God and the Cultural Jew

Veronica walked home wondering why there always had to be a Sarah-Lisa Carver or a Cricket Cohen in her life. A person capable of throwing her off balance and making her doubt her own legitimacy. She wanted to feel glorious and confident all the time, like in class when she spoke up and Ms. Padgett praised her.

She told her parents about what a great teacher Ms. Padgett was and about the Randolf traditions of Morning Meeting and Morning Verse. At six o’clock the doorbell rang, the deliveryman was tipped, and Mr. and Mrs. Morgan unpacked dinner while Veronica set the table.

Cadbury was at her heels the entire time. He was clearly the submissive one of the pair, but Veronica knew he wasn’t suffering from feelings of doubt or insecurity. She never sent him mixed messages like Cricket or was mean like Sarah-Lisa. She was a better friend. He knew he was loved, she was sure of it.

“I want to get back to this Morning Meeting Verse business,” Mr. Morgan said. “Marion, did you know about this? Where’s the beef with broccoli?”

“Marvin, we talked about it at the interview with Mrs. Harrison. You were right there, honestly. You are holding the beef.”

Veronica helped herself to Buddha’s delight and settled her feet on top of Cadbury, who was again conveniently located under her chair.

“Oh right. And I thought it was crap then too,” Veronica’s father said. He plunked some beef on his plate. “What happened to the separation of church and state?”

“I’m not in church. I’m in school,” Veronica said. She looked over at her mother and they both smiled.

“What are they teaching her over there?” her father demanded.

“She is right here,” her mother said, gesturing.

“I will tell you what they are teaching her, religion disguised as a cockamamy poem,” her father said, stabbing a dumpling with his fork.

Veronica had no idea what he was talking about. She recited Morning Verse in her head. The word God wasn’t in it. “What’s the big deal?” she asked. “We’re Jewish, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are. We most certainly are. But we don’t believe in God,” her father said. “We’re cultural Jews, we believe in Chinese food and The New Yorker.”

As far as Veronica was concerned, this explained nothing. “But we celebrate Rosh Hashanah and Passover every year. We sat shiva for Bubby. Are those cultural?”

“Ask your mother,” her father said. “And while you’re at it, ask her why we have a Christmas tree.”

Mrs. Morgan rolled her eyes. It was hard for Veronica to tell how serious tonight’s rant was. Sometimes her father just liked to argue.

“Well,” her mother said, pausing with a piece of tofu between her chopsticks, “I grew up following certain traditions and performing certain rituals. A shiva is a way of mourning. I thought my mother would have wanted me to honor her that way. Passover is a tradition. Rosh Hashanah is a tradition. I don’t really think of them as religious. Passover’s a dinner. We do it at home. I love Passover. Don’t you?”

“I guess,” Veronica said. “But the whole thing is about how God saved the Jews and how God parted the water. God is sort of the main character in the story.”

“You’re right,” her father said. “But it’s just a story. And I don’t believe it to be anything more. And I like the food at Passover. Can I have the … what is that there?”

“Shrimp, Marvin. They are called shrimp.”

“Okay, so, you’re into being Jewish but not into God, right, Daddy?”

“I’m not into being Jewish. I am Jewish.”

“You know, Marvin, my father said there are only two kinds of Jews in the world: the self-hating kind and the anti-Semitic kind.”

“I am not anti-Semitic. I just don’t like to be told what to do.”

“By poetry?” Veronica asked, looking at her mother.

“By meaningless ceremony and ritual,” her father said.

“Marvin. What has meaning to other people may not have meaning to you, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t mean anything. People have the right to make meaning in their own way.”

“Touché,” her father said.

Veronica thought the discussion was over. Her mother had won and since she and her mother were on the same team, Veronica had won also. What a relief.

But her father couldn’t let it go. He had to have the last word. “Honestly, Marion, your mother is rolling over in her grave.”

“My mother rolls over in her grave every time you order moo shu pork, Marvin.”

“Well, she’s a lot more upset about your Christmas tree,” Mr. Morgan said, laughing. Veronica didn’t know what to take seriously, so she started laughing too.

*   *   *

Veronica’s grandmother had called the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur the Days of Awe and she had taken them very seriously. She prayed. She repented. She forgave all who had wronged her. She sought forgiveness from those she had wronged. She considered how to be a better person in the upcoming year and she taught Veronica how to cast off her sins in the East River. On Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, the adults fasted and the whole family spent the day in temple. This was the day God decided if your name was going to be written into the Book of Life.

After Veronica’s grandmother died the ritual changed. Mrs. Morgan still reflected and fasted but she skipped the temple part and Mr. Morgan skipped everything.

The only thing that didn’t change was shopping for special High Holiday foods at Zabar’s. Three days before Rosh Hashanah, Veronica and her parents walked into the Upper West Side mecca salivating. The cornucopia of treats waiting inside never ceased to thrill.

“I wish we could have brought Cadbury,” Veronica said. “How much fun would he have sniffing around Zabar’s?”

“He’d be trampled before we made it to the fish counter. Marion, this is insanity. I told you we have to get here earlier. Every year I say let’s get here earlier! What’s wrong with us?” Every year he complained. Complaining had become part of their tradition.

Veronica sampled a Lebanese fig Zabar’s always carried for the holidays.

“How’s that fig?” her father asked. Veronica gave her father what was left of hers and took another. She looked up at the number box. It said Now Serving 83. In her hand she held a sweaty 139.

“Lovey, will you take the list and get what’s on it while Daddy and I wait on this ridiculous line?” Veronica loved that people might think she was at Zabar’s shopping by herself so she happily agreed.

The treasure hunt began: two bottles of olive oil from Sardinia, a bag of the Lebanese figs, cinnamon sticks, orange blossom water, pomegranate molasses, yeast, carrots, and eggs. In spite of her parents, Veronica still wondered about temple. When she’d gone with her grandmother it was all in Hebrew so she hadn’t understood a single word. Now that she was at Randolf she likened the experience to Morning Meeting, only longer. An opportunity to think deeply in the company of others.

Veronica put the pomegranate molasses in her cart, excited about all the delicious food they were going to eat. The carrot tzimmes, the lamb tagine, the desserts, everything was sweetened with honey and dried fruits so they’d have a sweet year. And as if that wasn’t sweet enough, they also dipped slices of tart, crisp apples in honey. Veronica’s mother always went to the farmers’ market and got spectacular apples and several kinds of honey. Veronica loved watching the honey drip down the side of the apple.

One year Cricket and her family came for Rosh Hashanah dinner. Marvin proudly sat at the head of the table, explaining how sweet a year they’d all have and how happy he was to share the New Year’s meal with his family and friends. He even said a prayer, in Hebrew, over the challah. He was Mr. Super Jew that night.

Everyone dipped apples into the golden honey and Cricket announced that she wanted to be Jewish. The adults at the table looked like they had swallowed something awful. It turned out that Cricket Cohen was Jewish. She just didn’t know it.