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By
Envogue Photography & Video Limited |
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Relationship changes: Hasidic Jew Shaya
Rochester, left, with his father, Marty, at a family
wedding, was raised �Jewish lite.� |
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By John
Zich, USA TODAY contract photographer |
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| Visible
difference: Reem Rahman, left, talks with her
mother, Ruby Rahman, on the Riverwalk in downtown
Naperville, Ill. Both are Muslims, but Reem wears a hijab,
or head scarf, and her mother does not. |
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Pamela Moss worships every Sunday at Messiah Baptist Church in Grand
Rapids, Mich., where they preach the Bible straight up, sing the old
hymns "and then let me get on with my day."
But her son, George, 24, is a fervent
Evangelical, witnessing to strangers and praying "in a church that looks
like a gym. To me, he's just out the gate," his mystified mom says.
Stephen Rochester, 32, grew up "Jewish lite" in
St. Louis, says his father, Marty. "So I was stunned when Stephen went
religious with a capital R," switching to his Hebrew name, Shaya, and
adopting the black hat of Hasidic Jews.
Mari Beth Nolan, 22, grew up a "Christmas and
Easter" Catholic. Now she plans to go to work at a missionary clinic in
Ecuador, leaving her parents proud — but confused.
Small wonder parents are befuddled. Though
Gallup polls dating to the '50s say young adults are less likely to attend
services or say religion is very important in their lives, clergy of all
stripes say they are seeing a small wave of young adults who are more
pious than their parents. And they're getting an earful from boomer moms
and dads who range from shocked to delighted.
Statistically, these devout young people are
"floating below the radar," says Rabbi Zalman Shmotkin of Chabad.org,
which encourages Jews to deepen religious practice.
Such stories are ancient: Abraham smashing his
father's idols; young Jesus teaching his elders; Buddha leaving his
father's home.
"Freaked-out parents are nothing new here," says
the Rev. Jeremy Johnston, executive pastor of First Family Church, a
Baptist megachurch in Overland Park, Kan..
"The parents are intimidated by their child's
depth of feeling. They threaten college students to 'cut off tuition
support if you're going to be such a fanatic.' They think the normal way
to be a young adult is the way they were. But it's not.
"We tell young people when they are all wound up
in new faith that the best thing you can do is show your parents the
changes God is working in you. Parents can decide for themselves whether
they want to follow."
Brooke Havarty, 21, says her parents struggled
when she transferred from Arizona State to Liberty University in Virginia,
founded by the late Rev. Jerry Falwell.
"I had a great childhood in a great family," she
says. "We went to church on Sundays, but it was just what you did. I was
never shown the value of the Bible, the role God had in my life. I saw the
consistency and joy in the lives of faithful Christians, and I wanted that
in my life."
Havarty, whose parents are divorced, adds that
her dad "is an amazing father, but he doesn't want to give every area of
his life to Christ the way I do. It's hard for him to understand why I'm
so black and white about things."
Her father, Mike Havarty of Overland Park, says
Brooke is "an incredible young lady, academically and in her faith." He
says his daughter has "earned the right" to study where she pleased.
Parents will go along when they "realize their
kids are becoming more spiritually attuned, not rejecting their parents or
their past but growing from within, finding new and deeper ways to
interact with God," Shmotkin says.
Catholic writer Scott Hahn, who teaches at
Franciscan University in Steubenville, Ohio, says parents may be reluctant
if "kids are casting their parents' lives into question. I hope when kids
come home, naturally zealous but not always tempered by reality or
maturity, they will appreciate their parents more."
'A little obnoxious'
Nolan says she felt a deep connection to
Catholicism as a teen when her family had just moved cross-country for the
second time. She insisted her parents, nominal Catholics, send her for
religious studies and drive her to Mass.
"At first I was a little obnoxious. There were a
few conversations like, 'You need to calm down,' " she recalls. And when
she chose Franciscan, known for its traditionalist fervor, "I know my dad
was leery."
Her father, Tom Nolan, 53, of Atlanta, says the
demands of a divorce, a move and travel in his sales job have left him
"disconnected from church." Yet he supported her, as he does now that
she's going to do social work in the Andes instead of going straight to
graduate school.
