As I traveled from Brooklyn to downtown Philadelphia earlier this month, I didn’t quite know what I was getting myself into. Here I was, an Orthodox girl from a staunchly Chabad family, on my way to the Muslim-Jewish Women’s Leadership Conference, the inaugural event of a growing organization, the Sisterhood of Salaam Shalom (SOSS). It would be the first conference of its kind in the Unites States specifically for women, and also my very first involvement with an interfaith program.

Growing up in a strictly observant community in Australia, interfaith work was mostly shunned and viewed as somewhat dangerous, but also pointless. My home was essentially anti-Zionist in ideology, yet vigorously supportive of Israel in practice. I attended a decidedly Zionist, right-wing school. This all left me a little confused as to my own political proclivities—and living and studying in Israel as an adult only served to further confuse me. Right-wing, with a touch of disillusionment? Left-wing, with a lot more heart and less apologetics?

But while my love for Israel has always been boundless, it hasn’t much been challenged. I tend to steer clear of political debates, and I’m usually surrounded by people who follow the pro-Israel, all-Israel line.

One thing my school did leave me with was a thorough knowledge of the history of the state of Israel and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict (at least from an Israeli perspective), and, along with it, a hearty dose of skepticism about the possibility of a lasting peace in the region.

So when Sheryl Olitsky, the Executive Director of SOSS, called me a few months ago inviting me to the inaugural conference, I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand I was excited about this new opportunity. Then, as I imagined my family’s collective gasp and the closing rolodexes of every shadchan (matchmaker) in Chabad, I thought no, there’s no way I can attend. I hemmed and hawed until I got the green light from a Chabad rabbi who told me that although the Lubavitcher Rebbe had warned against getting into interfaith debates on theology or religion, he was supportive of endeavors that focused on building civil and economic goodwill across communities.

So, on the bitterly cold Sunday of November 2, with the rabbi’s blessing ringing in my ears, I traveled to Temple University where the conference was being held. As scores of spandex-clad runners braved the wind to get to Staten Island for the starting line of the New York Marathon, I headed further uptown to catch the train to downtown Philly.

As I sat on the train, I pondered my reasons for participating. Was I anxious? Not really. Hopeful? Nope. Curious? Absolutely. My curiosity is what finally swayed me, along with the excitement of participating in an event run solely by and for women.

Four hours and a Subway, Amtrak, bus and cab later, I arrived at Temple University. (The conference was organized in conjunction with the Foundation for Ethnic Understanding and the Dialogue Institute of Temple University.) When I entered the hall, the attendees—about 100 women in total, wearing hijabs, abayas, pants, and skirts—were already forming groups around tables, getting acquainted. I sat between a Sufi convert in her 60s, garbed in an intricately detailed pale green abaya and headscarf, and a more secular, bubbly, young Muslim woman on my left.

It was confronting to realize that though I’ve interacted with Muslims many times—on the light-rail in Jerusalem, in the halls of Hebrew University, haggling over produce in the shuk (market)—I’d never had a proper, in-depth conversation with anyone of the faith.

Yet, here we were, chatting like old friends, complaining about the blustering wind outside, and the commute from who-knows-where America.

Sheryl Olitzky founded the SOSS in 2011 after a trip to Poland in the early 2000s, where she was horrified to witness high levels of outspoken hatred directed at all other ethnic groups. “The hate was incredible and targeted towards anyone considered ‘non-Pole’,” she explained. “It spread to anyone gay, lesbian, Jewish, black, Muslim, Asian—anyone considered ‘other’.”

She returned to the United States, convinced that she had to do something to dispel the hate. She decided to begin close to home and turned to her local community which had fairly large Muslim and Jewish communities. While there were no overt negative feelings between the two groups, she says, there was little interaction at all.

Olitzky contacted a local Imam who put her in touch with Atiya Aftab, an adjunct professor at Rutgers University’s Department of Political Science, who now sits on the Sisterhood’s board. Together, they recruited a group of about 12 women—half Muslim, half Jewish—to get together for monthly discussions. Thus began the pilot program for what has now grown into a network of ten chapters across the East Coast and Midwest.

Linda Tondow was part of the pioneering chapter and now sits on the Sisterhood’s Advisory Board. She says that she always had an interest in interfaith work and it seemed to align with her professional work as the president of her local conservative synagogue, Congregation Anshe Emeth of Highland Park, NJ.

Tondow says the women would bond over common issues such as parenting and the practice of religion in their communities. They shared their concerns over sending their children to religious school, and the accompanying rules regarding attire and modesty. “The issues were really the same, even if the venues may have been different,” she said. She hosted the group for Sukkot, and joined the Muslim members for Ramadan celebrations.

