Patrilineal descent and the pain of rejection 😥

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I've been a member of Conservative (or dual-affiliated) synagogues since childhood, and have always supported the traditional opinion that only the children of Jewish mothers are Jewish (the matrilineal opinion). But I've been rethinking my position in recent years. Is it really the right thing to cause so many people so much pain? Here's how being a patrilineal Jew affected Allison Goldperson.

 

Allison Goldperson is with Jeremy Lawrence and

3 others

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[August 20, 2019]

 

Just over a year ago, I had the opportunity to do a mikveh ritual in the ocean, where I affirmed my Jewish identity in the presence of Rabbi Gabriel Botnick and four witnesses. It was an important moment for me, because it allowed Rabbi Botnick to then give me an official certificate, signed by himself and two witnesses, affirming that I am, indeed a Jew.

This status is a big deal, because it means that I am finally able to participate fully in the rituals that comprise Jewish practice: I can be married by a Rabbi to another Jew; I can be counted as part of a minyan; I am allowed halachically to fully keep Shabbat; if I have children, they will be counted as Jewish. Most importantly, this moment resolved one of the deepest and most painful challenges in my life: the fact that, for years, as I felt called more deeply towards Jewish practice, I was repeatedly turned away.

I am Jewish by patrilineal descent. My grandparents on my father’s side were Polish Holocaust survivors; my mother is from the Canadian east coast. I grew up in a Jewish neighborhood in Toronto, in a home that was filled with jokes told in Yiddish accents, stories from Chelm and foods like challah, cholent, and matzo brie. I carry the last name “Goldman”, went to Jewish summer camps and had a bat mitzvah.

It wasn’t until I got to university, and had a spiritual experience that made me want to connect more deeply with religious (vs. cultural) Judaism, that I understood the significance of my patrilineal descent. I was told, for the first time, that I was not Jewish -- that if I wanted to become Jewish, I would have to convert.

I was shocked, and hurt, but I respected the Rabbis telling me this. I wanted to follow the rules. I started learning, first with an orthodox Rabbi, and then with a conservative one. The more I studied, however, the more it became clear to me that I could not convert. Why? Because I’m not a convert. Judaism is not something I’ve chosen. In fact, over the years that I struggled with this part of my identity, I tried hard to not be Jewish. Twice in my twenties, after particularly painful experiences of being rejected based on my birth, I told myself that it wasn’t worth it, and vowed that I would not be Jewish anymore. It hurt a lot to make that vow, and never stuck. As it turns out, we don’t always get to choose who we are. Sometimes, our souls hold a truth that we ignore at our own peril.

For me to try to be anything other than Jewish was to force my soul so deeply out of alignment that it created a terrible spiritual pain.

My soul’s truth is that I am Jewish, and I have absolutely no choice in the matter. When I pray in Jewish community, I feel a sense of connectedness, to the earth, to the sky, to others and to myself. My soul whispers to me: “yes, this is where you’re meant to be.”

Last year, when I first approached Rabbi Botnick about my identity, I was so scared. I had already begun to feel connected to the community at Mishkon, and by revealing my secret to him, I was risking that he would reject me -- that he would suggest, like every Rabbi I’d spoken to before him, that either I should join a conversion class and undertake a process of “transformation,” or that I should just accept that only the reform community is available to me. Instead, he responded in the most beautiful, affirming, and healing way I could possibly have imagined. He asked me about my upbringing: was I raised in a Jewish home? Did I have a bat mitzvah? He reflected to me in no uncertain terms that I am indeed a Jew. He was clear and casual about it, and said we could make it official the very next day, at Na’or on the beach.

The Jewish ritual of the mikveh is one that signifies transformation. Traditionally, a convert immerses herself fully under water to signify a total transformation – a change in her soul from someone who was not bound to the covenant, to someone who is. I feel strongly that my soul did not transform last year when I undertook my mikveh. I have always been Jewish. In fact, I believe my soul has been Jewish for much longer than I have actually been alive.

Its meaningful that Jewish ritual, and particularly this ritual, is done in community, in front of witnesses. When I submerged myself in the ocean last summer, I was affirming a deep commitment to my own authentic truth, the same truth that prevented me from “converting” for so many years: that I am now, and always have been, Jewish.

By witnessing and testifying, my community also affirmed this truth back to me – and that was the transformation I needed.

I am so deeply grateful to Rabbi Botnick for facilitating that moment, and offering me the chance to fully belong. At the same time, I’m writing this post in part to say: this is not ok. It was wrong of my community to turn me away so many times, while welcoming other mixed Jews who have a matrilineal line. It was wrong to trivialize my Jewish lineage and experience, and the identity I have always had. This is an aspect of our tradition that hurts so many of us: Jews like me, but also Jewish men who are told they alone cannot pass on their traditions to their children. It’s wrong because it sews division among us, and causes us to do ugly things, like reject people we could love. In Genesis, the day that G-d separates water from the land is the only day she does not see that “it was good.” Our tradition should be the glue that holds us together, yet we cling to an outdated rabbinical interpretation that wrenches us apart.

There are many things I love about Judaism. Among them is our willingness to grapple with tradition and to make changes where necessary. The good news is that we already have the tools to right this wrong: when Rabbi Botnick offered to officially sanction my Jewish identity through an affirmation – when he offered it without even suggesting for a second that I had to change my essence, or “convert” – he demonstrated the best of what our tradition has to offer.

It is my hope that, in the future, this ritual of affirmation will be made more easily available and widely popularized. We should all know there is space in our tradition to hold and welcome our entire tribe, and to affirm the powerful influence that fathers have upon their children.