Ramblings about an Interfaith Marriage or Proud Parents of Free Thinkers

I grew up in a Baptist church in a rapidly growing southern city. The church was widely known for its progressive and intellectual, if not liberal, approach to scripture.  The church had been lead since its inception by bold, outspoken ministers. Theologians with Doctorate degrees from prestigious universities. These powerful men were among the city’s first to stand up for integration and to speak out against the war in Vietnam, never shying from controversy. But in my childhood memory, it was always accepted as a socially appropriate answer to the inevitable southern question of, “Where do you go to Church?” I don’t remember my family using the word Christian to describe ourselves. If the subject came up, we said that we were Baptist. But it was undeniably a Christian church. The progressive stands on social issues were firmly founded in Biblical scholarship.

My wife did not grow up in a Baptist Church. She grew up in a Synagogue. The technical term for our relationship is “interfaith marriage” since neither of us converted to the religion of the other. A mixed marriage. In the south. I can’t say that I ever felt persecuted or judged because I married a Jew. I did become more keenly aware of our society’s insensitivity toward all non-Christians among us.  I noticed the billboards dooming my wife and children to hell a little more than I probably would have otherwise. And I felt my wife’s quiet discomfort at Christmas time.  The discomfort that comes when you are bombarded with songs, and lights, and ribbons and bows that say that you are an outsider.

You don’t belong.

But mostly I have experienced curiosity. People either had questions about how we raised our kids or about what insight I might have into Jewish beliefs.  I became the person you could safely ask without worrying about the insensitive nature of the question.

The most common question I have been asked in regard to our children goes like this:

“How do you raise your children? Aren’t they confused?”
People started asking this before our oldest daughter could even speak.  I’d answer, “Yes, she is. I always seem to lose her around the part that can only be explained in Hebrew!”
Once she was about five, I began to answer rhetorically, “Does your child find it confusing that there are three Gods which are really one God and that’s why we say the Trinity because there is The Father, and The Son, and The Holy Ghost? Oh and that the Holy Ghost is not really a ghost but a God, but not different from the other two Gods because there is only one G-d? I mean, really! Do we really think five year olds understand any of the gobbledy-gook that we throw at them?  Virgin births, snakes with apples, and scary stories about earth destroying floods ordered by the God who loves us unconditionally?”

When we adopted our younger daughter from China these questions seemed to stop.  We added just one too many dimensions to our family dynamic for anyone to even be able to decide which question about raising kids in a virtual mini United Nations was the most pressing one.

So folks moved on to seeking out my deep and vast knowledge about Judaism. Ha ha.  There are two questions that seemed to be foremost in the minds of most Christians.  The first one is easy and could be knocked out quickly. But I might have occasionally dragged it out a little by not giving the simple answer first. It depended on my mood and if I was looking to have a little fun.  The conversation might have gone like this: Random Christian or RC as I’ll refer to them for the rest of this post would ask, “Do they believe in Jesus?”

STOP right there.  I have to interrupt this conversation example to say that it is OK to use the word Jew.  Many of my Christian friends and family try to avoid using that word.  FYI, Jew is not a derogatory term.  You don’t have to say “she is of the Jewish faith” or insert the word “they” like in the question above. It is perfectly OK to say “Do Jews believe in Jesus?” And referring to Jews as “The Jewish” is just wrong and clangs on my ears!


RC: "Do They believe in Jesus?"
Me: "Jesus was a Jew." (Occasionally someone might argue this point) 

RC:  "But do they Believe in him?"
Me: "You mean that he was a skilled Jewish carpenter?"

RC: “No. Do they believe that Jesus is the Son of God?"

OK.  So now I try to explain the simple truth. I explain that Jesus is not a part of Judaism. I say that asking that question is like asking if Christians believe in Mohammed or Buddha.

RC: "But do they believe that he existed? That he rose from the dead?"

Me: "They have no opinion on that. The Torah ends way before Jesus was around." 

RC: "So they don't believe in Him?"

This is where I typically give up and just say, "no". 



The other common question asked of me is, “What do they believe happens when you die?”

As Christians, we seem obsessed with this subject. We seem to spend more time worrying about what happens after we die than what happens while we live. Why is that? I have to admit, that when my future wife and I  were dating, as soon as I had enough nerve built up I asked this question myself.

