These days, the world of Jewish-Christian dialogue is pretty messy, although it might not seem that way at Jewcy.com.  My week of writing and hanging out at this site has been a source of great comfort and several very good laughs.

Here, it seems, everyone takes everyone else’s self-referent irreverence in stride. Here, making a big deal over the distinction between identity and practice seems to be no big deal. Here, intra-tribal warfare seems to be waged with exponentially less vitriol that it is in other venues.  Here, tikkun seems possible; that the shattered world of Christian-Jewish relations might be repaired a teensy bit.  I hope this is true because my generation has and, as far as I can tell is still, screwing it up.

My experience as an American Jew is anchored in an earlier time in history, a point when anti-Semitism was blatant and acceptable. I was in junior high when Tom Lehrer wrote and sang, "National Brotherhood Week," which included the rueful big-laugh line, "And everyone hates the Jews."  This helped shape my identity as a Jew and, as I’d discover, future interactions with other Jews about my embrace of Christianity.

Calling something a "dialogue" doesn’t make it one. In my book Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar? I reprinted copies of significant dialogue documents issued by the liturgical churches as well as by the text for Dabru Emet (appearing as a full-page ad in The New York Times on September 10, 2000) and A Sacred Obligation (issued by the Christian Scholars Group on Christian-Jewish Relations). They’re moving documents that become even more so considering when they were written.

Still, if my experience in writing my book is any indication, we have a long way to go.  Case in point: the pissing contest with one (Jewish, younger, scholar) reviewer over the proper transliteration of the Hebrew word for "holy."  What do you think it is?  Kodesh? Kodosh? Kadosh?  Choose the "wrong" one and your identity could be suspect.

At one point, my Conservadox Jewish therapist said, "Forget about the Jews. They’re not your audience." Perhaps not, but given the realities of interfaith marriage it’s time to know more about our shared heritage. For Christians, this means understanding our Jewish roots. For Jews, this means understanding how our legacy endures in other religious traditions. Dayenu? Probably not.

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Multiple spirituality disorder? Makes for a good laugh and some great conversation, but it’s probably more accurate to say my cultural identity is Jewish, although my religious practice clearly is not. In this regard, I’m not all that different from Jews who embrace Jewish culture while rejecting Jewish religious practices. Okay, what’s different, of course, is that Jesus as Christ thing.

But why Catholic?

Want to take an educated guess at how many times I get asked about my choice of preferred provider for worship? It’s an excellent question, especially given the Roman church’s long, despicable history of anti-Judaism and anti-Semitism.* I could do without how the question is usually posed.

To her everlasting credit, my mother, a retired Judaica editor, has always been intellectually curious about my journey. And because of the content and tone of her questions, I’ve been able to respond rather than react. I mention this because, in general, the vibe coming at me is not conducive to anything that might approximate dialogue. We do want dialogue, right?

I’m thinking specifically of someone at an Episcopal church who after asking if I was a priest, physically recoiled when I copped to being Roman Catholic. I’ve been asked if I’m stupid or crazy, usually by Cradle Catholics and other Jews. Depending on who pops the question, I’ll take it as an opportunity to point out how one cannot become a lapsed Catholic without first becoming Catholic. My more reasoned responses are designed to generate a conversation about similarities rather than differences. We do want conversations, right?

To be clear: the Roman Catholic church breaks my heart and flips my stomach on a regular basis. I’m told my angst is normal.

"Wait, let me guess," said one dear Cradle Catholic friend the nanosecond she heard my voice, "you’re hating the Catholic church, right?"

I whimpered. She laughed.

"Nothing is wrong with feeling crappy about being Catholic," she said. "If you had gone to parochial school, you would’ve learned that by first freaking grade. Being Catholic generates lots of cognitive dissonance. We’re a religion of the heart but because we don’t talk about it that way, people think we’re jerks and assholes." How comforting.

So, why Catholic? Because believing Jesus is Christ narrowed my worship options. [Listen up: I am not at all interested in persuading any other Jew that Jesus is Christ, even though many Christians would say that’s exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.]

