Genocide has many causes, but no reason: a lesson in compassion - part 2

I brought no cross, no prayer beads, no talismans, and no bible to Africa. I did bring ibuprofen, Imodium, Benadryl, Band Aids, and Doxycycline. While I was able to stave off Malaria and muscle pain, I wasn't sure I had the tools to ward off a darkening of the soul. Yet, when difficult moments arrived at Gisozi, Mayingye, Nyamata, and Murambi I realized I had tools available that helped me get through these experiences intact.



1. A Song in My Heart
I love my church, Belmont UMC. I especially love the Director of Music Ministry, Gayle Sullivan, and the truly inspiring pieces she and the choirs present each Sunday morning. The songs vary from African spirituals to Bach concertos, Wesleyan hymns to Taize. They always inspire a deep connection to the moment of being in time and space with other humans in God's presence during worship. A few Sundays before we left for Rwanda, I actually got to church in time to hear the call to worship and prelude. The choir chanted Keith Duke's You, Lord, Are in This Place - you can listen to an instrumental version here. It goes:

You, Lord, are in this place.
Your presence fills it.
Your presence is here.

You, Lord, are in my heart.
Your presence fill it.
Your presence is here.

I played this song in a loop in my head and heart as I walked through the memorials. It became my prayer - both a statement and a request. God, you must be here, please be here, surely you are here, you better be here, how dare you not be here, please come here! I begged and pleaded not to be in those places alone. The song became my mantra against the raging tide of questions burning at the pit of my stomach:

How devoid of God must the people here have felt when they were being murdered there? How could God have been there and let this happen? How did God let houses of worship become dens of death? Why did God seemingly abandon the people of Rwanda? Where was God's hand in this? Was it part of a plan? Was it "meant to be?" What was God thinking?

Answerless questions.

In my most desperate moments, I heard Alison Kraus' A Living Prayer, more recently touched me heart.

In this world I walk alone
With no place to call my home
But there's One who holds my hand
The rugged road through barren lands

The way is dark, the road is steep
But He's become my eyes to see
The strength to climb, my griefs to bear
This Savior lives inside me there

In Your love I find release
A haven from my unbelief
Take my life and let me be
A living prayer my God to thee

In these trials of life I find
Another Voice inside my mind
He comforts me and bids me live
Inside the love the Father gives

As with this song, I often feel uncomfortable with God the Father language. Limiting God to the masculine has serious negative theological and logistical consequences. But in this instance, it was the exact antidote I needed. Walking next to a dad who, to this day, holds my hand is a sensation I know well. Whether across a busy street or on a forest hike, my dad shows his love in the form of a steady, guiding, protecting hand. There, in Rwanda, I could feel the rough callouses of my dad's palm, the way he cracks his thumb knuckle, and how small and safe I feel when led by him. It gave God a foothold in my heart, a context in which I could feel His love. This manly, fatherly love led me by the hand through the dark places.

Yet, to feel God's love in these places felt tragic. At the memorials, I had to make myself feel God's love even when I wanted to feel a void, because if there was a void, it would all make so much more sense.

I wasn't going to get the answers to my questions in the way wanted. Instead, I was presented with a different view of tragic events that started to help me sort out the whys and hows.



2. For the Beauty of the Earth
Each of these horrific sites was located amongst devastatingly beautiful scenery. Not just pretty landscaping, the actual landscapes of Gisozi, Nyamata, and Murambi were stunningly gorgeous. Gisozi is situated atop a Rwandan "hill" (what we would call in Nashville a mountain) that overlooks the city of Kigali. The sun was setting over banana trees displaying ostentatious lilac and fuchsia beams through blue-gray clouds at Nyamata. Murambi looked like a verdant knob surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The juxtaposition of natural beauty and unnatural horror was, at first, difficult to reconcile. They were painfully disparate. But as time passed, as time does, I thought about the beauty as being the constant, the default, the beginning. Before there were humans, there was foliage. Mountains formed without our help. The sun sets regardless of human affairs. God made all of this, too, was my thought. Instead of accentuating the differences, nature softened the blow. I took refuge in the visual context of the memorials.



