נאך א פלאץ וואס מען טארנישט פרעגן קשיות

פון היינטיגען דשזערוזאלעם פאסט

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Mar. 31, 2004 20:54 | Updated Apr. 1, 2004 17:40
Coming home, my road to Judaism
By RIVKAH HYATT


In Tehilim, King David, the rebbe of all baal teshuvas, says: "Though my father and my mother abandon me, the Lord will gather me in and care for me."

If I take my memory back as far as I can take it, God is in that memory. This is strange because my family was not at all religious. My mother took us to mass on Sundays and holy days, but my father never darkened the door of a church. My parents' lives were spent in torment and filled with bitterness so that at a very early age, my brother and I had to parent our parents. Without dwelling on the details, it is enough to say that the home of my youth was a place of fear, rage and, at times, even violence.

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Yet my oldest memories are of Hashem – of God – and His goodness.

I attended Catholic schools on pure charity, and it was during my high school years that I decided to enter the "religious" life. In the Catholic Church of the 1950s, '60s, and '70s, marriage was not an option for anyone desiring to live a life of devotion. Because of the physical responsibilities of marriage, the Church had always regarded it as a less than holy state.

I entered a cloistered Franciscan order of nuns. While we were cloistered, we did not take a vow of enclosure such as the Poor Clares or the Carmelites. The vow of enclosure is taken to the physical location of the Motherhouse, never leaving its confines. Those who take this vow remain contemplatives for the balance of their lives. Also the vow of enclosure forbids any contact with the outside world. For example, when parents would come to visit on the one Sunday a month when visiting was allowed, the nun could have no physical contact with them. The visits would be conducted through a grille with no touching.

While I was initially attracted to the totally contemplative life, I could not put my family through such complete rejection as the vow of enclosure demands, so I selected a cloistered but not enclosed life. My order, while cloistered, did teaching and nursing within our order but never outside the order.

The initial period in the process of becoming a nun is called "the postulant." This is a period of six months to a year when one participates in the life of the community without having a "legal" responsibility to the community. The postulant participates in praying the canonical hours. These "hours" begin at midnight when we were awakened by two wooden blocks hit together by a superior and the cry of a blessing invoking the name of the Christian savior and his mother. No one ever gets used to this midnight call to prayer, but it is done as an imitation of King David: "I rose at midnight to give praise to thee!"

Nuns live in cells, where we have the few worldly goods we are allowed. We could have nothing of gold, we could have nothing to remind us of our life before the convent. During non-penitential seasons, we are allowed to write one letter a week and are given one piece of paper for this purpose. (That's why nuns always have a small, neat, lacy style of handwriting.)

The completed letter is handed to the superior, sans envelope, for her to read and approve. This process is also followed for all mail to be received by those in the novitiate. The superior would read all incoming mail, and only approved letters would be distributed. This practice is done to teach of poverty of spirit and the banishment of pride.

A WEEKLY meeting of the entire community for the open confession of faults is called "the chapter." While each member of the community experiences the sacrament of confession daily, the chapter is a fearsome time for public confession. If a sister fails to confess her fault, another sister who knows of that fault is under obligation in charity to bring her failure before the community, where penance is given by the superior. Usually the penance is to take one's meals on one's knees. Instead of sitting on the chair, the meal is placed on the chair, and the penitential sister would kneel by her chair to eat the meal in full view of the community.

After the period of postulancy, comes the investiture. The candidate is invested with the holy habit, given a new name (I was Sister Mary de Padua, C.S.S.F.), and the beginning of the canonical year.

This year, the novice actually lives the vow of enclosure, even though the vow was not actually taken. In my order, this year was 366 days long, during which absolutely no contact with the world is permitted. Should a parent die during this year (God forbid), a professed nun would go to the family and funeral, but the novice never leaves the community. Until my novitiate, a girl was not even told of the parent's death until the year was completed. The father of a girl in my class died during the canonical year, and she was told of the death but was not allowed any contact with her family. Again, a professed nun attended to the family and the funeral.

It was during this canonical year that I began to read the Bible and ask questions of my confessor. These questions centered around the seventh day Sabbath of rest, Passover, and the She'ma.
The priest could not stop my questions and became very vexed with me, saying things such as "Do you think you know more than holy mother Church?" and "How dare you question holy authority?"

In the end, he said that reading the Bible was confusing me, so he forbade me to read the Old Testament.

I did as he said, for by now if I had learned anything, I had learned obedience. However, just because I did not read did not mean that I did not ponder.

After the canonical year comes the day of vows – temporary vows binding for a period of one year, to be renewed each year for five years. Veils are changed from the white veil of the novice to the black veil of the professed sister.

After the fifth taking of temporary vows comes the elaborate and fearful ceremony of solemn vows.
Part of this ceremony of solemn vows involves the professed sister's making and wearing her own crown of thorns, which she will wear only once more – at her burial. She lies prostrate before the high altar and is covered with a funeral pall as the great bells toll her death. Then the bishop removes the pall and lifts her to her new life and places a silver (Franciscans cannot have gold) wedding band on her finger. She is now and forever a bride of Christ.

She is complete. But for me, not so because the words of Torah were still burning in my heart. I had to find this God of Israel and cleave to Him. Whatever I had to do beyond this, I had to do it!

THE CALL of the Torah was too great to ignore. A family tragedy caused me to take a year's leave of absence from the order – to go home and try to help my family. After the year passed, I did not return to the convent. I don't really know why. I just couldn't do it any longer.

After a while, I met a Catholic man who was also unhappy with the Church, and we agreed to marry and study the Bible to see if it was possible to live exactly as the Bible teaches: resting on the seventh day, eating only the foods permitted, keeping the holy days as described the Leviticus 23. We did all this, but I still needed more. I needed a community.

We went to the synagogue and requested to take classes towards conversion. After two years of classes, we met with the rabbinical court and were accepted for conversion. After the rabbinical court, we went to the mikva – my husband first, then me. When I came up out of the waters of the mikva, I had this overwhelming sense of coming home.

I had come home to Hashem and to the Jewish people. I selected the Hebrew name Rivka because the Torah says that Isaac loved Rebecca. Like Rivka, I too know true love. Our congregation gave us a beautiful Jewish wedding under the chuppa. We are filled with joy that we are Jews and have come home.

My husband has given me more love than 10 sets of parents, and made my life complete. We have six children, and he gives me everything that is within his power to give.

Each time we are in Israel, especially in Jerusalem, we again have that overwhelming sense that God in His great goodness has brought us to this holy place and He brought us here as Jews.

The writer is a member of the Norfolk, Virginia, Jewish community.