How Easy Is It to Say I’m A Christian?

I met my childhood best friend, Mollie, one sunny afternoon while lounging in my driveway on my new Minnie Mouse beach blanket. She walked up with her mom and brothers and invited me to the park. Her family had just moved in down the street, and when I saw what she was wearing—a Minnie Mouse t-shirt with a big red bow—I didn’t have to think twice. I ran inside to tell my mom, and followed her happily to the park. From then on, I would follow her everywhere. For the next twenty years, we were nearly inseparable.

Mollie and I played Barbies, built forts in the woods, and choreographed dances in our front yards. We watched soap operas with her mom and figure skating with her grandma. She joined my family at my aunt and uncle's cabin every summer. She slept at my house as often as I slept at hers, and more than either of us slept at home. We watched Dirty Dancing and Beaches a million times in between rollerblading, biking, and challenging the neighborhood boys to jump off the highest plank at the park. We were best friends, partners in crime, schemers, and dreamers. We spent winters sipping hot cocoa, sledding, and making snow forts. But summers were our favorite, because we got to be together all day, every day.

During the school year, we were forced to endure our days apart. Mollie went to the public school a few blocks away, and I attended a private Catholic school. I hardly thought anything of it, besides the heartbreak of knowing other kids were playing with her at her recess without me, until shortly after we met. Mollie told me her Hebrew name—Malka, and I thought it sounded beautiful. I didn’t know what Hebrew meant, but I was so impressed that she had this special moniker, and I wanted one, too. I wanted to be just like her. So, I asked, “What’s my Hebrew name?” hoping for something as unique. She tipped her head and looked at me like she was trying to figure out if I was joking or not. When she realized I was serious, she broke the news that Krissy doesn’t have a Hebrew counterpart because it’s a Christian name, not a Jewish one. I was crushed. Seeing that, she quickly said, “Don’t worry. We’ll just pick something. Whatever you want.” I can’t remember what I picked; it didn’t matter because it wasn’t real.

But I was also confused, because what did it mean to be Jewish? I had never heard of that before.

I was young, but I knew what it meant to be Catholic. I thought everyone was Catholic. Weren’t they? At least everyone in my school was. I suddenly had a lot of questions. And Mollie knew the answers. From then on, as we grew, I learned about synagogues, Hannukah, and Passover. I absorbed everything I could about her religion. Her family pulled me into everything they did. When my parents started going through a strained divorce, Mollie and her family were my buffer, my escape. My family also stopped attending church at this time, and when my parents announced that we were leaving our small private school to save money, I was ecstatic to join Mollie at the public school. We were finally together all day. On Wednesday nights, I would even climb the bus to Talmud Torah with her, mainly because I didn’t have anything else to do. But I thought it was so neat that she had this extra class, this whole other world. And as my family fell apart, I blended in with Mollie’s. I felt included in something powerful and safe.

Now this is the part of the story where you probably are starting to worry that I lost my religion, was indoctrinated into Judaism, and converted away from my faith. You might start to make a case that this is the prime example of why we have to have prayer in schools, more banning of books, more Christian-based education, or children will be lured by other religions, beliefs, and ideals. That learning about other people’s lives, and truths, and sitting in their places of worship, takes away from yours. That simply knowing what else is out there is a gateway drug to wanting it, to believing it. To changing minds forever.

But if that’s what you’re thinking, you’re very wrong. Because in this story, the opposite is true. I loved Mollie like a sister. Sometimes like a part of my own body. Probably more than myself. And her dedication to her religion, her work at Talmud Torah, and hearing her pray in Hebrew mesmerized me. It only made me want to do the same in my own life. I loved her faith for her, and yet I never wanted it for me. I had my own, and it was just as holy. While I enjoyed learning about Judaism, it only strengthened my commitment to Christianity. We supported each other immensely, asked questions throughout middle school and high school about each other’s faiths. I went to synagogue with her family. We walked to her grandma’s house after school for Matzah and lemonade, and listened to stories about her grandpa’s time in a concentration camp as a boy, how he rescued his sister, and somehow fled to safety. Mollie helped my family decorate our Christmas tree every year, and when my mom and I started going back to church, Mollie would join us. In high school, one year, I gave up TV for Lent, and Mollie would race into every room ahead of me to make sure any shows were off, and everyone knew not to turn the TV on.  

We loved each other deeply. And because we loved each other so much, we were not threatened by our differing beliefs. They made us closer. They made our friendship stronger. They made our faiths deeper, more devoted. Special.

It is because my best friend was Jewish that I fell in love with Catholicism. And why I love learning about different religions today. Not once have I felt a pull to leave my own. Nor did either of us try to change the other. We held just as tightly to ourselves as we did to our friendship. And I am so grateful for the rivers of knowledge and understanding it has worn into my soul.

I pray everyone gets to have a best friend who teaches them something different. Something new. We cannot be whole in our own beliefs until we have explored all the others.

Removing their existence from our minds, our awareness, makes our love of God weaker, because how easy is it to say “I’m a Christian” when there is no other choice?