3. Even when it's hard to look away, you can look away
My dear-heart friend, Hannah, sent me an email the day before we went to Gisozi without even realizing the impeccable timing she had giving this piece of pertinent advice. She new how obligated I would feel to be fully in it at these sites. So, she gave me permission to protect my heart when she knew I couldn't give it to myself. So I took it. When we approached the cave-like classrooms in Murambi filled with the chalky remains of men, women, children, and babies I glanced in and looked away. It was more than enough to smell the lime covered corpses to experience death there. At this memorial, they want everyone to look. It's gratuitous morbidity with a purpose. It's incontrovertible evidence that a genocide took place here. After being ignored by the international community in 1994, this is their "I told you so." I didn't need this kind of proof, but I understand the motivation to present it this way. Hannah's words were my shield and gave me permission to experience that site in the way I needed.



4. My companion, my friend, my spouse
From the moment we arrived on the continent, we were synced. He tuned in to my physical and emotional needs setting an appropriate pace for both. Following a tradition of his Jewish faith, we placed stones at the mass graves together. We witnessed the influence of Jesus' teachings on redeeming victims and perpetrators together. We did not go through these sites walking in tandem. It was more like there was a elastic string attached to each of us allowing an ebb and flow of space between us - enough space to let us process independently while always gauging the other's need for consolation. Weaving in an out of rooms and tombs, the string kept us in tight, breathable bond: eye contact, the squeeze of a hand, a head on a shoulder, a glance across a room. Our refrain was, "how are you doin'?" "Okay. You?" "Okay." It was more like we were saying, "I see you. This is hard for me, too. I'm right here if you need me." I fell deeply in love with the person I chose to be my partner almost five years ago and the person he became on this journey.


I learned that I have tools available waiting undiscovered, ready to reveal themselves exactly when needed - "unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see."



(The Hymn of Promise is a hymn I memorized in middle school. This was a regular exercise in choir practice and one my friends and I relished. I don't know if Gayle realized that when she had us learn these hymns that they would later serve as beacons of hope keeping us grounded in our community of faith, but this is a song that has seen me through many a hard time. Thank you Gayle.)

When your spouse asks you to go to Africa...

You say yes.

Now for the back story:

I love sharing my profession with my spouse. Being teachers, we have many perks including, but not limited to summer break, winter break, spring break, and fall break. We also get to work with interesting people both young, old, and in between, we get to be creative everyday, and we continue to be learners through professional development opportunities. One such opportunity came up out of the blue this spring. Matthew's school recently received a grant to sponsor a teacher to travel anywhere that would help his or her teaching philosophically or practically. He applied and didn't get the grant. But, his boss thought his proposal was so compelling that he is getting to travel to Africa anyway. You can read his take on it here.

Why Africa?

In my humble opinion, one of the most compelling classes his school offers is a seminar called Social Conscience. I wasn't able to take it when I was there, but my spouse was and now teaches the course himself. The course description is:

Social Conscience is a discussion-based seminar course designed to make the student think, question, and to try to arrive at answers about his/her own ethical and moral outlook on life and about the nature of his/her responsibility to society. At the core of the course is a single question: What makes good people do evil things? While we use the Holocaust and other case studies as paradigms, the course fits it into a broader context. It is structured so that we study first our own identities, and hopefully come closer to understanding who we are and what values and forces shape us. Then we examine the situational and systemic influences that may make those identities more fluid than we might like to believe, and decide—how capable of evil are we?

In his class, Matthew requires his students (16, 17, and 18-year-olds) to consider the Roman playwright Terence's statement, "I am a human being; nothing human can be alien to me." Even at 29.5, I'm not sure I'm truly ready to confront, dissect, and evaluate this assumption.

One of the case studies he presents is the 1994 Rwandan genocide. It was brutal and horrific. It was humanity at its worst - neighbor killing neighbor. And yet, over time, and with great effort and intention, the nation of Rwanda and its people are healing. Now, the world is getting a glimpse of humanity at its best - neighbor forgiving neighbor and my spouse would like to see it, hear it, and feel it first hand.

At first, this was going to be a solo trip. His school is sponsoring only him to go. Then, one day a couple of weeks after he was sponsored, I get a phone call on my way into boot camp. "Do you want to go to Africa with me?" I was stunned, honored, scared, and excited all at the same time. He said the experience would be diminished without my company, which gave me that teenage sensation of having butterflies in my stomach and little bluebirds singing around my head. He wanted me to go with him to experience the brokenness of a people and witness them gluing themselves back together. He encouraged me to think about it.

