Pew pressure: What a Jew can and can’t do at church

A friend has died. I'm at her funeral in a Catholic church and the priest has asked us to come up for Communion. As the mourners queue up in two lines in the center aisle and the emptiness swells around me, I'm the only one left sitting in the pew.

"But ... I'm Jewish," I want to explain, as glances are thrown my way. But I can't, so I just sit there.

This feeling apart, a sole Jew in a sea of Christianity, is a familiar one. But familiarity doesn't make it any less uncomfortable. It's not that I wish to be something I'm not; I just don't want anyone to think I'm being disrespectful. Maybe I should have worn a Star of David necklace and matching earrings.

I'm used to feeling like a stranger; it happens enough in my own religion. I don't know all the Hebrew prayers, feel hesitant as when to stand or bow or remain seated without following the crowd, unsure of what it all means. Yet, with ongoing exposure — attending more services, gaining more Jewish education, and sure, watching "Sex in the City" reruns where a character converts to Judaism — the amount of what I do know is now beginning to eclipse that which I don't.

But put me in a Catholic church and it's back to square one.

What's the appropriate Jewish response in a place of worship not that of our own? Those litanies — can I, should I respond? I mumble Amen along with everyone else when it feels right to do so. But what are the Jewish guidelines? I wish I'd asked before I came.

It's a tough time to be confused, when one is mourning. I'm here to pay respect and to be with others who are feeling the same sense of sadness and loss. I want my husband's hand in mine, and not to sit alone with my grief as everyone around me lines up for Communion, for wafers of bread and wine and blessings from the priest. So I sit and contemplate what it means to be a Jew in a church. All I can come up with is that it's lonely. And I have no idea if I'm doing anything right. This must be how my husband sometimes feels at temple services.

I am reassured later when Rabbi Mark Bloom of Oakland's Temple Beth Abraham explains that it's all about "being a good guest at another's place of worship and taking into account your own comfort level." He advises to "sit when they sit, stand when they stand," but says that I should not bow — as that would be a form of idolatry — or take Communion.

I chalk up a point for my knowing that, but I wonder why a non-Christian might think to do so. Out of curiosity?

"Peer pressure," Bloom explains. "Your whole row moves and you get caught up in the swell of the movement."

Ah ... pew pressure, I felt that. My pew-mates practically crawled over me to get to the aisle.

And what about all the Amens — do I join in these refrains? "It's from Hebrew 'emunah' — faith, the term 'believe' is derived from the same root," he tells me, so I shouldn't say Amen "to anything that has Jesus in it."

And the Lord's Prayer? "That's a tricky one," he says. "Some believe it's quite similar to the Kaddish, but it's straight from the New Testament." I admit to him that in my high school days I sang along to the punk rock version. In my defense, due to my lack of exposure to Christianity, I never knew it was . . . well, a real prayer. I always thought the lyrics were penned by Siouxsie and the Banshees.

I've learned a lot since then, from attending wedding Masses and funerals of friends and of my husband's non-Jewish family.

Next time I'm church-bound — and I know there will be a next time — I'll come more prepared. I won't worry about pew pressure and will keep in mind that I'm a guest, a respectful one, just a visitor. And I do plan to shop for that Star of David necklace and earrings set.




Joanne Catz Hartman lives and writes in Oakland. She can be reached at .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address).