The SOSS doesn’t recommend tackling political discussions until the groups have been meeting for a long time and are comfortable with one another. Once solid friendships have been formed, they then provide workshops to facilitate conversations around hot-button issues such as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

But for most of the members, the goal is not to win a political debate. “I personally never went in wanting to change people’s minds on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict,” said Tondow. “I went in wanting to know what some of our similarities are… and to create bonds and relationships which are really critical for understanding.”

And if anyone has the skills to build these kinds of relationships, Olitzky believes it’s women: “Women are much more effective at forming relationships [than men], just based on how their brains are wired.” She and Aftab based the chapter model on Gordon W. Allport’s Intergroup Contact Theory, which argues that by forming close relationships with people from a different group, your views on the group as a whole can be changed.

With virtually no promotion or marketing other than word-of-mouth, these groups have proved increasingly popular. This year the Sisterhood is expanding to Minneapolis and Kansas City, and women in many more cities have expressed interest in forming local chapters of their own.

The organization wants to bring the skills acquired by members in local chapters to a larger audience around the country, and the conference at Temple University marked their first foray into a larger initiative. Panels were hosted by renowned scholars and activists such as Blu Greenberg, co-founder of the Jewish Orthodox Feminist Alliance; Daisy Khan, the executive director of the American Society for Muslim Advancement; and Rabia Chaudry of Serial podcast fame—who is also the president of the Safe Nation Collaborative.

The workshops and panels delved into more theoretical discussions on how to strengthen ties of communication and cooperation between the two faith groups, but also touched on practical tips such as how to use social media for peace.

While many attendees expressed great satisfaction with the event, calling it “invigorating” and “beyond fabulous,” some thought there was a concerted effort to steer clear of the more contentious topics.

Jessica Deutsch, a 23-year-old recent college graduate from New York, attended the conference hoping the conversation would delve a little deeper.

“Everyone acknowledges that with interfaith dialogue there are elephants [in the room] that need to be addressed,” she said. “I didn’t feel like these were really spoken of at all. The focus seemed to be more about learning about the other and through that creating a hopeful future, which is beautiful, but I thought we would confront the more uncomfortable topics as well.”

But as with their chapters, SOSS doesn’t encourage this sort of heated discussion on a larger scale until a strong bond has been formed. “Once you have built the trust and respect, then you can have those discussions, and they are very productive,” said Olitzky.

Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t interested in getting into political debates. I’m more than happy to leave that to the experts in D.C. And while I really enjoyed meeting the other participants and learning about their lives, that came more from a curiosity about human nature than a determined belief that by doing so we’ll solve any big issues. Will I attend the conference next year, go on the peace mission trip in 2015, or get involved in the chapters that are soon to open up in New York? I still haven’t decided. One thing I do firmly believe is that there should be a stronger representation of Orthodox Jewish women in these kinds of initiatives. I was given one of only four kosher meals at the retreat, and I think it’s safe to say I was the only ultra-Orthodox Jew in the room. There seemed to be more religious diversity among the Muslim participants.

As I left the hall with a friend, we bumped into a young woman wearing a long black abaya and hijab. Israa* looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. We got to talking and she told us she was a refugee from Iraq who was seeking asylum in the United States with the help of some of the women at the event. She had come to America to study, but now her life was in danger should she return home. Her crime? Sharing pictures of her time in the U.S. online.

Traveling back to New York, I found myself reflecting on that young woman’s perilous journey. We may not have solved the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but perhaps there other, more tangible progress was being made. The women I met—Olitsky and Aftab, and all the panelists and participants—are working in their own way to promote goodwill and positivity in a political climate that can often feel clouded and despairing. When I reflect back on the event, I don’t think first of what was discussed at the workshops, but rather the people I met and the warm, friendly, hopeful atmosphere that pervaded.

*Last name redacted.

Australian native Miriam Groner is a blogger and writer living in New York. Follow her on Twitter at @Mim_G.

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I was 17, I had overslept, and I was late for my boyfriend’s brother’s christening. The service was just beginning as I slipped into the church and quickly sank into an aisle seat toward the back.

I looked around—this was my first Catholic service, and I was curious as to what I would see. People stood up; I stood up. People sang hymns; I read along in the hymnal. People knelt; I stayed seated, hoping I wasn’t offending anyone.

Everyone stood up again and, row by row, filed into the aisle leading toward the front of the crowded church. I hadn’t quite heard—or understood—the priest, and for whatever reason, I failed to ask anyone around me what was going on. Uneducated as I was about Catholicism, I actually thought, “This must be the part in the service where everyone goes up to look at the baby.” When it was my row’s turn, I led the way into the aisle.

I was almost at the front when the truth revealed itself to me: everyone was presenting themselves to the priest to receive Communion.

The Holy Eucharist is one of seven Roman Catholic sacraments, or sacred ceremonies.  Catholics believe in the doctrine of “transubstantiation,” which states that when the priest blesses or consecrates the Communion, that bread and wine mystically and miraculously become the body and blood of Jesus Christ. I didn’t know that at the time, but I had seen enough movies to know that this was a very holy ritual. I had also learned in history class and Hebrew school that Catholic Communion was a symbolically weighty thing for Jews—many have died over the centuries for refusing to take it.