Even though my gut reaction to the proposal was, "of course!" I still had to mull over all the valid reasons not to go. There were the shots - I have a severe needle phobia. There was the cost of the plane ticket and it is three LONG flights - 21 hours to get there. Naturally, we would want to spend another chunk of change on tickets to track gorillas. It's a lot of money. Plus, my summer is already booked with camps and trips and lunch dates, there is so much work to be done on our new house, I hate being away from our dogs, and my mother would freak out!

To my mother's credit, when I called to tell her I was going, and despite her propensity to worry, her defiant response was, "Well, I'll drive you to the airport!"

Traveling with anyone tests your relationship. The stresses of catching a plane, jet-lag, gas-inducing airport food, my airplane curse (I inevitably get seated next to large men wearing tweed jackets, behind crying babies, near toilets, and across from town criers, Jehovah's witnesses, evangelical republicans, or hipsters wearing patchouli to hide their b.o.), hailing taxis, carrying luggage, and finding a hotel after sunset wears you thin. Remaining civil and patient is about as easy as keeping our dogs from barking at squirrels. Traveling with the purpose of seeing genocide memorials and listening to people recount stories of death and destruction adds a whole other perilous level of stress.

After boot camp was over and I was as physically spent as I was emotionally, I lingered to talk with my instructor. Perfectly sculpted, coiffed and mascaraed, and carrying herself like she could climb Mt. Everest with you on her back, you know she is a fitness instructor. I'm not sure why she was the person I needed to tell about my dilemma. While I had been taking the class for many weeks, I did not know her well. But, when I told her my spouse asked me to go to Africa with him and what should I say, she said, "you say yes." I then learned her story. Her husband passed away unexpectedly the year before. And while she did not seem to judge my hesitation, she told me to go for it with longing conviction. She said, "this will be a game changer," and I knew she was right.

She professed her faith to me in that conversation. It is the kind of faith I hope I never know because it comes from the desperation of an inexplicable loss. She talked about Jesus, and God as Him, effortlessly quoted Revelations and Genesis with ease, and stood firm on her assumption that everything happens for a reason. I'm embarrassed to say this is the kind of witnessing that usually makes me avert my eyes, snicker under my breath, and obsessively fidget. Being in an inter-faith marriage makes me hypersensitive to Southern Baptists, Church of Christ conservatives, and evangelicals of all persuasions. I run from "members only" mentality and question-less religiosity. But in this case, I was all ears and open heart because this person standing before me knew the consequence of not seizing every possible experience with the love of your life.

Her testimony reminded me of the first page of Madeline L'Engle's A Wind in the Door, one of my favorite tween books, which, ironically, quotes Revelation 3:8-

I know your deeds. See, I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut. I know that you have little strength, yet you have kept my word and have not denied my name.

This is an open door moment.

So I said yes. Yes because this really could be a game changer. Yes, because, when we stand before rows of skulls at Ntarama Church Memorial, terrified in the face of evil, we will hold on to each other for dear life. Yes, because, I want to see the look of awe on his face when he stands yards away from mountain gorillas. Yes, because our experience would be diminished by the absence of the other. It could be one of the most difficult and romantic things we ever do together and I can't wait.

Fast Fast

Ending my Lenten fast always feels a little awkward. For the past few years, I followed the trend of technology fasting. This year, I again gave up listening to the radio in the car and general background noise at home and work. I do this so that I am forced to have moments of silence and peace in my day in an effort to hear God better. The first week is always the hardest, especially in the car. Every few minutes I reach for the radio's on button, usually push it, then quickly shut it off. I notice everything, too. I notice window shutter colors on the houses I pass, people picking their noses at stop lights, and how much I want to be distracted from my own thoughts by listening to music or the soothing NPR voices. Sometimes I end up singing to myself the hymns I memorized in fourth grade choir. Other times, I pray out loud "please help me listen!" By the end of Lent, however, I have acclimated to spending that time in silence and inviting God's presence into my four door sedan. So, when Lent is over, do I kick God out by turning on my radio? How do I end the fast? It felt like a fast from fasting when I started introducing sound back into my routine. It never felt quite right until I start fasting for Lent like a Jew.

