Science and religion are on a collision course in my household.

Religion. Science. Are they independent or intertwined? How exactly do you explain the confluence of the two subjects to three children under age 6, especially when they’re the ones who bring it up?

Naturally, I explained the evolution/creation issue as well as I could, thoroughly confusing my kids in the process. The screenplay goes thusly:

Scene: A father and his three kids are driving to a park in a late-model SUV

SIX-YEAR-OLD: Hey Dad, I have a question. Who were the first people?

DAD: Well, that’s a good question, babe. So, if you read the Bible, it says that the first two people were a man named Adam and a woman named Eve. God made them first.

But, if you talk to a scientist, he or she might tell you that the first people came from monkeys. That’s known as evolution.

FOUR-YEAR-OLD: Wait. Monkeys are people?!

DAD: No, but long, long, long ago, monkeys started to kind of change into people.

FOUR-YEAR-OLD: So when I was born I was a monkey?! Cool!

SIX-YEAR-OLD: Ugh. You were never a monkey.

FOUR-YEAR-OLD: Dad just said …

DAD: Well, bud, that’s not exactly what I said. See, with evolution there’s this thing called genetic mutation and it takes years and years and years to happen …

FOUR-YEAR-OLD: [Confidently] The sun is old.

DAD: Yes, the sun is old. So, kind of like as many years old as the sun. It takes thousands and thousands and millions of years. Imagine if a monkey had a baby and that baby had a baby and that baby had a baby…after that happens for years and years, monkeys could become people.

Now, some people say that just the Bible is right and others say that just science is right about evolution.

SIX-YEAR-OLD: I think it’s probably the Bible. Right, Dad?

DAD: Well, what if they’re both right? The Bible says God took six days to make the Earth. But who knows how long a day in God’s mind is? I don’t. And I can’t act like I have a clue about that. Maybe a day for God is like a day for us. Or maybe a day for God is like a million years for us. I have no idea. But I think it’s possible that God set in motion the science that made monkeys become people over a very long period of time.

SIX-YEAR-OLD: [Semi-satisfied grunt of approval.]

FOUR-YEAR-OLD: Hmm … [10 seconds pass by] … Yeah, but why doesn’t Curious George have a tail?

DAD: I think we’ve had enough hard truths for one day. I’ll explain how PBS and the publishing industry lie to you another time.

About the author

Matt Norman, an at-home dad of three, is a former organizer of our Austin Dads Group chapter. A version of “Debating Evolution, Creation” first appeared on his blog, And So It Has Come To This, and then here in 2018.

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This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Photo by Lewis Roberts on Unsplash

Editor’s Note: City Dads Group blog contributor Gidon Ben-Zvi, a resident of Jerusalem, asked us to reprint this piece he originally wrote for The Algemeiner. “I think your readership would benefit from gaining a glimpse into the lives of average Israeli parents coping with difficult questions as war descends upon them,” he wrote in his note. We agree.

Teaching Your Children About War: An Israeli Father Struggles to Get It Right

It’s 3:36 a.m., on Tuesday, Oct. 10, 2023. I’m tossing and turning right now. Our little country is in a fight for its life. Yes, we’ll prevail. But the cost will be terribly high, almost unbearable.

We keep hearing fighter planes as they jet south. The Lebanon-based Iranian proxy, Hezbollah, is saber rattling. They have launched a couple of dozen rockets into northern Israel. In a skirmish just inside the Israeli border with Lebanon, three Israeli Defense Forces soldiers were killed in a battle with Palestinian Islamic Jihad terrorists.

The Israeli Air Force has started to hit terrorist targets in Lebanon and Syria, and is increasing its bombing runs over Gaza.

My wife and I continue to work, or at least go through the motions, at home. Our children are home as well since all schools have been closed since the Hamas invasion began.

To maintain some semblance of sanity, my wife and I continue to get in our morning jogs. In our neighborhood, folks continue to walk along the Louis Promenade, buses continue to run on Hanassi Boulevard, and street cleaners make their daily rounds. But people’s faces have gone pale, and no one seems to stay out for long.

For the sake of our children, we’re fighting not to be overcome with grief. To keep our children feeling safe, we’re trying our level best to explain what this war’s about. We tell them it’s OK to be nervous and scared. Yes, Hamas is out there. We remind them, however, that the fighter planes — and all those soldiers down south — will protect our little family and all of Israel’s families.

It’s a fine line, acknowledging to your kids the sheer evil that has been perpetrated while encouraging them to try and live through this longest, darkest of days with a sense of hope.

