“Just Because You’re Going to Hell Doesn’t Mean We Can’t Be Friends”

Michael Levy
Aug 25, 2017 · 4 min read

My parents made me do the whole Hebrew school thing, and I got bar mitzvahed, but I was never a believer. Nor was I a disbeliever. I just really didn’t care.

Typically at Saturday morning Hebrew school in our Elizabeth, New Jersey, synagogue (later converted into a Christian church following our dwindling number) designed by my grandfather, I was goofing off or in a quandary about how our rabbi’s lengthy fingernails got so yellow. That’s not to say I don’t treasure those days. My congregation was led, for a time, by one of the first female rabbis in the United States, and I’ve never seen more passion than when the ladies belted out “Ein Keloheinu” or the “V’Shamru,” both of which I hum randomly even though I don’t know what the Hebrew words actually mean.

In 1987, when I was 17, my parents packed me up and shipped me off to the University of North Carolina. It’s probably no surprise that a (non-practicing) Jew from suburban New Jersey felt a bit like a fish out of water in the bible thumping South. (I mean, why did Chik-fil-A need to close on Sundays at the Chapel Hill Mall?) Granted, Chapel Hill is a bit of a Satanic oasis in a sea of Southern Baptism, if you believe our former senator Jesse Helms. But, it’s also home to the Pit, a free-speech zone in which the purist of preachers would gather to shout “whoremonger” and other vulgarities at passersby, particularly women.

Most of my friends in Chapel Hill were North Carolinians, and I was genuinely interested in learning about my friends’ culture. During our brief fall breaks, I would typically accompany a friend to his home in North Carolina and get a chance to experience their small hometowns.

It was on these visits in Hickory, Waynesboro, and Hendersonville that I would first learn that peacocks really need snooze mode in the morning and that “Coca Cola” is generic for any soft drink. I mean, when you ask me what I want to drink, and I say Coke, why do you need to ask me which kind—Fanta or Dr. Pepper or some other beverage? But, I digress.

It was also in one of these visits that I held hands, bowed my head, and said “Grace” in Jesus’s name for the first time—I didn’t want to be rude—and first learned that Roman Catholics apparently aren’t Christians. This was news to me, since in my mixed Italian/Jewish neighborhood in Union, New Jersey, the only Christians I ever met were Roman Catholic.

Curious at this new revelation, when I got back to Chapel Hill I asked a friend if I could tag along with him to bible study to learn more about Southern Baptist theology. His ears perked up, as he probably thought he had a potential convert. I wondered if members got a reward for each conversion they facilitated.

Undeterred, I went to my first bible study. I listened intently, and sometimes the guys (and they were all guys) would question me about Judaism. They stopped after a few questions, though, because they quickly learned I knew about as much about the Torah and Jewish tenets as Donald Trump knows about human decency.

After bible study ended, my friend eagerly would query me about what I learned and whether I was ready to accept Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior. Much to his chagrin, I wasn’t.

This pattern repeated for a few sessions. The guys thought my continued attendance meant I was wavering, about to come over to their side. They rolled out their Southern charm week after week. And each week when bible study ended, my friend would ask me again if I was finally ready to accept Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior.

After those initial sessions, I could tell my friend was getting a bit agitated with. Why hadn’t I yet seen the light? Midway through the fifth session, the moderator (or whatever the leader is called) asked my friend, “Do you think Michael is going to hell?”

Finally, it was getting good, and thankfully they served popcorn so I could munch while he paused to think. Would he defend my immortal soul against the fire and brimstone of Hell?

No, he wouldn’t.

His reply: “Yes, Michael is going to Hell, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be friends with him.”

And, with that, having achieved some purpose, my experiment with bible study was done. As I left the room, knowing I would never come back, I contemplated my friendship with my pal. We walked back to our dorm idly chit-chatting along the way, but mostly with me wondering if I would ever talk to him again after that night and finally deciding that notwithstanding my impending eternal doom I might as well remain friends with him to see if some of my hellish future might rub off on him so that we could one day enjoy eternity together in Hell.

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Michael Levy

Written by

Sometime writer. Full-time Chicago Cubs fan. Extremely amateur soccer player. San Francisco resident. I don’t write fiction. Everything is true. Mostly.

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