Jews know how to fast and they know how to end a fast. One of my favorite meals is the break fast on Yom Kippor. I am filled with a sense of accomplishment and solidarity with my family. For Jewish fasts, there is always a clear objective, instructions, and an exit strategy. For instance, the Passover fast goes as follows:
Objective: Don't eat bread. Eat matzoh and remember it is the bread of affliction. Trust in God because we trusted God when he liberated us from Egypt. Remember there are still enslaved persons in the world. Help them. Refrain from eating bread because it will help motivate you to help those who have no bread.
Instructions: Refrain from eating chometz.
Exit strategy: Eight days have passed. You did it! Eat bread with abandon and celebrate that Jews are not slaves in Egypt anymore. Just as there was an end to the wandering in the desert, there is an end to the fast.

Here's how it goes at my church:
Objective: Work on your relationship with God. Go into the wilderness of your soul, figure out what keeps you from God, and get rid of those things in a methodical way of your choosing so you can be closer to God.
Instructions: Decide what you want to refrain from eating, doing, thinking, or being. OR, add something to your diet, routine, prayer list, or habits. Don't use these forty days to kick start a diet, because that is selfish and don't complain about not eating chocolate because then you'll be like the Pharisees that Jesus said not to be like. But, whatever you choose is fine because it is all about your personal relationship with God. By the way, there is a rumor that you can cheat on Sundays, if you want.
Exit strategy: Whenever the Spirit moves you, stop fasting. But if you've added something, keep at it! Or, whatever.

This year, I've decided to do two Jewish things to help me end Lent with more satisfaction and in an effort to continue all the good things that have come from my fast. First, I am continuing my radio fast one day a week. Fridays seem appropriate as it will be a Sabbath time of silent reflection, prayer and communing with God. Second, I had a Lenten break fast. I listened to my favorite music and sang from top of my lungs. It was a celebration and it felt right.

What do you call a Jewish Protestant?

When my spouse and I began talking about launching this blog, we realized how many different interfaith couples we know. We know Metho-Jews like us, but also Mu-Jews, Chris-dus, Catho-Prots, Jew-olics, Agno-tians, Metho-Baps, Bacon/No Bacon Jews, and Jew-ddhists. It is not something we discuss frequently, but I wonder, how do they make it work? So, I went on a google hunt for evidence of the conversations people are having about interfaith relationships. The results, at first, were thin. After about an hour, this is what I found:

Blogs:

• A blog written by a Seventh Day Adventist about the diversity of interfaith and other "offbeat" marriages. She interviews couples about a broad spectrum of issues that include race, religion, age, and romance.
  
• A blog written by a Jewish woman married to an atheist and raising Jewish children
  

Articles:

• An optimistic article written by a Congregationalist minister
• A ridiculously insufficient article that states you should talk about being in an interfaith relationship before you decide to have children.
• An article about a couple in Brooklyn that focuses on sorting out religious differences before the children are born. My least favorite quote from this article is:

“Who wins this argument — because it will be an argument,” needs to be resolved, added Steve McSwain, an interfaith activist and former minister in Louisville, Ky. “You’ve got to iron these things out.”

Websites:

• www.interfaithfamily.com a website of resources and articles for Jews marrying outside of their faith
  
• A Canadian website promoting religious tolerance about the nitty gritty theological rules of interfaith marriage written from a Christian/Buddhist/Agnostic/Wiccan/Atheist perspective.
  

Finally, I found this. It is an article written for Psych Central about the emotional challenges many Jewish-Christian couples and their families face when starting a relationship. In the evolution of our relationship, we definitely went through the guilt phase discussed in the article. But, Allan Schwartz ends on a positive note. He says, "It is less the presence of a single religious identity in the home and more the parental style of discipline and involvement with the children and with each other that produces well-adjusted children. Research shows that children whose parents were firm, consistent, involved and affectionate did best in school and in their relationships later in life. The particular religious affiliation of one or both parents is less important to good adjustment than the fact that the parents love and support their children." I am relieved to find someone who has put into words what I have believed as an educator for so long.

Then, I found this article. Again, the writer presents an optimistic view for couples who want to maintain their individual identities and have children who speak two religious languages.

