Alex Roumbas writes...
When I met my Jewish boyfriend, he was single and attempting to date the known Jewish universe. Quite accidentally, we fell in love and he came to terms with dating a Greek Orthodox shiksa (I’m reclaiming the word). But naturally the first question that came to everyone’s lips was: “So, which one of you is converting?”.
The speculation is hopelessly early for such a fledgling relationship, but it’s something neither of us can ignore, only defer. The obvious choice for conversion is me, because Jewish children, in all but the most liberal congregations, require a Jewish mother. Simple, you’d think, except that we share something fundamental in common; whilst neither of us is a poster child for our religion, we are both traditional in some respects and neither of our families would be happy “losing” us to the “other side”.
Do I want to convert? Good question… like all difficult decisions, the answer is “sometimes”. I feel at home in Jewish households; as an ex-teacher who specialised in RE I am fairly well-versed in the ritual (sometimes better than my boyfriend). Judaism’s ancient rhythms and rituals as well the epic history of contributions to science, literature and philosophy (to name but a few) make it an extremely alluring religion. But I am yet more drawn by the fact that a single-faith family has got to be easier; being married, bringing up children, even death rites are made simple by having one set of laws to adhere to (even if they are only adhered to at times like these).
The conversion process is difficult. Even the most Reform tradition rightly demands a great deal from candidates. And this I’d be willing to give (I already want to learn Hebrew, for a start) if I were absolutely sure. But I can’t lie to a rabbi about having doubts if I have any respect for the religion, and I have both doubts and respect.
Greek Orthodoxy is also an ancient, incredible tradition. The wealth of the liturgy and symbolism and the familiar cadences of the choir are not easily forgotten. A lifetime of tradition is difficult and painful to ignore. Leaving aside the theological differences (I’m still not clear myself on how I feel about them), the religions have a lot in common culturally but how would I feel never cracking an Easter egg with my children, or never decorating a Christmas tree?
At least one friend has suggested the two-faith route. There’s a lot that is tempting about this. I can think of three people off the top of my head who had a Jewish dad and Christian mum and grew up informed, well-adjusted and successful. None of them opted for a particular religion (in fact, all three are confirmed agnostics) but all of them felt at home in both. On the surface of it, it’s the perfect compromise.
However, I am left with worries about bringing up children who feel at home nowhere, who are not bothered about having any religion in their lives because they’ve had two to contend with (I don’t mind if a child of mine is agnostic or even atheist due to considered and rational thought, but just out of being lazy would be pretty unacceptable to me).
In due course, a path for us will, I am sure, present itself, as we untangle the threads of what we can and can’t live without, and what we would be comfortable doing for each other, for our families, and for the children we may or may not have. In the meantime, it’s a relief to get the question off my chest and open it to the floor… What are your experiences of multi-faith relationships, and how might you handle the same?
Alex Roumbas is the Deputy Editor of Shiny Shiny and she’s terminally confused about most things.