Now, no one was forcing me to take it, not even a little. But by the time all these thoughts  had swirled together in my mind, I was face-to-face with the priest’s kind smile, his hand extending a wafer to my inexplicably open palm. I glanced back at my boyfriend, his parents, and his six younger siblings, and my memory is that their shocked faces matched my blanched one. Still holding the wafer, I took a step away, thinking, “I can’t eat this.” But then, panicked, I realized I couldn’t keep it or throw it away either. I took a breath.  I put the wafer in my mouth. It was smooth, flavorless. It dissolved instantly.

When I told my parents the story later that day, my mother urged me not to worry about it. I had erred on the side of politeness, she said—a better course of action than making a scene (i.e. trying to return the wafer, saying “No, thank you” to the priest, etc).

But my father, who rarely lost his cool about anything, went berserk. The fact that it was an honest mistake didn’t change the shamefulness of it in his eyes. I was a Jew, and I had taken Catholic Communion. With that one action, I had violated the most fundamental principles of Judaism, and validated a set of beliefs that are absolutely outside the boundaries of Jewish thought. Just as upsetting to him—if not even a little more—was that I had insulted Catholic belief and practice around one of the religion’s most sacred rituals.

In the wake of that dramatic conversation, I felt the responsibility of being a Jewish adult in a new way. I now understood that I’d need to be more upfront about what I was and wasn’t willing to do in religious contexts. Being polite and respectful was still a high value for me, but not mutually exclusive with the fact that I might need to say no to some things, or make special arrangements at certain events to find a way to be part of someone else’s celebration without betraying my own faith.

*

That was 23 years ago, and since then I’ve attended Harvard Divinity School, became a professional religion writer, and developed a solid hold on how to be true to myself as a Jew when attending the religious observances of another faith. But it hasn’t always been easy to find ways to assert my comfort level in the context of another faith when I’m being directly asked to participate.

After all, most religious participation situations involve the joyful life events—specifically weddings and baptisms—of people I care deeply about, and who have honored me by asking me to be part of their celebrations as wedding attendants or godparents. Saying, “Wait, I can’t do ______ because Jews don’t, plus I want to be respectful to your faith,” can come off as disingenuous, or at least annoying, when a friend just has you down for ‘Bible reading’ at their church wedding.

My very first time as a bridesmaid, the presiding Lutheran pastor required that attendants bow before standing beside the bride and groom at the altar. This was many years ago, and the Communion mistake was fresh in my mind when I told my friend I wasn’t comfortable participating in that part of the service. My objection prompted a one-on-one meeting with the pastor, during which I offered to withdraw from the wedding party if necessary because I wasn’t going to be able to bow at the altar. Happily, the situation was resolved smoothly, and I was allowed to pause respectfully instead of bowing before taking my place beside the bride.

Positive outcome—and a friendship that’s now entering its third decade—notwithstanding, that dialogue was strained, and I still feel bad I brought stress, or at least one more thing to deal with, into the wedding planning. But I don’t feel bad for declining to take part in that ritual. I could have just done it and told myself it didn’t mean anything, but I had learned that religious behavior is inherently meaningful. For me, in the shadow of my Communion moment, the decision to take a religious action would either matter all of the time or it never would matter at all. I felt pulled toward the former.

A few years after that wedding, the same pastor baptized my friend’s son, with my husband and me as his godparents. We had reviewed the text of the ceremony beforehand (and consulted our rabbi), and felt like it was something we could feel comfortable and proud doing. Almost 13 years in, our relationship with our godson has become both broad and deep, and entirely devoid of interfaith discomfort. If anything, our different perspectives have enriched our conversations about things like family, friendship, and honesty.

Some other simchas I’ve participated in have required similar negotiations, but people celebrating joyous life events almost always have an open attitude toward, for example, assigning me the “Old Testament” reading at a Catholic wedding; or, as when my husband was the best man at an Episcopal wedding, inviting him to stay standing when the other members of the wedding party knelt to receive Communion.

*

Sometimes, though, there’s no time for advanced conversation about the religious content of a service. Sometimes you’re 17 years old, propelled forward by the Catholics queued up behind you. Sometimes you have to make a decision in real time. And sometimes you make the wrong choice.

But I’m actually grateful for the Communion incident, because it taught me to take religious rituals—both my own and others’—seriously.  It motivated me to learn to articulate my understanding of what Judaism asks of me, and to really listen to what others’ faiths ask of them. And most meaningfully of all, it put me on a path toward being truly able to celebrate life’s blessings—in good faith.

Holly Lebowitz Rossi is a freelance writer based in Arlington, Massachusetts.

(Image: Shutterstock)

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