This is where I end my search for now. J. Dana Trent is the first writer I have found who is writing about interfaith marriage from a Protestant perspective here. I'm pleased to find a lively online conversation about interfaith relationships.

What have you found lately?

Easter

There are two worship services a year that my spouse and I always attend for the other. I go to his temple for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. He comes to my church for Christmas and Easter. It is a fair trade, but Easter is particularly challenging. Theologically and spiritually, Easter is where we diverge.

For my spouse, Easter marks the historical moment Christians use to justify persecuting and excluding others. In his mind and heart, today is inextricably linked to two thousand years of vile atrocities done in the name of the resurrected Christ. He thinks about the council of Nicaea and how contrived the divinity of Jesus seems in that context. The message of Jesus' life and the aftermath of Jesus' death are too incongruous for him to reconcile. As he says, "this is where you [Christians] lose me." I can't help but empathize as I ponder the same thoughts. Despite this, I still feel overwhelming joy each Easter morning.

For me, celebrating Easter is celebrating love. Big love. World changing, sacrificial, radical love Jesus showed us how to share. Easter is also about hope, especially hope for humanity because Jesus was human. Maya Angelou sums up my feelings about hope at Easter in her talk on Oprah's Master Class when she said, "I would like everybody to think of a statement by Terance. The statement is 'I am a human being. Nothing human can be alien to me.' If you can internalize the least portion of that you will never be able to say of an act, a criminal act, 'I couldn’t do that.' No matter how heinous the crime, if a human being did it, you have to say 'I have all of the components that are in her or in him. I intend to use my energies constructively rather than destructively.' If you can do that about the negative…just think about what you can do about the positive.” I take away two things from this statement. First, I am as capable of persecuting others as those who persecuted Jesus, tortured him and hung him on a cross. It also means that I can aspire to be great. If Jesus could love those who persecuted him, love lepers and prostitutes and thieves, then I can love anyone. Like the hymn says, "Lord, I want to be like Jesus in my heart." Easter reminds me there's hope.

My spouse and I see and experience this holiday in diametrically opposed ways and yet, this morning, he came to church and stood by me while I shouted, "Hallelujah!" I listen to why this holiday is hard for him. He listens to why it inspires me. His sorrow is my sorrow and my joy is his joy. We allow the feelings to coexist on this day. We listen, we share, and we show up. For us, this is how we make it work.

Of course, bunny cake, jelly beans, and ham biscuits help, too.

Keeping Kosher for Passover

I keep kosher for Passover.* I'm not a Jew, but this week I feel most passionate about being married to a Jewish person. One way I show this is by keeping kosher for passover with him. It is an act of solidarity and support of him and the Jewish side of our family. It is my way of saying to the world that our family is half Jewish, I like that they are Jewish, I support their Jewishness, and I take part in this tradition because my family does. And, well, Jesus was Jewish and he kept kosher for passover. While I'm not interested in Messianic Judaism I enjoy exploring the Jewish context of Jesus' life. It helps me connect my life today to the story of the crucifixion because it started at a seder. The main event of my religion is set in a Jewish context. I have found that the practice of keeping kosher for passover supports me in Jewish and Christian ways.

This week, I sit at the lunch table with my baggie of matzoh and a distinct lack of bread products on my plate. For me, eating matzoh is like receiving the imposition of ashes on my forehead each Ash Wednesday.** It is an obvious and public way of sharing my beliefs. Putting your beliefs on your body or on your plate is also an open invitation for questions. People around me say things like, "What are you eating? Why are you eating matzoh? I thought you were Christian!" I tease my family during Passover saying I am the Jewish Lorax: "I am The Goyax, I speak for the Jews!" But in reality, I have been part of communities where there are no Jews and knowing me is as close as they get. This was the case at the school where I did my student teaching. I was the only person there whose families celebrated Jewish holidays and traditions so I shared with them. Through sharing, I have discovered that many people genuinely want to know about Judaism, they want myths dispelled, and they find learning about it enriching.

While I am humbled by this role, it makes me sad that there persists a lack of diversity in my city. I take being an ambassador seriously. Especially during Passover, I enjoy the opportunity this week to inform and open minds. I try to answer the questions to the best of my ability. I try to promote peace and I feel honored to do so.



