A Catholic-Jew

A purposeless and scope-less quasi-preface:

I have grown weary of my characteristic despondency, and my self-loathing is in hiatus. A temporary relapse from ex-boyfriend-provoked introspection has begotten a transient lucidity.

All are a direct result of my wandering Coldplay album: a selection of pirated tracks extracted from all albums known to be in existence, except Viva la Vida – explanation not necessary – and of my Itunes' mysterious "inoperability".

This is a happy blog. I'm riding a play-doh high baby – the perks of being a surrogate mother.

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I went to a Bris – the naming not the cutting – for the Guatemalan adoptee of my lesbian step-aunts, a conversion to the faith that stakes a claim to all of the potential baby names highlighted in a thrift store buy "What to name your baby?" – Isaac, Joshua, and Abraham. I was the visiting Shiksah pinned in between the gregarious and now invalid McCain supporter Mohel and a shelf of African tribal masks. In the awkward silence born from covert jabs, disguised as humor, at Christianity and Islam respectively, the kosher brother of the faith managed to pierce my religious skepticism.

"In Judaism we believe that a good and righteous person, regardless of his/her faith, goes to heaven."

He had baited and hooked himself a heathen. A good person? Check. A righteous person? Check – err wait – am I? No bother. The odds for heaven are far greater within Judaism than within my previously ascribed faith. The ratio sin:repent is exorbitantly disproportionate and the omnipotent is aware. I do not engage in enough acts of repentance to balance, and subsequently gain entrance through the pearly gates.

When the silver and ornamented Kiddish cup sloshing with wine passed along the semi-circle, I refrained, from fear I would gulp more than the faith allotted amount, and because I was unsure of my right as an un-baptized albeit Catholic gentile. A slow to open smile and quick, Father, forgive me, for I almost sinned followed my cast down eyes.

He inserted an inconvenient joke about Ishmael, the illegitimate, yet almighty condoned son of Hagar and Abraham, and his adolescent circumcision as cause for the Judeo-Islam clash. I silently pondered the veracity of his earlier devout declaration.

What about hell? – And purgatory? – Limbo? To where do the un-baptized infants go? The questions threatened to verbalize. My disobedient hand shot up in the air pumped with Miracle Grow.

"Rabbi – umm Mohel, do Jews believe in hell?"

He scanned my loose black dress, tights, and army-green boots skimming the bottoms of my knees. Fortunately I left my cleavage and the 24k gold cross at home.

"Not really my child."

Weakened by the words "my child", remnants of past Sunday communions, I swooned with pious love. I am a girl-child perusing men for a father, an agnostic looking for faith. He looked upon me with new eyes; those reserved for hopeful converts, slipped his business card into my sweaty palm – Mohel, jeweler, and Rabbi – and jotted down the intersection of the nearest synagogue.

I decided to keep the card perched on my shelf of saints, next to Christopher, in front of Mary, and behind Joseph, for future consideration. I have been told that my chances of a Catholic wedding are improbable, and my parents would certainly appreciate a nice Jewish boy's request for my blasphemous hand.