orthodox services the men and women sit separately, and the women do not stand on the bema to read Torah, the holy scripture. Additionally, most of the service is in Hebrew which I learned how to read in Sunday/Hebrew school.
I ended up a Conservative Jew which is somewhere in the middle. I am comfortable sitting with men and women during a service. I noticed that the church had prayer books as we do in synagogue. While there was no Torah, there were objects displayed that looked to have religious significance. I did attend a service once at a reform Jewish temple that used an organ. I was accustomed, though, to no musical accompaniment, so I startled when I heard the symphonic melody of the pipe organ that reminded me of the overture to Phantom of the Opera.
The pastor started speaking. His booming voice bounced off the high ceilings and empty pews. He welcomed us and recited prayers. The teachers recited along with him. I sat silently.
Whew; it’s just a service.
At least this service was in English. But, as one would expect, there were lots of mentions of Jesus Christ. That was difficult for me. You would never hear His name come from my father’s lips. Nor would he ever write it. If he had to write “Christmas,” he’d write it as “x-mas.” As a matter of fact, when we’d drive past a local church, my father would say, “Our rabbi told me that Jews should never go into a church.” Ironically, here I sat.
Sorry, Dad. How many of your rules have I already broken just by working here?
My father grew up in an Orthodox Jewish household in Baltimore City, the son of immigrants who fled Poland and Russia in the early 1900’s due to persecution of the Jews. Both my parents had relatives who perished in the Holocaust. Both had grown up with childhood incidents of being taunted and beaten due to their religion.
They sent me to a public elementary school where I was the minority among a population of African Americans. I was friendly with everyone. To my knowledge, no one ever mentioned my religion or ridiculed me about it. While my parents were sensitive to these issues, they made sure I led a relatively protected life.
When I learned of the Holocaust in Hebrew School, I had a nightmare that the Nazis were invading our home. I have never forgotten the scene that played out in my sleep—the soldiers entering my bedroom and pulling me out of bed with their guns pointed. I was standing before them in my long pink nightgown, trembling, about to urinate on my lime green bedroom carpet, unsure of what torture they were going to use on me. The nightmare has always served as a reminder of my ancestry.
The fact that I was teaching at a Catholic school upset my father. He wasn’t thrilled about the Virgin Mary lodged in my classroom whom he saw when he helped me bring my materials to school. But he had resigned himself to letting me “do my thing,” even though, every so often, he tried to talk me out of teaching there.
“You know you can leave anytime,” he’d say to me occasionally.
“Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind about teaching there?” he’d ask.
My mother didn’t seem bothered by it.
I knew not to kneel in church as that would be considered bowing before Jesus Christ. I must have learned that in Hebrew School. I had no interest in taking communion. And if anybody thought I was going to cross myself, they were crazy!
If my father knew I was here, he’d pitch a fit. I will never tell him that I am going to church services. He’d make me quit my job immediately.
I sat listening, enjoying a hymn, and admiring the splendor of this newly created, magnificent House of Worship. I started to relax a little and feel a little less out of place.
Then the pastor announced, “I invite you all to come up and join me.” His arms were outstretched, and the sleeves of his long white robe cascaded to the floor. He reminded me of an albatross about to take flight.
You want us to do what? Come up there?
All the teachers stepped up to the altar, while I remained seated. The two eighth grade homeroom teachers waved me up, encouraging me to join them. I politely nodded my head “no.” But they wouldn’t give up. So begrudgingly, I dragged myself up there. After all, I wasn’t a rabble-rouser.
“Let us all hold hands,” the pastor instructed. My hands were grabbed from each side.
There’s no running away now! At least they aren’t holding my hands behind my back and forcing me to bow down. How many times throughout history were the Jews forced to bow down to other gods?
At least their grip isn’t iron tight, so I could still run away if I had to.
What now? I assume we aren’t going to do a folk dance. I hope I won’t be asked to speak. Please don’t put me on the spot and ask me to recite some prayer I don’t know.
Are we going to turn out the lights and use candles? Are we going to perform some kind of ritualistic ceremony? Is there a lamb to be slaughtered or some kind of sacrifice to make? It isn’t me, is it?! Are they going to ask me to chant something in Latin? What have I gotten myself into?
The leader directed us to bow our heads. After watching everyone else, I did the same.
“Let us pray,” he said. “We pray for a good school year. We pray that our students will learn and grow with us.”
My whole body relaxed and I started breathing again. I felt the grip of the teachers’ hands.
Did they notice my hands are sweaty?
The leader continued, “We pray that we make the best possible decisions for our students.”
He prayed a little more and asked the Lord to watch over us. When he stopped speaking, everyone dropped hands.
That was a beautiful prayer, and one I agree with wholeheartedly. You don’t have to be Christian to deliver a prayer like that.
As my body started to relax, I could feel my toes again in my dress shoes.
I have to stop getting so worked up. It’s only a prayer. They didn’t even mention Jesus Christ this time.
During my interview the principal had informed me that I was required to bring the children to services. I didn’t realize the frequency, once a month or more. The first time I took my homeroom class to church, I directed them to sit in the pews. After they filed in, I turned to head out the door when I noticed all the teachers seated with their classes.
Oh no! Am I supposed to stay? Nobody told me that. I wonder if they would say anything if I just walked out. There’s the door. It’s only about fifteen feet away. I could just walk out as if I have somewhere to be. I better not. If I do that, I’ll probably get in trouble.
I sat down next to the last student.
Darn it. I know I’m expected to be here. They seem to always expect these things of me.
I asked Mrs. A after we returned to our classes and I saw her in the hallway. She confirmed that I was required to stay. I grew accustomed to attending church services, even learning several prayers. By the end of the year I told some friends that I felt as though I was half Jewish and half Catholic! I was actually proud that I was familiar with a religion other than my own.
When the teachers’ service was over, I was happy we were permitted