A good father’s job is to be a role model, to establish a set of values for his children to live their lives by. What values am I imparting to my kids right now? What lessons am I trying to teach them to make some kind of sense out of the greatest national tragedy to befall the Jewish people since the Holocaust? How on earth can the murder of babies, entire families, young people, and the rape of women be turned into a teachable moment?

To the best of my ability, I’ve been trying to teach my kids that the big life comes at a big price.

I left a different kind of life in the United States. Had I stayed, I eventually would have started to earn well, saved up some money, padded my 401(k), and become a homeowner — no doubt moving to a well-manicured, secure suburb.

Maybe I should have stayed in Los Angeles.

On second thought, there’s no place else I’d rather be. In life, there are observers and participants. I chose to throw my lot in with the latter, come what may.

Why? Well, this is part of what I try to convey to my young children: you only get one shot at this thing called life. So why not live it gloriously? A life with a sense of mission, a sense of purpose, and — most importantly — joy.

We Jews have managed to create a free society that promotes human dignity and thriving out of malaria-infested swamps. In a part of the world widely mired in ignorance, intolerance, and persecution, Israel shines bright as a beacon of hope, an outpost of enlightenment, a country where all its citizens are limited only by their innate talent and ambition.

When my wife told our neighbor living in the new apartment next to ours that we have no built-in safe room since our building was constructed pre-1990s, she opened her home to our family.

“Come to our place whenever you need to. We’re all in the same boat.”

Our neighbor is an educated, successful, warm-hearted, Muslim woman.

The lesson I’m trying to teach our four little children is that what you believe in is worth fighting for. Israel is worth fighting for. All we can do in response to the savagery is fight the good fight, emboldened by the knowledge that — ultimately — right makes might.

Originally published Oct. 13, 2023, on The Algemeiner. Photo: © altanaka / Adobe Stock.

About the author

Gidon Ben-Zvi left behind Hollywood starlight for Jerusalem, where he and his wife are raising their four children to speak fluent English – with an Israeli accent. Ben-Zvi’s work has appeared in The Jerusalem Post, Times of Israel, Algemeiner, American Thinker and Jewish Journal.

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our ample archives to find some great articles you might have missed over the years. This one comes from 2012.

As the father of a 13-year-old self-proclaimed Satanist, I can honestly say I’m proud of my son, Noam.

His beliefs are at once jokingly provocative and seemingly serious. He says he doesn’t believe in God but does believe in Satan “because Satan is cooler. And if you think about it, Satan is actually ‘good’ because he’s punishing bad people, right?” He’s got a point. To me his being a Satanist is like a person trying on a wild-looking hat out in public, to see what the reactions will be.

That said, Tamara, my son’s mom, no doubt contributed to Noam’s professed beliefs. He was raised on a steady diet of Tim Burton films, like Nightmare Before Christmas, and horror classics that cherish the macabre. Noam’s favorite toy at age 3 was a doll named “Spooky.” It looked like a chubby vinyl black teddy bear with a simplified skeleton printed on its front.

For at least a year, Noam also towed around a two-foot-long creepy-looking Frankenstein monster doll with a grotesquely large head, its veins popping out left and right. At age 3, the doll was practically the same size as he was.

Today, at 13, he now has a tendency to draw zombie clowns and multi-horned devils. So should I really be surprised when my son announced his Satanism? At least he is showing conviction, right?

Tamara is also the daughter of a Jehovah’s Witness. She wasn’t raised that way – her mom converted only a few years ago, possibly at the behest of Tamara’s grandmother who has been a Jehovah’s Witness for decades. I bring that up because it’s interesting to witness, if you will, the disruption, variety and rediscovery of beliefs all in one extended family. Tamara and her partner – Noam’s stepdad – do not practice any religion. But as far as I know, they both believe in God, just not organized religion. And Noam spends the majority of his time living with them.

I came into my own non-religious or atheistic tenets at around the same age as Noam is now. As I studied for my Bar Mitzvah I questioned the fantastical stories of the Torah. The tales are such an intrinsic part of Jewish life that they are retold year after year, holiday to holiday, and every day in between.

After years of Hebrew school, in which I barely communicated with the rabbi, I distinctly recall wandering up the synagogue’s back stairwell toward the offices to speak with him. I walked down the dimly lit office hallway, where the tiled floors were angled to point toward Jerusalem. The rabbi, a kind but distant man, invited me in and asked me what I had on my mind. 

“In the Torah, it says that the flood that Noah escaped killed everyone else in the world. Does that mean we descend from Noah and his wife, not Adam and Eve?” I asked.