As a consequence of time and place, I opted for Roman Catholicism, one of the two unbroken, albeit flawed lines emerging directly from Temple Judaism. I opted for Catholicism because the central action of worship involves "coming to the table." I opted for Catholicism because the structure of liturgy is familiar, as are many of the home-based customs and traditions.

Now that I’m there, I’m deeply committed to all Christians (not just Catholics) understanding their Jewish heritage — and significantly upgrading the food at church suppers.

* Anti-Judaism: hatred of the Jewish religion. Anti-Semitism: hatred of Jews as an ethnic-racial group.

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How I ended up back in New Jersey is yet another long story for another time. I mention my personal Diaspora because I believe it helps explain why I’m particularly fixated on Exodus — scripture, not the epic film based on the epic novel by Leon Uris. Jews along the spectrum of what currently constitutes Judaism generally have no difficulty understanding my thing for Exodus. To be more clear: I relate especially to the stuff about being once embraced, then kicked out, wandering around, trusting and then being chosen and loved by God.

In contrast, I spend a considerable amount of time inviting Christians in liturgical churches to read Exodus and then explaining why they need to do so. Exodus is where they’ll encounter what biblical scholars and theologians somewhat antiseptically call the "Sinai Event." Reading Exodus will help Christians avoid asking questions like, "Do Jews believe in the Ten Commandments?" (Asked during a conference for Catholic religious educators.) Exodus is where they’ll find the specs for sanctuary décor. This often comes as news. Why?

In case you don’t already know, the order of worship is basically the same for the Mass celebrated by Roman Catholics and Orthodox churches, the Service of Holy Communion celebrated by Lutherans, and the Holy Eucharist celebrated by Anglican/Episcopalians. When it comes to reading the word of God, the first two readings (technically: one reading and a song/psalm) are from Hebrew scripture. Consequently, regular in-the-pew Christians do not generally spend a lot of time listening to, let alone studying, Exodus. Never mind that the central activity of liturgical worship is anchored in Passover, most Christian laity are clue free about how reading Exodus will enhance their worship experience. I also hope it stimulates gratitude for and appreciation of their Jewish roots.

"Flip open your bible to Exodus," I say at the beginning of the sanctuary tour. (This request is already a challenge for Roman Catholics who do not typically have copies of either the bible or Christian scripture readily available.) "Please turn to chapter twenty-five, verse eight."

We traipse through the next three chapters, skip to chapter thirty and continue reading to the end of the book for this tell and show adventure. I ask them to contemplate what a Jewish visitor might find familiar. And, it has recently occurred to me that quite a few Jews might also benefit from engaging in this exercise — at a synagogue.

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We’re in the green room before taping a show produced by a Catholic diocese, hosted by a priest and a rabbi. I have found out at the last possible minute that I am not the sole guest, as initially promised and invited.

I’m supposed to be talking about how so many of the home-based traditions observed by Catholic Christians do, in fact, find their roots in Jewish practices. Some of these connections are obvious, like the tradition of reciting blessings before and after meals. Some are less so, like including obvious symbols of religious identity as part of home décor. Even some non-observant Jews will affix a mezuzah to doorways, just as some non-religious Catholics will hang a crucifix in their bedrooms. (No, I am not saying that mezuzah = crucifix. If you think I am, then pretty please think at a more meta level.)

My being born and raised Jewish is apparently not enough. Someone has decided that I need either rabbinical supervision or company on the show. I suspect it’s the former because Rabbi Susie asks, "and you . . . go to synagogue?"

I dearly want to tell her that but if not for the women of my generation, she wouldn’t be a rabbi at all. Instead, I say something about not feeling welcome in synagogues.

Rabbi Susie looks even more perplexed. If a thought bubble could appear over her head, I’m sure it would be inscribed with something like, "Why the Gehenna would you even want to attend synagogue?" My thought bubble back would be inscribed with…

I’m irked. I want this rabbi, allegedly so keen on Christian-Jewish dialogue, to stop being so partisan and parochial. I would like Rabbi Susie to have a little historical perspective, to recall that Judaism may have always been monotheistic but was never monolithic. I’d like her to remember that plenty of contemporary Jews don’t bother with religious practices but consider themselves culturally Jewish. (Note: Check out Patrick Aleph’s post, "What Flavor of New Jew Are You?)

