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Two Sons (One Circumcised and One Not), a Scottish Presbyterian Husband, and Me (the Jewish Mother)

March, 2000

I hoped that I wouldn't have a boy. A girl would be so much easier — no brit.

"But why circumcision?" asked my quiet, red-headed, polite, of-Scottish-descent — in other words, not-Jewish — husband. As well he should, since we hadn't circumcised our first son when he was born.

Me: "But I wasn't involved in the Jewish community then. I'm in it now, we're raising our kids to be Jewish, they attend Jewish schools, we celebrate the Jewish holidays."

Him: "It's unnecessary, cruel and barbaric. Judaism's supposed to be so ethical, moral and civilized. Who's going to check, anyway?"

Me: "It's a way of welcoming a new male person into the tribe. It's a communal thing. Jews have done it for thousands of years. They're not any more violent or traumatized than anybody else."

Him: "This tribal stuff, that's the whole problem. It's the cause of so much violence, religious persecution, war, torture, suffering, inquisitions. My tribe's better than your tribe, so I'm going to kill you."



"We wanted him to look like his dad, of course," one friend said.

"It has to do with cleanliness," said another.

"My parents insisted," another friend explained.



Would I still be a good Jew if I didn't circumcise my son? The circumcision of the infant is the father's obligation. If there is no father or the father is unwilling, it is the obligation of the beit din (rabbinical court). And what if there is no beit din, but only a very tense, hysterical mother? I comforted myself with the idea that if I can't do this one mitzvah, there are 612 others.


There was something about Jewish ritual that commanded that you actually do it, not sanitize it or spiritualize it. Certainly one can think about commandments and study and pray and question, but the thing itself has to be done, whether it's tzedakah (giving charity), lighting Shabbat candles or brit milah. In fact, brit milah really symbolized a quality that I craved in my spiritual searches — the bridging of the bitter and the sweet, heaven and earth, being and doing. It's the charoset (Passover dish of apples and honey) and the horseradish, the sweetness of birth and the pain of the brit milah.

What I began to realize was how Jewish my life had become. Even married to a Presbyterian, I felt I was living as rich and full a Jewish life as I could. I was managing this incredible balancing act. Part of what helped was belonging to a wonderful, Modern Orthodox shul (synagogue). What also helped was that we did not live near my husband's family (they were involved only peripherally in our lives, and they knew nothing of our dilemma).

"Everyone's circumcised now, it's not a symbol of being Jewish anymore," my husband added in amazement and perplexity as it seemed that I would not compromise on this one.

"We're living Jewish lives, this will make it easier for him as he grows up. I want this for him," I answered.

As it turned out, the decision seemed to be made, somewhat mysteriously, through God's grace, or our love for one another, or through sheer exhaustion. My husband acquiesced, not totally understanding, not knowing why, but I would have to attribute his decision to the strength of his love for me and our children and this sometimes strange entity that is our family.

So we have two sons, one circumcised, one not, a father who is not Jewish but is circumcised, and we are a Jewish family. Sometimes I relish this experiment that is our Jewish family, sometimes I wish it could be easier.

Laura Abby Lipman


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