My Mixed Marriage
How my non-Jewish husband brought me closer to Judaism
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
When I was a kid, my bubbe sat me down and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I must marry a Jew. I was 10 years old, and my celebrity crush was Nick Jonas (famous for his Christian purity ring), so I rolled my eyes and turned back to Hannah Montana. But the idea that Jewish continuity is paramount was ingrained in me from an early age.
Flash forward 13 years, to spring 2021: my now-husband and I rented a cottage in the mountains of Asheville, North Carolina and were married by a non-religious officiant in a field of wildflowers. It was intimate, romantic, Covid-safe, and not very Jewish. No ketubah, no breaking of the glass, no being lifted on chairs during a rousing rendition of the hora. Bubbe would not have been pleased.
When Jake and I first started dating, I made it clear that raising Jewish children was a non-negotiable. He grew up Episcopalian, but he was open to the idea of a Jewish family; as an adult, his connection to Christianity was limited to family Christmas celebrations and an impressive Nutcracker collection. As our relationship developed, we began to discuss exactly what our family would look like. I knew better than to ask him to convert; I’d always been told that converting just for marriage wasn't a good enough reason. Plus, I didn’t want to force him to change his identity against his will.
But I also never envisioned my future with a Christmas tree, or without sending my kids to preschool at the JCC. Likewise, he never envisioned his future without a Christmas tree or with his kids going to preschool at the JCC. We quickly realized that we would both need to compromise if we were going to make this marriage work. And so the negotiations began.
As we found ourselves entangled in theological and philosophical debates about religion, society, and history, we always ended up in the same place: Google. My Jewish Learning and Sefaria became permanent bookmarks in my browser. We discovered early on that neither of us would adopt (or let go of) a tradition without fully understanding it—which led to a lot of awkward admissions of “I don’t know” on my part.
I had been through the compulsory eight years of Hebrew School, studied some Jewish history in college, and celebrated the major holidays with my family. I thought that, for a mostly secular Jew, I had a decent understanding of Judaism— but some of his questions stumped me. How does the Hebrew calendar work? Why do we shake a lulav and etrog on Sukkot? And also: what does it mean to be a Jew in America today? After I tried to pitch Purim as “Jewish Halloween,” I went back to the Megillah. In the course of explaining why I’ve never eaten ham, I wound up learning about all the requirements of a fully kosher kitchen. Our discussions of the Torah and the Talmud and Halakhah kept us occupied on drives to visit his parents.
“If we get married, would you cover your hair?” he would ask.
“Probably not,” I would reply, and then the conversation would go back and forth until I realized that I didn’t actually know why some women wear sheitels, or why other women wear tichels, or how the laws of tznius work—so we learned together. Meanwhile, I learned that Aslan from the Chronicles of Narnia books is an allegory for Jesus Christ, and watched The Muppet Christmas Carol for the first time.
Jake saw how much Jewish traditions mattered to me, and we eventually agreed that we would have a Jewish home. But that was hardly the end of the conversation. Since getting married, we’ve debated whether or not to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, and have spent our free time learning about the differences between the Torah and the Christian Old Testament.
After our son was born two years ago, I realized that his Jewish education would be entirely my responsibility. I would be the one lighting Shabbat candles and leading the Passover seder—and I was determined to do it right. I started brushing up on my Hebrew on Duolingo, and speaking both Hebrew and English to our son (neither of which he’s fully grasping yet). Jake gamely tries to mimic the “kh” sound, sending all three of us into hysterics. Every week, I make challah while my son stands next to me in his toddler tower, “ooh”ing and “ahh”ing as he watches me braid the dough. And on Friday evenings, Jake reminds me to get the candlesticks out before he goes to the gym, and looks forward to the Shabbat dinner I choose from a Jewish-themed cookbook. And—if I’m being totally honest— the Christmas lights we put up this year looked magical.
Ironically, my non-Jewish husband has brought me closer to Judaism than I’ve ever been. I know that to some, my marriage to a non-Jewish man knocks my observance level down a few pegs, and that’s okay. I like to think my bubbe would have come around to Jake after hearing him sing “Bim Bam” while doing the dishes last night, but if not, that’s alright, too. For me, Jewish continuity didn’t have to mean marrying a Jew.
Rebecca Cantor Whiteley lives in Virginia (for now) with her husband, son, and two cats. She has a BA in History and currently works in the Jewish nonprofit space. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, and when she’s not writing or reading, she’s stacking blocks (or whatever her toddler's current hyperfixation is).
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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