*Here is a really good article on keeping kosher for Passover: click here.
**Here is an article from the United Methodist website about imposition of ashes: click here.

Preparations continued

I hate cleaning. It is the most redundant task I can think of next to bathing and brushing my teeth. Some of my friends love to clean. They are the neat people and they are organized and tidy. They seem to always find time to put things in their place. I wish I could be one of these people. I must admit that I resent these people a little because they make it painfully obvious that I am not one of those people. Currently, every surface in my house is covered with clutter. Everywhere I turn, there are stacks of paper, coffee rimmed mugs, laundry (clean and dirty), dishes, yarn or shoes. I can't escape the mess even at work because my classroom is messy, too! In this regard, my husband and I are two peas in a pod. Cleaning just always gets put on the back burner and, well, we don't really mind. At least I don't mind so long as no one else sees my mess. We have a high mess tolerance, but we are sensitive to those who do not.

I talked to my mother-in-law today about cleaning (she is one of the neat people) and she told me that one way she prepares for the the high holidays is deep cleaning. This seems like a good practice and one to which I aspire. Like biur chametz, physical cleaning becomes sanctified when through the chore, we make room for God. It also makes room for the uninvited guest, the surprise visitor. As it stands now, like my full fridge, there is a lot stuff cluttering my way to God. There is nowhere to rest my eyes in my home and no space for the mini sabbath rests needed to re-energize me on a daily basis. If a neighbor stopped by to borrow a cup of sugar, I would be mortified. So, not only do the physical items get in my way, but the guilt about not being a better housekeeper, a better wife, or a more with-it, organized person obstructs my spiritual path. Plus, I'm tired. How can I fit it all in? There's work, playing with the dogs, watching a little TV, making dinner, doing the dishes, going to boot camp, knitting projects, magazines and books to read, and a new house to decorate to name a few preferred activities and some obligations. I wonder a lot about how I can have the energy to get it all done. We don't even have kids yet! Learning about biur chametz, however, is helping me look at cleaning differently.

Biur chametz is an extreme practice for some Jews (as seen in this article here) and I'm not interested in anything extreme. I like the middle of things: oreos, political parties, and religious practices. But the take away for me is that cleaning can be a spiritual practice just like fasting. I fast for Lent and for Passover in different ways and I think my fasts serve a similar purpose. By fasting, I am creating a vacuum for God to fill. For Lent, I fast from listening to the radio in my car. Even with a shorter commute than ever this year, it is still a difficult practice. At the beginning of the forty days, I dread the silence. I fidget and hum, fiddle with my dashboard and talk to myself. I invite God to be present with me during my rides. I pray for the ability to listen and be still. I also hope I'm a better driver during Lent and that I pay better attention to the road. Four days out from Easter, I still reached for the radio's on button when I was driving home from work, but I followed the action with prayer. I was quiet. I listened and it felt good.

Cleaning my house can help me make room for God, too. I talk to my students about cleaning up after themselves. I tell them it is a sign of respect. It honors the work that went into making our classroom tools. It shows kindness to those who take care of vacuuming our rug and taking out our trash by making their job a little easier. It helps them show self-respect because they say to themselves by cleaning that they are worth a nice spot to work and play. And, it just makes the day go smoother when we know where things are and we're not tripping over the rogue lego or glue stick. I need to practice what I preach.

I am determined to clean and I've started with my car. What if some one asks for a ride home from work and my car is too full of junk? What if that person starts a conversation that leads to inspiration or empathy or the beginning of a new friendship? How can I not make room for that? Cleaning makes room for surprises and surprises are important during Lent and Passover. Opening the door for Elijah at the seder, finding the golden egg at an Easter egg hunt, and looking for signs of spring are surprises that fill me with hope. According to Sarah Parsons' guide, A Clearing Season: Reflections for Lent, inviting God to surprise you is also an act of trust. She says, "spiritual growth means learning to expect and welcome surprise of any kind. The hard part of this growth process comes in accepting that we are not in control. This season, as we clear space, we allow new things to happen, things we do not entirely plan or control" (p. 62). I'm going to keep working at asking God for surprises. Cleaning will help me prepare to ask.

