Thursday, November 24, 2005

Or, why you should pick one and stick with it

My religious life has always consisted of surfing superficially along, diving into many different pools of experiences. My turmoil can be explained simply by two words - my parents. It was a mixed marriage between a Jew and a Christian/Quaker, and no surprise then that the by-products of such a recipe can be considered a tad confused.

As a teenager I was bolted up in a Church boarding school singing psalms and carols, occasionally to be dragged out for Jewish high holy days at the liberal synagogue in St John's Wood. This was definitely enough to send a sensitive teenager into existential confusion. In fact at the height of my teenage identity crisis I sought out the school chaplain. On locating him one Sunday afternoon bent double in his pulpit, duster in hand, I confessed from the first pew my uncertainty as to which religion to follow. His advice - probably the worst ever offered - was simply to follow the religion of the parent with the most faith.

Oy vey.

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