The Brightest Star

A preview of the February issue of WJD and my first full-length, nationally published article. Perhaps you remember reading it here first? As always, this version is slightly different and slightly longer than the one that appeared in print. In any case, it appears my blog verbosity is coming in handy... though I fully expect to be enrolled in Hebrew school and forced to go to synagogue for my honesty.


Armed with a map that listed every twisty, cobblestoned, sidewalk-less, barely car-width street in Sevilla, Spain, I made my way to the procession—my conspicuously red-haired mother in tow.

As we cross-referenced our guide to the holiday parades, we chatted, quietly, in English: we were the only Americans for miles. All around us families were setting up chairs on their balconies, kids were being pushed in strollers and nearly everyone was dressed in their Easter best. The procession, or paso, as it’s called in Spanish, was preceded by the whine of horns and the smell of incense. Line after line of robe-wearing, pointy-hooded nazarenos, or penitents, some carrying crosses, others candles, stepped in tune to the music. A few of them were barefoot for what would be a 10-hour route through town.

I was three months into my semester-long stay in Sevilla. Passover was about half over and I had spent the day following floats of Jesus and the Virgin Mary around town in honor of Domingo de la Resurrección, otherwise known as Easter Sunday. It wasn’t my first choice activity, exactly, but I had pretty much given up on finding a Passover celebration in this city. After all, when I had inquired at the program activity office about local synagogues, I was told there was exactly one, with approximately five members. I had raised my eyebrows and sputtered a reply in Spanish; this wasn’t even a minyan, after all—not even close to the hundreds of students who attended my UC Santa Barbara Hillel every week, if not only for the free Shabbat dinner. But I had tried, dutifully calling the phone number (it was disconnected) and venturing past the unlabeled building (on a shady street in a questionable part of town). Ultimately, it looked like I’d have to wait till I got back to Santa Barbara for my minyan.

In the meantime, I wore my Star of David necklace.

Of course, I shouldn’t really have been surprised that there are only five synagogue-attending Jews in Sevilla. From the tiny grey churches on every other street and the large, decorated picture of Jesus on the wall over my señora’s bed, I should have gotten it: this is a Catholic country. But I’m American, after all, and in the U.S., Catholicism is just a word like any other.

Not here.

At the parade that day, during Semana Santa, or Saint’s Week, hordes of Sevillians and Spaniards from other cities turned up to view the processions—everyone dressed in suits, skirts or dresses. Some bought seats along the parade route for 200 to 500€ each. Children ran around in the nazareno costumes—robes with pointy hoods like the people in the processions—asking for candy and pictures of their particular church’s rendition of the Virgin Mary float. My mom and I watched it all—even the float depicted Jesus wearing a gold crown with bloody hands and ascending up to heaven—and I quietly fingered my necklace.

I had chosen Sevilla because it had appeal: a large student population, a moderate size and a rich cultural and religious history. I had heard tales from my friend about dating a nice Jewish Spaniard—whose parents proposed to her at Passover dinner on behalf of their son because she was the only Jew he had dated—and was sold. After all, maybe Sevilla wasn’t as devoutly Catholic as everyone said.

But I was wrong. Sevilla is most definitely Catholic. Except … maybe not devoutly so. Because that was the interesting part: despite their traditions, it’s hard to tell how religious Spaniards actually are. The señora with whom I was boarding, for instance, never went to church, but she did pray each night before bed. Gay marriage is legal in Spain and CBS reported while I was there the country had shifted from being devoutly Roman Catholic to predominately secular in less than a generation. In fact, they also reported that while 80 percent of Spaniards call themselves Catholic, only 42 percent believe in God and only 20 percent go to mass.

And yet: printed on all the jars of green beans in the supermarket is the phrase “Judias verdes.” Literally: green Jews. (Supposedly the word comes from the shape of the Jewish nose being similar to that of the green been.) If not devoid, Spaniard have religious unity, which is something I don’t know too well. How would I when the only country-unifying holidays in the U.S. are Thanksgiving and July 4th? There are no Purim celebrations in the streets, no nativity plays for the whole community. No common hair color, face shape, type of cuisine. In Spain, everyone has the same thick, dark-haired look. Not I. And my language—well, I spoke perfect classroom Spanish. People around me ate the ends of their words, lisped the “s” and “z” sounds and said “Eh?” whenever I spoke. Perhaps most significantly, while everyone else gave a slight smile, a flick of their eye or a mindless reach for the tiny cross around their neck while walking past the many neighborhood churches, I just kept walking, hands at my sides, eyes looking ahead. There was no connection.

Now, back in the U.S., I feel so at home in part because I’m able to blend in. I speak the common language, throw in the requisite slang. My thinnish light brown hair fits right into the varying skin tones, hair colors, heights and weights. Even my Star of David necklace, with light and dark blue heart-shaped stones, goes unnoticed amid all of the tiny gold crosses, large silver crucifixes, heads covered with scarves or turbans.

But it’s more than that. In Spain, religion is intricately interwoven with the Spanish way of life: there is no separation. Here, perhaps because we’re allowed the luxury of deciding how and to what extent we want to celebrate our religion, the opposite is true. We can separate it as much or as little as we want. We may not call it from the rooftops as they do in Sevilla—there are no nazarenos bringing crosses to my door—but we are religious just the same. In fact, many take it as a matter of course that the U.S. is more religious than Europe.

As I watched the passing float of Jesus ascending to heaven that day at the parade, it was through the eye of a journalist: calm, distant, not flinching once. There was so much pomp, ritual, symbolism, so much outward display of religion. And this, I realized when I returned to the States, is not what I need. I am Jewish. I know what I believe. And it is enough.

Some would call me an assimilated Jew. After all, I wear jeans and use my cell phone on Saturdays. But that’s my way of being religious—I choose to keep most of my religion in my head.

Or, in this case, around my neck.