“Well, probably at that time it felt like the whole world was flooded, but it was just the area around Israel,” he replied. “Besides, they are just stories that are told, they are metaphors.”

“Oh,” I said.

My nonbelief was solidified that day I finally had the courage to question the rabbi.

I can only imagine that this disjuncture of shared beliefs within a family system is increasingly common in an era when co-parenting or split parenting is prevalent. With that in mind, I admire Noam’s questioning, searching and playfulness as he discovers the world around him and what beliefs he will hold onto as “the truth.” Even if he is a Satanist.

About the author

Fivel Rothberg is a New York-based father, media maker, producer, educator and activist. He is not a satanist.

Photo: ©  Andrey Kiselev / Adobe Stock.

I’m finding it difficult deciding what to write about, my friends. It’s not that I don’t have ideas; it’s just that I don’t know what might be best or how to make sense of what I do know.

I have written here about baseball a few times. I guess I could again, even without games being played, big or little league. Baseball memories linger long, as you know. In fact, I just came across an image from a Little League game some years back. It was taken from behind the backstop showing one of my twin sons crouching in too-big catcher’s gear and the other twin on the mound, his left arm just coming down after the pitch, a slider it looks like. Between the two, the ball hangs, fuzzy in its movement, like a ghost in flight between one memory and another. It was the first time for a “Peebles battery” and the picture brought the moment right back to me.

However, without a season currently, the memories seem to hurt more than console.

I’ve written on faith for you in the past, sometimes unpopularly, I should add. I could, I suppose, go there again. I’ve been thinking a lot about gratitude: the sheer simplicity of it, the inherent humility in it, the wonder at witnessing it in others, especially my now teenage sons. I know how it helps my faith, which, if I were honest, needs all the help it can get right now. I guess I could ponder that, as well. Stumbling and getting my knees scraped up as I careen and crash down my faith journey could make a good story.

But I haven’t been to church in months. I’m not sure my heart would be in it. Also, I can only hear my cries for gratitude landing on so many who have so little to be thankful for right now, which feels a bit insensitive, I guess.

Beginnings, endings make more sense than present

You have indulged my baffling fascination with what I’ve called “beginnings” and “endings.” Thanks for that. I think a lot about timelines and where we are on them, in whose time … it’s difficult to explain.

Anyway, I currently live a life that seems to simply be the present. I’m sure many others feel that way. Asking ourselves to consider what is ahead or closely examine what was just behind us is, if you’ll forgive me, untimely. Literally, now, this now, is not the time.

I could fall back on my folksy, narrative style and tell a story. Like this one: I was standing in my kitchen with my hand in a deli bag of sliced salami — as one does — when one of the boys walked in and said, “I don’t know what to do.” I guess he was bored but the question seemed more weighted than that alone. I immediately handed him a slice of salami and said, “You do now.” He took the slice, thanked me, and wandered off. Maybe I could vamp on that a bit, rhapsodizing on the notion of how, sometimes, all you can do is the next right thing, but I’m not sure it would be very genuine and, honestly, I’m not sure I know what the next right thing is anymore.

I guess that is the root of the problem here, isn’t it? The things I used to feel were so right, don’t seem to make as much sense anymore.

Should I write of a pandemic that is killing so many, wrecking the economy, and ruining the daily lives of families everywhere? I could but, I’d probably have to leave out a lot. Like that this time has definitely brought our family together just as it was beginning to fracture into the busyness of high school life. There would not be so many games of Scrabble or euchre or hearts, far fewer movies and dinners together and cooking sessions. I would not have the opportunity to watch our sons face the stress and adversity that remote learning and social distancing has placed on them. They’re 15, and, well, would most certainly rather be among their peers, especially girl peers.

Honestly, I’d probably be tempted to brag about them, tell you how proud I am of the grace and pleasantness they’ve exhibited through all of this. I am not sure that that sort of message would make sense when I know parents everywhere are having a very hard time with their teenagers — children in general, I’m sure.

Showing my age, privilege

Should I write about protests and racial injustice? I am an old white Boomer and fear I am as much the problem as solution, and I am sure my thoughts are less than relevant.

I could tell you about my feeble attempts at explaining all this to my sons, my years of explaining our privilege as whites in an uncomfortably “undiverse” community and school district — a subject they are better equipped to advise me on than I them.

If I did try to write on this subject, I’d have to admit that I am not a protest kind of guy. The energetic and emotionally charged crowds truly frighten me. I want my sons to know they are free to protest, march and voice their disdain, but I’d be afraid for myself and afraid to look the fool to them, honestly.

