A New Take on the Good Catholic Schoolgirl

“Mi sheberach avoteinu // M’kor hab’rachah l’imoteinu // Bless those in need of healing // with r’fuah sh’leimah.” I whispered along under my breath to Debbie Friedman’s Mi Sheberach as my twenty-two-person theology class at St. Mary’s Academy stood snaking in a circle around the room. Although nobody else knew the words, they hummed along as we watched Friedman perform. When the last notes of Friedman’s guitar rang out over the scratchy loudspeaker, I swallowed around the lump in my throat. 

While I’ve always loved the Mi Sheberach, it became more important to me when, about a year ago, I found out heartbreaking medical news during our Rosh Hashanah service. Surrounded by my friends and family, at the center of a web of arms, I felt loved. I was devastated when my synagogue swapped out the Mi Sheberach for another healing prayer this year, but I knew exactly who to bring my missing prayer to: my Catholic all-girls high school. 

When I was given the opportunity to share a prayer with my theology class, I was nervous that my classmates wouldn’t be engaged. Instead, when I quietly suggested that we all hold hands like I do with my friends during the Mi Sheberach at synagogue, they began moving desks around to make it work. Given a space to share religion with friends, acquaintances, and classmates, I realized that I belonged to two religious communities. My synagogue, which feels like home, and my high school, which shows me how to blend home with life. 

Initially, I didn’t want to go to Catholic school. I was certain that I’d feel left out or that the mandatory theology curriculum would divorce me from my Judaism. My Jewish public school peers cannot be encouraged by the school to talk about Judaism or celebrate their faith with the school community. I can, but from a Catholic lens.

Now, three years after I made the decision to go to a Catholic school, I’ve built a community. When we sat down to continue our class on liberation theology, I couldn’t stop thinking about their acceptance. 

There is no playbook for explaining religion, so I don’t. I let them in. I show them my menorah, made of nuts and bolts and connected by colorful wax buildup. I tell them about Mama Leone’s soup from Elephant’s Deli that my family friends and I get every Rosh Hashana. As they learn about Sukkot, I imagine myself, a hyper five-year-old, building a sukkah out of already-crumbling graham crackers and icing. I didn’t realize how special the little moments were until I had to explain what they meant to me.

Just as I’ve broadened their views on Judaism, they’ve shown me the best parts of Catholicism. Being around people who are engaged in a variety of different faiths has taught me more about how to express Judaism and myself than going to a secular school ever could. 

Still, I’ve spent hours explaining how casual antisemitism manifests in everyday life and teaching people basic facts about the Holocaust. Each time I cringe at the mischaracterization of Jews in the Easter Bible readings, my chest tightens imperceptibly. Whenever anyone brings up Judaism in class, all eyes swing to me. However, people are learning. When another classmate made an antisemitic comment about big noses, I stayed quiet. My non-Jewish friend stepped up, and they continue to stand up for me when I’m not comfortable. Judaism becomes more important to me through learning that others perceive it as something that makes me different. When I was fasting on Yom Kippur and stage managing our fall theater production, I sat on a desk in the back of the crowded makeup room and answered questions. When I teach unfamiliar peers about the practice of Shabbat, lighting the candles with my mother on a Friday night means more. 

Even if they sometimes don’t know how to express it, St. Mary’s is a community of people that, above all else, means well. The openness of students and teachers to listen to others makes me feel comfortable enough to speak up for myself and other Jewish people. Instead of second-guessing myself or believing I’m an annoyance, I go to the culture office or my theology teachers. I’ve developed a sixth sense for ignorance and antisemitism. In the last four months, I’ve convinced my school to add Jewish holidays to the general calendar and asked to help amend their antisemitism curriculum. If teachers schedule tests on Jewish holidays or somebody says something ignorant, I do something about it. Through defending Judaism, I’ve grown closer to it.

Learning how to advocate for myself in a secular environment and how to interact with religious people from other religions has brought me closer to my Jewish values. The best conversations with non-Jews about Judaism are with people who are also very religious. Learning about religion in a space dedicated to another religion has forced me to look for connections everywhere. Together, we’ve found that Judaism and Catholicism have more in common than just the Old Testament. Whenever the priest places the cloth over the goblet after Eucharist, or we hold hands during the “Our Father” prayer in mass, I think of the flickering orange light reflected in my fingernails from the havdalah candle and the wine stains on our tablecloth after Passover. Religion is built into the culture of school, so I can discuss Judaism freely. In my Catholic school, religion is celebrated instead of tolerated.