“We don’t talk about it”,  she said, very matter-of-factly.

This was not the answer I expected. I pressed for more, “But what do you believe?” She answered the same as before, but added that we should not live our lives a particular way because we get some sort of reward at the end of it. We should live our lives in a way that makes the world a better place because that is the right thing to do.

It was clear that she was not going to answer this question any differently.  This was her answer. I’m not sure if she was taught this or if it was something that was just understood. I think her mother did say to me at some point that life should be lived according to G-d’s will because he created us and that is enough in itself. And you know what, it is enough. But doesn’t G-d always do more than enough?

At Passover we sing a song called Dayenu. The refrain that repeats over and over is that G-d always does more than enough. If he had only delivered us from slavery, that would have been enough. But he then defeats the pursuing army, gives us commandments and delivers us to Israel. He never stops giving.

So I’m still a Baptist on a journey with a wife who is still a Jew. My kids are not confused. When they were young children we assured them that G-d was the creator of all things, that he loved us all, and nothing could separate us from that love.  Isn’t that what little ones want to hear and find comfort in?

As they have grown they have been exposed to both faiths. They have been taught that no single religion has a monopoly on G-d. The creator has worked in the lives of different people in different ways.  My children are free to question and learn and find the beliefs and values that are genuine to them. To me, that seems like the opposite of confusion.

In my “about “section on this blog I talk about perspective.  And I respect that we all come to this place with our own experience and circumstance. But I do have to say this. Don’t tell me that the beautiful, sparkling, altruistic, social justice-loving souls that are my wife and kids will be condemned to eternal hell fire by a
loving G-d.

The G-d of Love, Mercy, and Grace would never command this, let alone allow it. Peace be with you all.

.

Declining Professionalism in Healthcare or What Happened to All the Good Magazines?

 It dawned on me. I was an adult. Here I was sitting in the lobby of a medical office without my mother.  At age sixteen I had driven myself to the appointment. There was no pageantry, no ceremony, and no announcements or gifts. Adulthood just happened.  It came about in the most unceremonious way:  My first physical examination by an internal medicine doctor, not a pediatrician. I think that’s why I remember it so well. It’s like a slow motion movie in my head.  Is my memory correct?  The movie in my head seems idealized, like an episode of Marcus Welby, MD. I had been apprehensive about going.  My brothers had warned me of the gloved examination ahead of me. Or should I say “behind” me?  And the Internist’s name was Doctor Payne! (I heard Pain)

But the apprehension was fading fast. The Lady at the front counter had been really nice. She had noted that I was a Franklin. She had talked about my family and how much she liked my parents. She smiled as she talked. It was a comfortable place to be. I sat on the cushy sofa and looked at Yachting magazines. 

It wasn’t long before a friendly Nurse called my name.

My first name. 

She had me weigh in and then took me immediately back to a patient room.  She chatted away about how many years my family had been coming to see Dr. Payne and reminisced about when my mother had worked there as a Medical Assistant. After taking my vitals and a vial of blood she said that Dr. Payne would be just a minute.  I barely had time to get changed into the exam robe before he knocked on the door.

After a thorough exam, Dr. Payne said that I should get dressed and then come down the hall to his office. I did as I was told.  When I peered into his office he was sitting back, relaxed and smiling.  He said, “Sit, please have a seat” motioning to the chair in front of his desk.  We looked across the desk at each other. He was clearly sitting in the seat of authority, but I was seated directly across from him. Equal as a man.  And then we had a conversation.  He asked me what I liked to do.  Was I going to be a photographer like my Dad? He told me that he liked to fish. He asked if I was dating. He seemed… no… he was genuinely interested.  The Nurse knocked at the door and leaned in and handed him some paperwork.  Dr. Payne looked it over and then looked at me. He said, “Your blood sugar is really high, did you follow the fasting instructions we sent you?” I nodded and he rubbed his chin. Then I said, “Well, I did get thirsty and I drank a Mountain Dew on my way up here.” His face relaxed into a smile, “Well, that would explain that.” He stood up and said that everything else looked good. He said he would see me next year and held out his hand to shake mine.  I stood and gave a firm shake like dad had taught me.

