Savior. They will praise an aspect of God who they believe gave his life for them. They will celebrate the Resurrection. I invite all of them to ask themselves, “Who would Jesus hate? Who would Jesus shun? Who would Jesus turn away? Who would Jesus assault? Who would Jesus bomb? Who would Jesus elevate to a position of power and authority who claims to be on par with him with the power to take life who is as un-Christlike as can be?
Love is my religion and God is too vast to fit into any one box.
Happy Passover (Chag Sameach Pesach) and Blessed Easter.
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