What of the lack of leadership I see at the highest levels in our country? I could justifiably rant for thousands of words on this alone. My guess is, I don’t need to. Integrity, decency, honesty, humility are all not hard to spot — and the lack of them is even easier to discern. Also, the final one-word answer to that is simply this: VOTE!

There is one thing, though, that I truly don’t want to write about: my anguish.

Sometimes the suffering and pain I see overwhelm me. I sit in my cozy home, surrounded by a loving family where I watch the world burn with a literal and figurative fever that rages in a way I have never seen before.

On the news, I see images of courageous healthcare workers behind masks and gowns, and see only the burden and sadness in their eyes.

I watch videos of these huge marches and see only the individuals behind the posters and raised fists, and I feel the bitter, justified anger in each face. But I also see the hope in the same faces and choke back a sob at the two emotions so painfully entwined.

I look for leadership, direction, encouragement, and comfort from those in power. Instead, I get nothing but rhetoric and mixed messages and my anger turns inward metastasizing into deep resentment and, honestly, debilitating rage.

I would like to apologize for my lack of courage. Other writers here have found theirs and have written on these very subjects with great eloquence and strength.

So, that’s where I am at right now, any advice would be welcome.

As always, peace to you,

Bill

P.S. I forgot to mention, I’ve got a pretty good piece about teaching the boys to mow the lawn:  rules, and advice, stories, that sort of thing. That’d probably be best, don’t you think?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bill Peebles left a 30-year career in the restaurant business to become a stay-at-home dad to twin boys. He writes a blog, I Hope I Win a Toaster, that makes little sense. He coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. Bill believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers.

Make sense of world in crisis photo: © funstarts33 / Adobe Stock.

“How did you explain people’s different religions to your kids?” a fellow dad asked me recently. Short answer: I didn’t.

But my children and I learned together by reading Mary Pope Osborne’s One World, Many Religions: The Ways We Worship. You and your little ones may already be familiar with her work because Osborne is the author of the Magic Tree House series.

One World, Many Religions is written for grades 4 and up, and it introduces the seven major religions of the world: Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism and Taoism. Throughout the book, Osborne’s tone is gentle, neutral, and inviting. She begins: “How did the world begin? What is the purpose of life? What happens after we die? Since the beginning of time, people have asked these questions. In their search for answers, they have often felt the presence of a sacred power, or powers.”

Osborne helps you explain religion by keeping things simple. This also helps children understand the history and geography of religions. For example, she explains: “Judaism began between three and four thousand years ago. Christianity eventually grew out of Judaism. Then the religion of Islam grew out of Judaism and Christianity. … At the same time that Jewish teachings were being written down in the Middle East, priests in India were recording the teachings of Hinduism. About 2,500 years ago, the writings of Buddhism grew out of Hinduism. Around the same time, scholars in China began writing down the teachings of Confucianism and Taoism.”

Granted, Osborne’s summaries omit many more complex aspects. That, however, leaves room for parents to provide context as they see fit. More importantly, she notes the purpose of all religions, They “seek to bring comfort to their followers. They all offer thanks for the world’s great beauty and goodness,” she writes. “They all express awe and humility before the mysteries of the universe. In this sense, they are all wise and enduring.”

In the opening chapter on Judaism, the theme of respect for God (and different religions in general) is established and continues throughout the book. For example, “Orthodox Jewish men always wear a head covering called a yarmulke as a sign of respect to God.” Such a detail is important to her audience, since children often comment on unfamiliar appearances. The book also includes photographs of children from all seven religions in active worship, further familiarizing the topic for young readers.

On the other hand, Osborne is not afraid to mention that religions are not immune from being disrespectful sometimes. But she broaches issues like religious persecution, sexism, and discrimination with restraint and an age-appropriate tone.

A comparative religion class boiled down to essentials

Osborne draws helpful parallels among the different religions’ holy founders, sacred writings and symbols, places of worship, and rites of passage. Fittingly, the book contains no conclusion about religion. In the chapter on Confucianism, however, she notes: “Confucius said that all people should be courteous and kind to one another. One of his best-known sayings is: ‘Never do to others what you would not like them to do to you.’ Most major religions teach a version of this saying, which is sometimes called the golden rule.”

One World, Many Religions is not a perfect book. For example, it does not address families who may be non-religious or atheist. (Such families might consult Dale McGowan’s Parenting Beyond Belief: On Raising Ethical, Caring Kids Without Religion for resources.) But Osborne’s book includes a glossary of religious terms, a world map of “People Practicing the Seven Major Religions” with a color-coded key, and a “Timeline of the Seven Major Religions.” These all help children visualize world religions.