"Well," I say as nicely as I can muster, "one does not suddenly stop being a Jew." But Rabbi Susie still looks very confused and slightly troubled by this, so I decide to stop being so nice and mention St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross.

"Edith Stein," I say and Rabbi Susie looks slightly less baffled, but I can tell she’s starting to connect some dots. "Marched into the gas chambers at Auschwitz wearing her Carmelite habit. Do you think she didn’t know she was a Jew?"

There’s more to this story, of course. I made my point in the green room and the show went on. I left the studio, had corned beef on rye with deli mustard for lunch, and prayed that the post-production editing be superb. It was, thank God.

Years later, when I’m writing Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar? I’ll spend a considerable amount of time wondering in how much detail I’ll need to explain what constitutes a cultural identity and a religious identity; how those identities merge and manifest for Jews; how understanding all this might help Christians appreciate the cultural legacy of Judaism. I’ll wonder if and when I’ll need to mention Edith Stein.

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Conventional wisdom: write about what you know. Crazy reality: write (a lot) about what I want everyone else to know. And yes, I do realize this may come across as presumptuous and possibly even arrogant.

Among the many things I want everyone else to know: Jews and Christians shared a God, faith, and many religious practices for nearly a century after Jesus died. We continue to share many more similarities than differences, although neither Christians nor Jews typically view it this way. In fact, I think we spend way too much time highlighting differences. Our world is a freaking mess as a result.

Hi, my name is Meredith Gould, and I’ll be here all week writing not only about these issues, but about the tsouris that went into and emerged as a result of writing, Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar? Jewish Roots of Christian Worship.

For example, I got all add-and-delete with the word, tsouris. First I wrote, "about the carp that went into…" because I’ve been amusing myself lately by using "carp" instead of "crap." I like how that little bit of letter transposition looks on the screen, how it stops the eye, makes the mind wonder, "WTF?" before settling down into realizing it’s a substitute for "crap."

In my case, the word "carp" also makes my mind wander into childhood memories of scarfing down prodigious amounts of smoked carp, whitefish salad and nova after being released from the bondage of Temple Sinai’s Sunday school classes. But then, I deleted "carp" because I worried about using that word and going into the riff you just read. Surely it would generate nasty comments about stereotypically linking Jews with food, which is at best a hackneyed device. (Note: I will be writing about food issues.)

So, I decided to use tsouris, a Yiddish word so common that it’s included in the Urban Dictionary. Did it really need to be italicized for Jewcy.com? Probably not, although italicizing the first instance use of a foreign word is good editorial form. I added, italicized, un-italicized, and then deleted tsouris altogether. Surely using Yiddish would generate nasty comments about trying to validate tribal affiliation. (Note: I will be writing about identity.)

A half hour into this mishegas, I put tsoursis back into the text and here we are. Welcome to my world. This is exactly the kind of interior carp that forced me to pay out-of-pocket and completely un-reimbursable fees for a meds consult while writing Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar?

For some odd reason that now seems like total delusion, I thought I’d simply introduce Christian readers to how Judaism’s enduring legacy is revealed in Christian belief and religious practices. How big a deal could this be? I’d already received an enthusiastic reception from Catholics wanting to know more about their Jewish roots? How could it possibly become so darn personal? I’d already outed myself in an earlier book as a "Jew in identity, a Christian in faith, and a Catholic in practice."

As I’d discover while writing this book, highlighting Judaism’s legacy would also mean highlighting more similarities than differences among Catholics, Christian Orthodox, Lutherans, Anglicans and Episcopalians. And that’s how I ended up learning more than my stomach lining could handle about interfaith so-called dialogue and whatever currently passes these days for ecumenical relations — yet another thing I want everyone to know.

Tomorrow: Cultural identity? Religious identity? Will we never be done with this conversation?

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