Mari Beth says her parents "have a knowledge of
God, but they don't always like to follow the ways of the church. I
absolutely wish they were more into it. It brings me so much joy, love and
peace. It's hard not to be able to share that with the most important
people in my life."
George Moss also feels that divide. He finds it
"harder to sit down with your own mother and talk about Christ than it is
to share the Gospel in the streets of Jamaica."
"My mom was always very churched," Moss says.
"But it was a habit without heart behind it. I wanted real faith, not just
church. I wanted my faith to play out in everything I do, all the time —
raising my son, rapping Christian music, DJ at a Christian radio station."
But his faith, like his non-denominational
church, is too "free-spirit" for his mother. "I dress up and give the Lord
his respect," says Pamela Moss, 53. "But I even saw someone barefoot
there. And the pastor was out walking around in a shirt and pants, not on
the pulpit in a robe.
"I was brought up in the Word, and I will never
depart. But George does take it to another level. He's out there rapping,
and I can't catch the words. He's going on mission trips. He's always out
there witnessing. Now, I don't have a problem with witnessing, but I'm
sorry, I have a job, and when I get home, I'm tired. On Sunday, I go, hear
the Word and leave."
The religiosity gap runs across faiths. Marty
and Ruth Rochester rode an emotional roller coaster after Shaya, a
philosophy major at Yale, deferred law school for intense Jewish studies
at a yeshiva.
Ruth says that when Shaya called to tell her
he'd bought his first Hasidic black hat, "I burst into tears."
"To me, it means he had gone off the deep end,
setting himself apart from the family and Judaism as I knew it. But he's
my son, I love him dearly, so I decided this is just something else to get
through."
Shaya, now a lawyer at a Manhattan firm,
believes "my father was more opposed than my mother. He was concerned I
would drop law school and be this crazy religious guy who would waste my
education and never be able to support myself."
Yet, his father says other things, small things,
have been harder. He misses their father-son heart-to-heart evenings,
talking over beer and burgers at a favorite hangout, O'Connell's. The end
of evenings at the unkosher pub "symbolized a break in the normal rhythm
of our family life. It upset me."
The swoops and dips have leveled out now with
Shaya's more mature faith, his marriage and the arrival of grandchildren.
Although Marty sees Shaya "gently noodge us to become more observant, it's
never been in-your-face, never been pushy, always gentle. Shaya is
flexible wherever he can be."
'They're so visibly Muslim'
Ruby and Inem Rahman of Naperville, Ill., are
puzzled to find that their daughter, Reem, is more publicly religious and
active in Islamic life in the Midwest than they were in their youth in
Pakistan.
Reem, 21, founded student chapters of the
Council on American-Islamic Relations and an interfaith youth action group
at the University of Illinois-Urbana, and she inspired her younger brother
to step up observance and activism, too.
Ruby, 50, praises her children's "good faith and
strong characters. I know they are pure, that they are working for peace
and liberty. But I'm concerned they'll be stereotyped by prejudiced people
because they are so visibly Muslim."
Her own faith is strong, says Ruby, a substitute
teacher, but beyond dressing modestly, she feels no need in the USA, "a
cosmopolitan country, to proclaim it to the world by wearing a scarf."
Inem, 55, loves that everyone here can follow
his or her own faith, "but it should be a personal path. All religions
give you your ethics and moral values, but it's best to keep your passion
private."
Reem, now working in the Chicago office of the
Council on American-Islamic Relations, says wearing the hijab allows her
to be "in a state of God consciousness and readiness to pray to God at all
times." Still, she agrees, it can attract unwelcome attention.
"People think you're oppressed if you're
covered. People ask me all the time now where I'm from. I say Detroit. I
have a degree in cognitive neuroscience. I can be a working woman, a
scholar, a lawyer, a teacher, whatever I want. Do I sound oppressed to
you?"
For all her devotion, however, Reem won't call
herself more religious than her parents. It wouldn't be Islamic, she says,
"to place myself as judging anyone. It's only for God to know who is
practicing, who's more observant." |