Beyond Osborne’s book, many others address parenting along with trying to explain religions or a specific faith. Parents should decide if one of these fits their family’s values best. But books like Osborne’s seem especially needed in our current climate of religious strife, uncivil discourse, and a general deficit of empathy. Whenever you find such a book whether it explains religions or sex or whatever, remember to save it for a younger parent to use when hiking a tough part of the trail of parenthood you’ve already traveled.

Photo by © kodbanker / Adobe Stock.

I am paying attention although sometimes that just means I am aware of my inattention.

Words float around in the high space above. Sunlight through stained glass illuminates the pews across from us. The scent of perfumed parishioners and powdered babies mingles with incense past and, oddly, Old Spice. All is familiar, routine.

The words drop from above, and I focus on them, or I try to.

“… let us give thanks to the Lord.”

Two boys of the same age stand in the row with me, my wife beyond them. I look down at the closest one as he says, “It is right and just.” He doesn’t just mumble or mouth the words, he enunciates them, slightly jutting his head and chin forward and up as he says “right” and “just.”

He is 6 years old. He knows these words and has a sweet, beginner’s understanding of the depth and power of concepts like righteousness and justice.

The celebrant continues: “It is truly right and just, our duty and our salvation, always and everywhere, Lord, holy Father, almighty and eternal God, through Christ our Lord.”

The same boy, mouthing silently now, recites the sentence, his cadence and commas in perfect order.

Of course, since we are in this holy place, all I can think is: “Holy crap, he knows all the words to the Mass.” That may seem, well, frankly, it may be sacrilegious. And that may be my point, but I’ll come back to it.

A few years later a story of those same two boys, coming out of their religious ed class, and …

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You know what?

I can’t. At least I can’t very well.

You see, I had this all planned out with notes and quotes and heartfelt stories, but I don’t think that’s going to work. I had every hope of defending my faith, an unpopular one these days, and explaining why we continue to go to church every Sunday. The problem is, I’m not sure.

Is “because I always have” a good enough answer? Is the memory of those Sundays of my childhood, spent with family and friends in a modest Protestant church in small-town middle America enough to explain my presence now in a bigger Catholic church in a big town not far from that old, white steepled church of my youth?

Is “our sons have been nearly every Sunday and Holy Day of their entire lives” any kind of real reason to keep showing up? Has it just become habit? A routine that perhaps needs to be reexamined? Has it become a thing we do because we simply think we should?

Sometimes I look around our church and wonder why row after row of families make the effort to be there, week after week, and I wonder if the effort is still worth it. Are they all – are we all – crazy for our faith and ardent in our belief? Are we pious and good and righteous and full of the fire of the Holy Spirit? I know these people … many of them are not.

I’m not, particularly.

Then, again, I ask: Why are we all here? What’s to be gained? We can teach these morals to our children without the stained-glass structure, without the ritual and rules. “Love thy neighbor as thyself” isn’t too difficult a concept, is it? Why those doors? Why this pew? Why that altar?

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From just beyond that altar the words float into the high clerestory on a melody both ancient and modern, chanted both by monks centuries ago and on the vinyl recording of Godspell I spun in the ’70s. I focus on the words: “For all things living, You have made good. Harvest of sown fields, Fruits of the orchard. Hay from the mown fields, Blossom and wood.” Such poetry – good, wood, sown, mown — such serenity, such simplicity.

Later, a story from a book marked Mark. The main character heals a man’s deafness and speech impediment by sticking his finger in his ear and spitting on his tongue as he “groans” toward heaven saying “Ephphatha!” the Greek form of the Aramaic word meaning “be opened.” What a beautiful word, what an important command: be opened.

Sometimes there is fragrant incense or the scent of the Baptismal oil chrism. There is the taste of wine and bread. A high school boy sings a “Hallelujah” and cantors a psalm with growing confidence, his modern style counterpointing the sonorous tones of the celebrant.

Just this Sunday, I looked over at my sons: engaged, attentive, comfortable. My wife, beyond them, smiled at me as a boy – a mancub, really – leaned against her, peaceful, as he has been for as long as he remembers. I thought of how, well, how damn beautiful it all was, this inundation of senses. But, that wasn’t all of it. I knew I was missing something.

I know that, for me, my religion is just a frame around my spirituality, more within, I’d say. I don’t mean this the wrong way, but, I don’t really care if the boys become followers of Christ, per se. Buddhism seems cool. Judaism is so long and rich. Islam so stunningly visual and respectful.  Nihilism is nice and hedonism has its place. But I can’t teach all those ideas. I don’t know the languages.

