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December 2000 Issue

Leah Doesn't Live Here Anymore

By Jennifer Schulman

I was raised by a Jewish family who referred to the winter holiday as "Christmastime." My fiancé, Christopher Something-Quite-Scottish, grew up believing church was comprised of a few chairs around the living room coffee table, a candle, and a short discussion about listening to one's Higher Power.

We are not poster children for organized religion. We cannot recite the Ten Commandments without each other's help. And our parents are charged with aiding and abetting this spiritual amorphism. So why was getting married raising so many eyebrows within our respective clans?

The dating process was as easy as falling off a Yule log. Most of my relationships had been with non-Jews, so I took my quasi-Christian Christopher in stride. I ate ham with his family on Easter, and, had my new nephew had a bris, Chris would have come with both bells and kippah on.

Religion was rarely mentioned, except for intermittent agreements that a belief in God is special and necessary, but subscribing to a particular book about Him is not. We were in sync about our beliefs and so we went on to develop a more serious courtship.

As it often goes, courtship warped into engagement, and we found ourselves one autumn evening pledging the next 60 years to each other (given we keep up with the green tea and exercise). We planned a spring wedding, a symbol of youth and all things new; we banked on our closest friends and loved ones quietly sharing in our sacred day.

Worse than that, though, were our intermarried, fairly non-religious friends who overflowed with advice, far more concerned with the spiritual representation at our wedding than we--or our families--were.

Collars were called for and broken glass demanded, marches by anti-Semitic composers were banned and the word "Lord" was requested by at least three ex-roommates. Religion had suddenly made its way into the hearts and minds of our formerly informal families and friends. And Chris and I were totally unprepared to deal with it.

The first request came from my side, my mother voicing my grandmother's unspoken wishes. "Whatever you do (hand over heart), I would really appreciate it (nod to each of us) if you didn't have your wedding (eyes upward to Heaven) on a Saturday," she said. "It would kill Nana."

I hadn't even considered it before, but it seemed a reasonable request. I was ready to give her an OK, until I saw Chris' face. Apparently, he had assumed Saturday the perfect day for nuptials, Sunday too day-before-going-back-to-work depressing. Then came my future father-in-law's petition that we use his minister. A few friends suggested we seek spiritual counseling. The requests began to get stranger.

Chris' Christian aunt expressed an intense desire to see Chris break the glass at the ceremony, while my sister--born Jewish but a devout follower of Eastern thought--waved away the idea of doing the horah at the reception with the flick of her wrist. Everywhere we turned, we were getting conflicting advice--and the advice often clashed with each other and with us.

Planning the wedding was an exercise in self-exploration, communication, and placation. My mother and I searched the Internet and found that the Saturday wedding taboo didn't really mesh with our beliefs (sources say that a happy occasion, such as a wedding, and the Sabbath would dilute each other. I say they enhance each other), and my Nana has survived the hit with grace and a grin.

So our wedding was planned for a Saturday morning. In choosing someone to officiate the ceremony, Chris and I agreed that we wanted something non-denominational, but still a representative of God, so we decided on his father's Unitarian minister, who would mention God, but certainly not the "J" name.

My family and its heritage would be acknowledged in the ceremony with my grandfather's kiddish cup, from which Chris and I would share a cup of wine. No glass would be broken; we'd leave the horah up to the moment. It was neither a Christian nor a Jewish ceremony, yet enough of our respective religious leanings were brought into the day to make it feel spiritual.

While getting married is the uniting of two people, it is also the coming together of two families, and considering their wishes among those of the bride and groom is complicated, but generally necessary. Parents often feel that marriage will result in the loss of their child. So by respresenting their personalities and inclinations, those tying the knot can help reinforce the foundation of these other relationships. A mother's tears will flow much more for joy if she knows that her son will take a bit of Mom with him as he walks into the arms of his new Favorite Woman.

Dad will pine for his baby girl with a little less angst if he knows that she thinks that Father knows best, even when Husband may think more like her. That kind of peace of mind is worth a little gefilte fish with the pigs-in-a-blanket.

When the time comes, our children will learn about God and what He stands for. We will raise them to love others, to be kind, to recognize that there is a Higher Power who will teach them and guide them. If they find a book that rings true for them, we will embrace it, and if they don't, we hope they will continue to believe in something. Whether it's in God, in a goddess, or in themselves. Some call that practicing no religion. But, in essence, they'll be practicing every religion. And that's better than one.

Jennifer Schulman now lives in Washington, D.C. .

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