the Other in Me: how we welcome folks home

by Rachel Dawn Kaplan,
the light lab wisdom weaver + podcast producer

A blessing has come into my life in the form of a curious friend. I’ve always appreciated my dear friends who are Jewishly-adjacent – who were not raised Jewish but, seemingly through osmosis, have absorbed the Friday night prayers, the bits of Yiddish sprinkled into conversation, for whom “Good Shabbos” rolls off the tongue as if they emerged from the womb saying it. 

I haven’t always been intimately involved with this process of osmosis, or had the privilege witnessing the transformation happen from early-adopting ally to chaver in its entirety. So when my new dear friend asked me if it would be weird if he enrolled in a local Judaism 101 course, I told him of course not.

He didn’t believe me. His insecurities about being “othered” bubbled to the surface. “Really?” he asked incredulously. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be seen as an interloper.”

I told him I’ve never met a Jew who would think this of him. I possess beloved friends and family who identify with each sect of Judaism that carries a name, as well as secular Jews who pride themselves on discovering the best schmear on the Upper East Side. In this catalog of souls, I have acquired those who identify as ba’al teshuvah, and those who attended yeshivas throughout their childhoods, never to step into a synagogue as an adult. I couldn’t imagine any of these dear ones giving out anything but positive vibes for someone who wanted to explore Judaism, not intentionally anyway.

And yet, often times, as a Jewish professional working in a synagogue office, I’d receive a phone call or an email like this: “I’m not Jewish. Is it okay if I come to services?” To which my reply was always an overly enthusiastic, “Of course! We’d love to have you. Please join us!” Followed by some information to help them feel more at home in the experience once they arrive. 

But this hesitancy is not manufactured from thin air. It comes from some place, perhaps deeply embedded inside of us.

I have been “othered” within Jewish communities, and otherwise. It never feels good. We all want to belong - it’s a basic human desire. Sometimes the othering comes from an external force - not being invited to participate in an experience or to be a member of a special club I feel drawn to. Sometimes it’s in my head - assuming someone is judging me based on the way I dress or the manner in which I pray. 

I asked one of my close allies to the Jewish people if they had ever felt “othered”. She said, in general, she has felt very welcome in Jewish spaces, but it didn’t take long for her to recall the time she worked for a summer at a Jewish sleepaway camp (that she literally helped build) and was told she could not be in a programmatic role there because she was not Jewish. Instead, this gem of a resource, with multiple degrees in the very tenets the camp was based on, was assigned to babysit the camp director‘s one year old. She also mentioned that when people discover that she’s not Jewish in Jewish spaces, there is often this almost startled reaction that elicits a feeling of otherness in her. “Oh! You’re not Jewish?!”

She joked about being a Shabbos goy, but these conversations nudging her to flip on a light switch were generally made in jest. If they hadn’t been, I imagine how that could be an othering experience, as well, although I had never thought of it in that way before. 

I told her how much I value her presence in the Jewish spaces I call home, and how they feel more like home because she is there. She mirrored the sentiment. 

This got me thinking about all the musicians I know in the Jewish world who bring so much ruach into Jewish spaces, who aren’t Jewish or weren’t raised Jewish. And the non-Jewish spouses of congregants who helped build the synagogue’s religious school, or raise money for a new Torah. It’s not something I’ve ever seen any of them speak about from the bima, and I wonder how the congregation would react if they did. 

I collect rabbi friends like my son collects Pokémon cards (he’s a Pokémon trainer, which I’m told, by him, is pretty good for a six year old). Some of these rabbis attended the most prestigious of rabbinical schools. Some received smicha passed down from a generation of rabbis gone by. I’ve worked alongside some of them, and studied with others. All have made me feel proud of my heritage, passed down to me through so many generations of Eastern Europeans. 

But I don’t think I’ve ever quite appreciated my Judaism as much as when I see it reflected in the eyes of an admirer of my faith. I once had a Colombian Catholic boyfriend, who’s mother possessed a hanukkiah, which she proudly displayed on a cabinet above her dining room table, as she sported her well-worn “Yeshiva of the Bronx” t-shirt. She wanted me to teach her Hebrew every chance I could. We discussed that it’s possible, somewhere down the line, her ancestors were conversos, and this might be why she was so drawn to the faith. When her older son was sent to the ER after a car accident, she called me from the hospital to ask if I’d say Mi Sheberach, the Jewish prayer of healing for him. I was grateful in this moment that I had a framework to pray from, that I could help her family in this difficult time, in this small way. 

My daughter started online Hebrew school last week. The lesson focused on the letter “Tav”. I did not have high hopes for how engaged she would be; after surviving an entire year of zoom kindergarten, what more could I ask of the child? So when she begged me to let her do her Hebrew homework immediately following the lesson (which wasn’t due for another week), I said, “uh, sure!!”

“That was the best class I’ve ever taken, ever. I love it so much. If I’m sleeping when he gets home, please tell Daddy how much I love Hebrew school!”

Tears welled up in my eyes. Seriously? Was this my kid? I was the kid who questioned all my religious school teachers to the point of exasperation. “Why aren’t you teaching me about Buddhism?!” I would insist. 

“Because this is Hebrew school.” 

Touché, Mr. Skop, touché.

My curious friend is flirting with the idea of converting to Judaism. He accompanied me and my family to a Shabbat service last week. He asked me to bring him a nice kippah and a clip, as he would not be content with a flimsy kippah provided at the door of the sanctuary. I obliged with a knit number that he donned proudly. He spent the first half of the service in the back, observing the space, and the second half next to me in the front row. Upon our debrief, he revealed his observations to me, watching the kids giggling, running around the pews, hearing the harmonies fill the room, seeing the love emanating from this community, and feeling wrapped up in thousands of years of it. This is the reflection of love I’m so grateful for, which allows me to breathe deeper into my own personal practice of what it means to be Jewish. 

When next a new face appears in a Jewish space we call home, I hope we can listen to the meditations of our hearts before opening our lips to speak, and ask ourselves how we can be most welcoming to one another. 

I couldn’t imagine my Jewish life without my non-Jewish friends breathing new life into it. May we all be blessed to see the beauty in each other’s traditions, reflect that beauty back to one another, and welcome each other as siblings into our sacred spaces.

How have you been made to feel at home in a new community effectively? Comment on our facebook page and let us know!