Christianity is the picture frame I know and grew up with. I know the stories and the words and the songs of redemption and creation within this place, at this altar. Shouldn’t I want to pass that faith tradition on? No, really, I just want to show it to them.

And, perhaps in so doing, I am showing them beauty.

Maybe, someday far from now, they will sit in a concert hall or they will stand in an art gallery or they will overlook a great canyon. And they’ll remember. Maybe, they will feel the love of sons and daughters, wives and husbands, or hear the cries of lament and longing, and think back. A melody.  A fountain. A wafer. A glass of madeira, incense on the wind.

My hope is that the sacred and beauty will become one for them. That Faith will be Hope; Love will be Beauty. God; Good. Peace, a Goodbye.

Am I being sacrilegious? Probably. Is this all bad theology? Yes. Is this piss-poor apologetics, indeed. I did, however, answer why we will be there next Sunday.

Now please don’t tell my pastor I wrote this. Peace

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bill Peebles left a 30-year career in the restaurant business to become a stay-at-home dad to twin boys. He writes a blog, I Hope I Win a Toaster, that makes little sense. He coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. He believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers. 

Man in church pew photo: Karl Fredrickson on Unsplash

There was something about the building that made me stop.

I don’t often stop when I’m walking. I walk with a purpose, as all good city folk should, whether I’m making my way to an appointment or just running out to the store. I don’t rush, but I walk quickly, despite having a fairly long stride. I weave through clusters of people as I go, passing on the inside, outside or finding the space between, and I don’t hesitate to walk in the street when the sidewalk becomes too crowded. I glance around at my surroundings from time to time but generally keep my focus on the ground ahead of me so I don’t end up with unexpected surprises on the bottoms of my shoes.

But, that day, I stopped.

I’d been walking through the Upper West Side of New York City, searching for a place where I could sit and work in between appointments, when I passed a church. Its bricks shone reddish orange in the late afternoon sun, as though the architect had bathed them in a vat of a very specific Crayola color. The roof shingles were a faded pale greenish-gray, like limestone that has been affected by too much moisture. It was one of the shortest buildings in the area and was dwarfed easily by the high-rise apartment buildings on either side, which were at least decades newer than the church. Its design also set it apart, its odd shapes and angles marking a stark contrast from the plain rectangular edifices nearby and its steeple jutting out like a hitchhiker’s thumb.

I paused to snap a few quick shots with my phone and watched the activity on the sidewalks at the church’s base. Passersby walked back and forth, crossing at the corner, boarding the bright blue and white buses and barely acknowledging the aging structure beside them. I pictured a time when the church would have been the tallest and most revered structure in the neighborhood and imagined newly built apartments and retail buildings laughing haughtily as they cast shade over the church with their progressively increasing height. And yet, despite all of the transitions of the surrounding neighborhood, the church stood with an air of quiet defiance, determined to remain true to its appearance, rather than modifying its coloring or its shape to conform with the changing world around it.

I would hardly be the first to compare a religious institution with parenthood, particularly given the Judeo-Christian model of God as a father figure. This specific church, however, seemed to fit the comparison more than most. The physical structure appeared worn, as one would expect of any building that had endured close to two centuries of New York City winters. The shades of red and orange were dulled and there were cracks in the green of the roof gables. The windows, too, seemed dark, even in the sunlight, as though they had been boarded up from the inside.

The weathering that parents’ bodies endure as they raise their children bears a strong similarity to that of the church. Any parent would be able to point to a wrinkle here, a deepened crease there and a hair or two or 12 that have turned silver. Parents would also surely recognize the protests of sore muscles and joints and the stubborn reluctance to alter our appearance, despite the changing styles of our neighbors or our children who will grow to be heads and shoulders taller than us. And, as with any aging structure, we also make internal improvements when necessary, from small choices about every day functioning to complete overhauls of plumbing systems.

The key, of course, is that the church continues to operate as a spiritual home for its congregants and its community. The year it was built matters much less than the fact that its doors remain open to those looking for connections, support and guidance. Likewise, as parents age, we work to remain present in our children’s lives. We know that our children are going to continue to need that same support and guidance as they experience their own sets of challenges. We keep our ears, our minds and our hearts open and we welcome our children’s requests for advice. We provide validation, clarification and a reminder that our children have a place where they will always belong.

Children begin their lives seeing their parents as the most important figures they know (besides themselves, of course). Then, as they grow, they begin to branch out and become more independent, often creating various degrees of distance from their parents, just as people experience different levels of spiritual involvement at different points in their lives. Through it all, though, parents and the church remain, waiting for the opportunity to provide those who need us with sanctuary.

