1984: I meet Erin at a Christmas party, and we get serious quickly. Erin comes from a devoutly religious family. Her father, Paul, is a church organist, composer of liturgical music, and music school Dean. The 1975 Baptist Hymnal contains a hymn by Paul titled “Erin” (“Jesus, friend of thronging pilgrims…”), and his "God of Grace and God of Glory" has been performed widely (https://youtu.be/q7k6CRWfpB8). Erin has always sung in a church choir. She doesn’t have a problem with my being Jewish—she dated a Rabbi for a while—but it does bother her that I am not observant.
When it looks possible that we may be spending the rest of our lives together, Erin starts to feel troubled about the eternity dilemma. Erin hasn’t been brought up to think that Jews go to hell, but she does believe that devotion to Jesus and his teachings will result in a heavenly eternity with God, His son, and His followers. She isn’t sure that non-Christians will be excluded, but even the possibility of spending our mortal lives together only to be separated for eternity scares the hell out of her.
The subject comes to a head one night at a restaurant. We become engaged in a discussion more serious than any previous political, artistic, or social deliberation I have ever been part of. I am arguing for my life: if I cannot convince Erin that we won’t be separated for eternity, I might lose her for the only chunk of time I can count on.
I am good at debating, but can my persuasive skills counter Erin’s faith? How can I even fathom what she is feeling? I remember my mother’s father davening, and I try to put myself into his skin. I feel a moment of clarity, fusing logic with a feeling I have never quite had before, a feeling I can only denote as faith, which I try to express to Erin:
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say, “that God would exclude good people from heaven. It makes even less sense that God would punish you forever because I don’t believe in Jesus Christ as my savior.” I realize that at some point I have stopped not believing in God, though I still don’t believe. I am becoming an agnostic, which I previously thought was reserved for those without the guts to come out and say they are atheists.
I now have utter faith that if there is a God, He will do right by Erin and me. And Erin comes to have faith in that, too.
My first dinner with Erin’s parents. After the food is on the table, Paul asks if I would mind if they said the blessing. I say okay, that we sometimes do that with my family: my father asks someone to say “grace,” I say “grace,” and we eat.
Paul takes Erin’s right hand with his left, Erin takes Esther’s hand, and Esther offers her hand to me. I take it, and complete the chain by grasping Paul’s right hand. We bow our heads while he recites: “Heavenly Father, accept our thanks for this food and for all of Thy blessings. In Jesus Christ’s name we pray, Amen.”
The word Jesus comes as a jolt, and I recoil when Erin’s parents squeeze my hands as they repeat “Amen.”
I freeze inside. I don’t mind saying grace, I don’t mind holding hands, but I do mind the invocation of Jesus while holding hands. I feel like I have been manipulated into the first step of a conversion protocol.
I don’t say anything to Erin until after her parents leave, and then I let it out. She says she understands my discomfort and assures me there is no plan afoot to bring me into the fold. She wonders how long I will be mad at her carelessness and how long she’ll “have to pay for this.”
“My God,” I reply, “what have those other men done to you?” and I hug her.
The next time we have dinner together, Paul says they’ll skip the blessing, but I hold my hands out and ask him to please go on. We all take hands and Paul says: “Heavenly Father, accept our thanks for this food and for all of thy blessings. Take care of our loved ones. We pray, Amen.”
And I squeeze hands and say “Amen,” devoutly faithful to those at the table.