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.

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.
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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

Christmas can be oppressive for us Jews especially when we’re children. It seems everything out there is about Christmas and how we should celebrate Christmas.

Every TV special.

Every house decorated with streams of ethereal lights.

Santa in every commercial touting all the great new toys his elves are toiling away at when he’s not at the mall letting kids sit on his lap and ask for presents.

Stockings. Tinsel. Incredibly beautiful indoor trees housing stacks and stacks of presents. Candy canes. A grandmother who was run over by a reindeer. The Nutcracker. Rockefeller Center. A date that doesn’t move around each year. An eve.

What do we Jews have?

Eight nights of lighting candles and saying a prayer.

An electric orange menorah in the window.

Dreidels. And a boring song about dreidels made out of clay.

There are presents, of course. In our case, we’d get a big one on the first and last night of Hanukkah and small things in between. The holiday can’t even figure out how it wants to be spelled!

When I was growing up, I wanted to celebrate Christmas. I wanted Rudolph. I wanted Frosty. I wanted Santa. More than anything I wanted to cover our house and bushes with a fantastic array of twinkling lights. Each year I’d beg my parents for lights, but the closest we came was a paper “Happy Hanukkah” to hang in the window that no one could see after dark.

My parents felt for me for I’m sure they were envious as kids as well. They would put presents by the chimney at Christmas. One time, they even had one of my dad’s best friends dress up as Santa just for me.

“You’re not Santa!” I said in my brattiest tone. “You’re Mickey!”

As an adult, I appreciate my parents for trying especially since Christmas now seems to start before Labor Day making it even more onerous for Jewish people. This is why I’m so happy for my daughter, Sienna, who we let celebrate Christmas and Hanakkah.

Sienna gets to enjoy the power of both holidays. She gets to help Mommy, whose parents are Christian, trim our little silver Christmas tree covered with blue lights (silver and blue – the colors of Hanukkah). She gets to help Daddy put in the electric menorah’s light bulbs for eight days. Perhaps next year we’ll move on to actually lighting candles as well. She can watch holiday-themed Sophia the First, Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Jake and the Never Land Pirates without feeling like an outsider. She gets to revel in Santa’s ho-ho-ho and jiggling belly and enjoy the big Christmas tree in our building’s lobby while also pointing out the building’s silver menorah. We listen to her sing herself to sleep. Sometimes it’s that stupid dreidel song. Sometimes it’s a Christmas tune.

She celebrates with her parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and great-grandmother during Hanukkah. We usually have five kids running around the house opening presents, spinning dreidels, eating chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. Meanwhile, her aunt, uncle and cousin drive up from Louisiana for a special Christmas visit and we’ll spend Christmas day with my wife’s family.

And, boy, does our daughter get presents. So many presents we’ll probably eventually need a second apartment to store them. But what I love, what I experience through my daughter, is not feeling left out. I feel her soaking in both holidays on an equal plane. She loves evenings when both the Christmas tree and menorah alight basking our living room in a festive glow. For her, “Happy Holidays” truly means “Happy Holidays.”

Religion has yet to play a role in the holidays. I’m not religious. I’m an agnostic, but I somewhat follow Jewish customs. My wife is spiritual, but not religious. We have plenty of time before we have to deal with the religious angle and I’m curious and a bit fearful of what will come.

But for now Sienna gets the best of both worlds (or at least the worlds of Christmas and Hanukkah). She gets to enjoy her dreidels and candy canes; trees and menorahs; presents and presents. It’s a joyous time of year for her and a jubilant one for her parents. I for one have banished holiday envy from my heart as I give a Hanukkah gift to my wife and receive a Christmas gift in return.

I even get my festive lights.

A version of this first appeared on Raising Sienna.