And Jesus Was His Name-O

When my daughter, Serena, was in the neighborhood Christian preschool, I smiled through the adorable recitals for this and that holiday, but I was gritting my teeth behind my lips. Oh, the kids looked cute brandishing their paper-plate tambourines or dressed as American flags or ears of corn. They were all charming with their hand movements, a sort of sign language for the dumb, rather than the deaf. But the songs!

I hate musicals*. Never mind that they are the peasant’s opera (I don’t like opera, either, though I think it’s better when you can't understand the words). What I hate most about them is what made me grit my teeth through those religious preschool songs. On stage are raggedy souls, victims of plague or racism or incest or gun violence or poverty. And they are singing! But not only are they singing; they are boisterous! Instead of a last cigarette, they get a last number, and they enjoy the hell out of it.

On the makeshift preschool stage for those three years of her life, my daughter sang cheerful songs of Christian tragedy, most of them having to do with the crucifixion. To the tune of "Bingo": "There was a man from Galilee / and Jesus was his name-o / J-e-s-u-s...." To the tune of "Deck the Halls": "Jesus hanging on the cross / fa la la la la / la la la la." OK, I exaggerate with that one, but only a little.

Maybe my problem is really with Jesus. See, "Jesus is just all right with me." He's just all right. And I knew that after those preschool productions, I would hear, to the tune of "Mary had a little lamb," "Jesus was a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb" for weeks to come. And on our way to Passover seder, Serena would sit in the back and rock herself to other goofy Jesus songs, and I would feel guilty for not teaching her any of the goofy Jewish songs. And then I'd feel guiltier because I don't know any of the goofy Jewish songs except the one about the dreidel, and it's just so dang goofy.

The week before spring break, after having been bombarded with Easter lessons, Serena sang, "Jesus loves me / yes I know" in the car on the way home from school. Every day. I began thinking about Purim services.

Then, on Wednesday, she says, "Mommy?" (When she calls me Mommy, I know she is trying to be lovable for some reason.) "Mommy?" she says, "Do you know who I miss?"

"No, sweetie," says the innocent Mommy. "Who do you miss?"

"I miss J-e-s-u-s," she says.

"That's it!" I yell. "We're going to Purim!"

And so we do. My daughter has been alive for seven years, and though she has been in the church a dozen times a year because it’s attached to her school, she has never seen a synagogue. She doesn't want to go, of course, because who does? I never did. But then, I never threatened my mother with a relationship with Jesus!

So the next night, I drive us to a strange shul out in West Bumfuck--an hour-long drive around dark, winding roads--all the while fretting behind the wheel that we are lost.

Little Miss Grumpus, who refuses to smile or say a word, is immediately interested when she sees all the kids dressed for Purim--lots of tiny Queen Esthers (and some Cinderellas pushing the envelope), lots of King Ahasueruses with faux facial hair, a couple of Hamans (booooo! hiss!). “Next year, can I dress up?” she asks. We are off to a good start.

The ceremony is short and sweet and mostly in Hebrew, but Serena finds the love of her life—a Harry Potter look-alike—in the next section and pays little attention. (Later she will say the service was “a lot of standing up and sitting down.”)

Once everything in the room, the world, and the universe—including fruit, wine, bosses, and armadillos—is blessed, we each grab a gragger (noisemaker) for the story of Purim. Traditionally, every time Haman's name is mentioned, the congregation spins the gragers and heckles him. It is festive and fun. And loud.

The service ends, but instead of the assembled dispersing for a sweet treat of Hamantashen, we are treated to—what else?—a musical. Dozens of costumed teens and adults take the stage and begin their own rendition of "All That Spiel" (sung to the tune of "All That Jazz," of course). Every song—every song!—from the musical had been rewritten to fit the story of Purim. I squirm for a full fifteen minutes, and then I take Serena by the arm and lead her out of the room. Across the hall, I spy a huge platter of Hamantashen. I look carefully to make sure no one sees me, and I run in like a bandit and snag a cherry one. My daughter has blessed. She has stood. She has sat. She has earned her right to do what Jews do best: eat**.

I realize then, much to my relief—for I am a good person, really—that it isn't Jesus at all that gives me fits! And it's probably not even organized religion, because we have some beautiful traditions, like this booing and hissing thing at Purim and the presents for eight nights at Chanukah and the apologies at Yom Kippur to those you've wronged. (And who could forget the really good food?!)

No, it's not Jesus***. It really is the musical!

To me, Easter usually means Passover is around the corner, but this year, it’s a full month away, which means I have 30 days until I will squirm in my seat while my own family sings, to the tune of that awful song from Sound of Music:

Matzoh and karpas and chopped up haroset
Shankbones and kiddish and yiddish neuroses
Tante who kvetches and uncle who sings
These are a few of our Passover things.

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*The only musical I have ever liked (besides "West Side Story," which you just can't not like, especially when your husband is standing next to you performing "Officer Krupky" to prove its lyrical genius) is Muppet Treasure Island, which, in every segment, parodies the folks who stop amid tragedy to belt out a few notes. "Danger walks the deck / We say what the heck / We laugh at the perils we're facing / Every storm we ride is its own reward / And people die by falling overboard / And people die by falling overboard."

**We do humor really well, too.

***OK, the Jesus thing bothers me some.