Preparing the kitchen: biur chametz

I just got back from the grocery store and I am unloading our Passover-friendly foods (and some Easter candy) when I notice something. My refrigerator is full. Shamefully full. Sauteed zucchini, an unopened tub of cottage cheese from two months ago, three nearly full tubs of sour cream, take out, deli meat, pizza, peas in mint butter sauce, molded cheese, soured milk, and bowl after bowl of leftovers stare at me under florescent lights. As I toss this food in the trash and down the disposal I feel overwhelming sorrow, guilt, and frustration. I feel like the mom from A Christmas Story who chides her son for not eating his dinner while there are starving children in Africa. How could we be so thoughtless? I feel guilty that I have been so wasteful of our resources: the effort I put into making this food, the gas I used to drive to the store, the time I spent choosing the ingredients, and the monetary value of our waste. How could I be so careless?

To me, Lent and Passover are about three things: food, sacrifice, and remembering important stories. As I stood there watching all that once good food literally going down the drain, I couldn't help but think of how absent-minded I've been about Lent and Passover this year. I'm going through the motions of fasting without setting my intention. If God was trying to get my attention, then God's got it.

Yesterday, I learned about the Passover tradition called biur chametz. It's the tradition of preparing your kitchen for Passover by removing all the chametz (the five forbidden grains) and all the dishes and utensils you use to prepare those foods from your kitchen before Passover. It reminds me of Fat Tuesday. Tonight was my way of preparing the kitchen and my heart. Now that I have cleaned, I can set my intentions without distraction. I set my intention now to be more attuned to the needs of others because I have plenty, I set my intention to talk to God when I feel spiritual hunger, and I set my intention to let the stories of freedom and redemption inspire me to work towards freeing others.

Introductions & Intentions

Technically speaking, I'm a shiksa: the dreaded gentile woman who has trapped a nice Jewish man. But really, I'm just a goy who met a boy, fell in love, and got married. We happen to be of different faiths and cultures, but together, we have woven a beautiful bond. We have made our own traditions that have strengthened and enriched our relationships with each other and our families. It's not been an easy road; we still face the looming question of how to raise our unborn children, but I love the challenge of finding God in the jumble of traditions we bring to our marriage. Along the way, I've discovered that we have more in common than not: we may have different faiths, but our values are the same. While our traditions have formed and grounded us, exploring and participating in the other's religious practices has opened our hearts and minds to a broader sense of community, the universality of loving kindness, and an appreciation for the validity of many different paths to God.

Our marriage presents a challenge to our faith communities. To be Christian, we are told, you must believe in the Messiah; to be Jewish, you're still waiting for one. It is understandable that our religious institutions would discourage the kind of relationships that challenge the boundaries of their seemingly irreconcilable tenets. As marriages like ours become more common, however, congregations must ask themselves: How can we become more inclusive and widen our appeal, but maintain our identity? We ask ourselves a similar question in our marriage. I'm a United Methodist and my husband is a reform Jew. Neither of us wants to change who we are and conversion has not been a part of our conversations. Instead, through trial and error, patience and courage, we have started to figure out how we can have different faiths in the same marriage. Each year, we explore ways to celebrate holidays, worship, and pray in ways that are inclusive, informative, and inspiring to the other. We're making it work for us.

On the eve of the most trying time of year for our Christian-Jewish family, I launch this blog. In the past, this is the time of year when we have deeply felt the chasm of differences between our religions. Tomorrow is the first night of Passover, marked with a seder at my mother and father-in-law's house. It is a ceremony that ties my husband to his family, to his heritage, and to his community; its the time of year that makes him think about being Jewish. Later this week, I will attend Holy Week services and meditate on the love God shows me through the life and death of Jesus. I will dye Easter eggs and decorate our house with bunnies. This is the time of year when I think about being Christian. Yet even with these differences, I have come to see common ground. Both our families will gather around a table to feast on our faith traditions. Both families will celebrate this season of hope. And we will be at both tables. For me, it's the perfect season to share my hope for interfaith marriage. Through this blog, I want to tell our story. Also, I want to know how other couples are figuring out how to share their faiths in respectful and inclusive ways. Through sharing memories, recipes, reflections, liturgy, articles, books, and conversations I hope this blog will be a vehicle for interfaith dialogue that will help couples like us discover new ways to grow in our relationship with God and each other.