About the author

Aaron Yavelberg is a father, husband, son, brother, cousin, friend, writer, social worker and part-time teacher. He lives in Queens, New York, with his wife, son and daughter.

Photo of the West Park Presbyterian Church on 86th and Amsterdam by Aaron Yavelberg

With Passover beginning tomorrow night, I’ve been reflecting of late on my hard relationship with Judaism.

On one hand, my identity is very much as a Jew, at least culturally. I had a bar mitzvah. I’ve been to Israel. I can read Hebrew (although my understanding is limited). I went to a Hebrew high school, and even taught there for two years. I know the blessings by heart, or mostly. I have Passover Seders in my house, we occasionally have Shabbat, and I can “Oy vey” and “Nu, so …” with the best of them. I married a Jewish woman, and we stepped on the glass. And guilt? Do I know about guilt! That’s part of the reason for writing this.

I want my son to know Judaism. I want him to have a bar mitzvah, and know the blessings over wine and bread and matzoh. I want him to know what a lulav and an etrog are, to know the sounds of the shofar being blown. I want that to be part of his identity, for him to feel connected to this group of people who have struggled over great adversity and managed to survive for thousands of years. He is part of that struggle, as I am, and as my parents were before me, and their parents before them.

On the other hand, I am not a practicing Jew. I don’t fast on Yom Kippur or eat matzoh at Passover. I don’t regularly stop working on Shabbat or even light the candles. I eat pork and shellfish with abandon. I’m not a member of a synagogue, or even go to synagogue with any kind of regularity (and when I do go, I kind of resent it). I have a great doubt that any of those things will help me in an afterlife I don’t think I believe in and haven’t gotten much spiritual comfort from.

I don’t think I’d go so far as to say I’m an atheist. I believe there is some creator, but not one I have a “personal relationship” with or who cares whether I work on Shabbat, or eat cheeseburgers. And while I feel I am a part of the grander scheme of Judaism, I have never felt a part of an individual community of Judaism. Well, maybe for about 10 minutes, but certainly not on a sustained level.

The most spiritually moved I’ve felt has been at the theater and, occasionally, while sitting on a rock jetty with my back to the shore, watching the waves roll in. (Yes, my spiritualism is a tampon commercial.)

When my parents were alive, I was more active in my Judaism. I kind of felt I was doing it for my mom, and not for me, and when she passed away, I decided to stop. Since then, I have become increasingly more ornery about practicing Judaism.

When my wife and I lived in New York, we were part of a synagogue, but I never felt very close to that community. Perhaps because it was my wife’s community, perhaps because soon after I started going there was a great deal of flux due to the spiritual leader leaving, perhaps because my wife got involved in the behind-the-scenes of synagogue politics, and I saw the worst of it.

In the Passover Haggadah, there is a parable about the four sons: the wise, the wicked, the simple, and the one who doesn’t know enough to ask. Each has a question about what is going on, and you are supposed to answer each differently.

When I was younger, I always cast myself as the wise son, the one who includes himself, and asks the question “What did God command us to do?” But now I’m pretty sure I’m the wicked son, the one who holds himself apart from the group, and asks the question, “What did God command YOU to do?”

So I’m in a quandary. I feel like I’m Jewish, but don’t really believe in (or do) all of the stuff that makes one Jewish. And I want my son to be Jewish, or at least know about Judaism. But I’m setting him a bad example, at least as a Jew.

I’m sure I’m not alone.

I feel like I have two choices:

1. Fake it ’til I make it. Set a better example as a Jew, even though I am not getting much out of it. That might mean more synagogue time for me, more fasting, more “religion for the sake of religion” instead of for the sake of me.
2. Don’t fake it. Explain as best as I can to my son why I want him to be involved and knowledgeable and, when the inevitable charges of hypocrisy come, parry them by letting him know that when he’s 18, he can make his own decisions.

Is there a third option? A fourth option? For those of you who are religious doubters, what are you doing to help give your child/children a basis in religion?

A version of this first appeared on DadaPalooza.

The two boys — one Christian, one Muslim — share their faiths with each other without judgment or reservation. And through their friendship, our families have grown close.
________

We waited nervously outside the school, my son carrying a backpack that dwarfed his 4-year-old body.  Actually, I was the nervous one. As a stay-at-home dad, I struggled with letting my son enter a new world without me.