And I was on my way.

This pattern repeated itself year after year. Always the trip back to his office to wait on blood results. I remembered not to drink a soda until after the appointment. There was always the same friendly staff and nice conversations. Plenty of yachting magazines to peruse. And each visit ended with a firm handshake. Shortly after I finished college, Dr. Payne retired. He told my family about a young Doctor who had just joined the practice. He said that he had all the latest education and was a nice guy to boot.  You see, in those days, the nice guy part was just as important as the latest education part.

The new Doctor practiced the same kind of medicine as Dr. Payne.  He was young, but everything else stayed the same. Dr. Marshall took his time and patiently listened to my questions.  We had great conversations year after year.  The staff would change from time to time, but were always nice.  The office had Life magazines, Time Magazines, and Boating magazines.  The occasional Yachting magazines with turned up corners were still in the mix as well. And each visit ended with a man to man chat in the Doctor’s private office followed by a firm handshake.

  One day an announcement arrived in the mail.  

 I hardly payed attention to it, but apparently the practice that Dr. Payne and now Dr. Marshall worked for had been sold to the hospital. 

It said nothing else would change, so I chunked it in the trash and forgot about it.  Were things different at my next appointment?  I can’t say. I just can’t remember.  It was at the least so similar that it didn’t matter enough to stick in my brain.

  Except…that maybe the lady at the counter had been just a little less friendly….  I’m not sure… but I don’t think she knew who my family was. And maybe… just maybe… the Yachting magazines had been hauled away.

Soon the Life magazines and the Time magazines gave way to celebrity rags like People and Us.  I’d have to go on an archeological dig to find a Boating magazine.  The counter staff had grown to two or three ladies.  They were happy enough chatting with each other, but seemed slightly put out when they had to check a patient in.  The Nurse was stern. All business, no chit-chat. She called out my name. My last name. 

The respite would come when Dr. Marshall would make his casual entrance, lean against the counter, smile and ask questions. He asked about my family and my work. But at some point I noticed that the conversations were no longer two-way.  If I started to go into much detail about a non-medical issue he would get antsy. The private office visits had stopped. But at the end of the exam he would give a nice firm handshake.

As each year passed it seemed like the visits were getting shorter and shorter. I often found myself leaving, on the elevator, when I would remember something that I had meant to ask him.  He was the same Dr. Marshall, always pleasant, but now he seemed distracted. He would even forget to do the dreaded gloved examination sometimes.  On one of my last visits to him, I swear that he kept one hand on the door knob the whole time, including while he listened to my heart. 

He was being rushed!  How could this happen?  He was a Doctor!  Who could be more important than a Doctor?  Who could be making him feel the need to race to the next patient?  I was confused. And dammit, the Boating magazines were gone too.

And that’s when it ended.  After the boating magazines left, so did Dr. Marshall.  When he retired, he seemed too tired to even make a wholehearted recommendation of any other Doctor on the staff. Now I know why.

I randomly picked a new Doctor. I wanted someone young. Someone who could be my physician for the rest of my life. 

The office had been completely remodeled, sanitized even.  The men and women at the counter were no longer happy at all.  They didn’t chat it up with each other.  They barely made eye contact with the patients as they checked in.  They made us show our insurance card at every visit.  They made us scan our palms. The nurses were different at every visit. 

They would call my name. Last name, First name. 

The nurse had stopped drawing blood long before.  They had a lab.  Apparently having a lab meant that instead of getting the results at your appointment you could look them up a week later, on the patient portal, if you could remember your password.

The Doctor did not have a private office.  He had a cart in the hallway.  There was no time for pleasant conversation.  All the questions were designed for efficiency.  The visits were quick and procedural.  He never forgot the dreaded glove exam.  The waiting area had institutional style chairs.   And wait we did.  

Someone had decided that patients should not look at magazines while they waited.

Long waits with the only thing to read being slick brochures about cancer and diabetes. 

Apparently Doctors no longer had the time to boat, let alone yacht.

This place that had been so comfortable.  This place where my adulthood had dawned had been wiped clean. It had been transformed. It had vanished. 

And I can’t remember the last time a Doctor ended the visit with a good firm handshake.