As time ticked away, we realized something was wrong. Instead of throngs of families saying goodbye to their pre-K children, only one other family shared our space. After comparing letters with the other family, we decided to enter the building and seek out information. Turns out we were somehow sent the wrong information and the first day of class was not until the following week. Dejected, our two families went outside to commiserate.

It was there that our two sons talked and played. They sat close together on the steps and chatted as if they had known each other their whole lives. All four years of them. In that moment, two families instantly came together and forged a friendship.

Now, those boys are 11 years old and still the best of friends. When they found themselves in different classes one year, they learned to time their lunch lines perfectly so they could sit back-to-back in the lunch room and talk about their day and their lives. Though they now attend different schools, when they are together, time melts away and I see two 4-year-olds sitting together.

Some might find it surprising that these two children, and our families, are so close. After all, my son’s best friend is Muslim and we are Christian. And they don’t hide or minimize that fact. The two boys share their faiths with each other without judgment or reservation. It is intrinsic to each of them, but it doesn’t serve as a barrier to loving each other. And through their friendship, our families have grown close as we’ve welcomed each other into our homes, shared meals and celebrations, and broken fasts together.

Their friendship gives me hope. My son will grow up knowing that all Muslims are not terrorists and my son’s friend will grow up knowing that not all Christians are bigots or close-minded.

Given the ongoing refugee crisis here and aboard, the friendship between my son and his friend can be an example of the possibilities. The possibility of not just tolerating differences, but actually celebrating them and learning from them. The possibility of being bigger and better than our fears, and having our lives enriched as a result.

These two boys that have grown up together, they recognize that they have different beliefs, but it so doesn’t matter. What matters to them is … each other.

Adults have been screwing this up for years, but maybe our children can get it right.

No matter what you believe, or choose not to believe, you are welcome in our home. That is the example we will set for our son.
______

Some people complain about the phrase “Happy Holidays.” Why not just say “Merry Christmas,” right? While we can’t speak for everyone, here’s why my family says “Happy Holidays.”

If you look up at our window, you will see a menorah, and just past that, a Christmas tree. I grew up Catholic and my wife grew up Jewish. Both religions formed who we are today. And even though we are now both atheists, neither of us sees any reason to exclude or disrespect the traditions and beliefs of our families. We have both experienced too much joy throughout our lives from these belief systems not to do so. And our son deserves these same joys.

Outside of our window, the world is in turmoil. In just one day, we have seen the assassination of a diplomat in Turkey; a horrifying mass murder using a truck in Germany, for which credit has been claimed by extremist zealots; and a mass shooting at a mosque in Zurich. All of this happened while America’s Electoral College confirmed the presidency of a man who lost the popular vote after running on a platform heavily trading on fear-mongering, hatred and bigotry.

We will not have this in our home. We will choose peace. We will choose joy. No matter what you believe, or choose not to believe, you are welcome in our home. That is the example we will set for our son.

He will benefit from both holidays. He will spin the dreidel and he will decorate a tree. He will know the rituals of Hanukkah and will sing about Santa Claus. He will have the best of both of our worlds, and that includes the holidays of this season.

Which right now he loves, by the way, because of all the presents!

But will he be Christian? Jewish? Will he be an atheist? Maybe he’ll be something else altogether. We can’t say right now. It is his choice. If we are to be good parents, we must present him with all the options for his own life. The path he decides to travel will be his own. Both of us will be happy to guide him no matter how he chooses to live his life.

My wife and I fell in love both because of, and in spite of, the differing belief systems we were raised in. What we’ve discovered is that the difference between right and wrong, between good and evil, the essential morality of humanity, is the same across all religions.

Need a baseline? Sure. If you’re hurting people because of your religion, you are doing your religion wrong. If you’re hurting people because of their religion, you are doing morality wrong as well, and that applies whether you are religious or not.

Everything else — how you choose to worship, how you choose not to worship — is all up to you. Just don’t hurt anyone. And no matter what religion you do or do not worship, this is a season for joy.

So. We say “Happy Holidays,” and it is in no way an insult. Wishing you joy cannot be offensive.

“Merry Christmas” leaves out half of my family. “Happy Hanukkah” leaves out the other half. “Happy Holidays” includes them all. It means Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. It means, “I wish you joy, no matter who you are and what you believe.”

We wish you a Merry Christmas. We wish you a Happy Chanukah. We wish you a Joyous Kwanzaa, and we say “Serenity Now” as we air our grievances at the Festivus for the Rest of Us. But most of all, we wish you “Happy Holidays.”

We wish you joy. Because wishing people joy is what the holiday season is actually all about.

All photos: Chad R. MacDonald