The Other Jewish Cardinal

Marquel, TPV’s New York Times religion correspondent was just finishing his morning prayer when he discovered the small print of Genealogy Shows Cardinal O’Connor’s Mother Was Jewish.  The sister of Cardinal John Joseph O’Connor, the Catholic Church’s top official in New York for 16 years, made a surprising discovery: Their mother had converted from Judaism to Catholicism.

“My brothers and sisters are Jewish,” she says.

Marquel knew that wasn’t the half of it. It’s just starting, he thought. You don’t just discover you’re a Jew. Now you have to figure out what to do about it. In a way the Cardinal was lucky this wasn’t discovered until after his death.

The Cardinal had always been a good friend to Jews and the state of Israel but had he been alive for this a whole plethora of issues would have arisen. The Cardinal would have had to start practicing his “oys” and occasionally an”oy vey.” On long drawn out Sundays, saying mass after mass, he would have had to practice articulating “vei is meer.” Marquel knew much more than the cardinal would have suspected, that to be truly welcomed by this other flock, he would have had to work at it. Being Jewish is neither a religion nor a state of mind but a package of behaviors and mannerisms which, together, constitute what is called tradition.

Being Jewish isn’t free, thought Marquel, and the Cardinal would have been in for a surprise. He would no longer have been able to say on bright Sunday mornings, “what a beautiful day!” Instead tradition demands that he said, “It could have been breezier.” (I know there was another Jewish Cardinal, Jean-Marie Lustiger, but that was the France of M. Le Pen, not the New York City of bagel persuasion.)

When it comes to supplies for the parish no longer, “what’s the price for that?” The Cardinal would have had to start inquiring, “Can’t you do better?” He would also have had to learn to put all shame aside and take advantages of…his advantages. Not only, “Can’t you do better,” but also, “Can’t you do better for our widows and orphans?”

And the body of Christ. Can you imagine a Jewish Cardinal?

“Here, have another. Are you sure that’s enough? You look so skinny. Here, have another, for your mother’s memory.”

I don’t know what the Cardinal would have done with all his unmarried priests. Can you imagine? “Father O’Reilly, I met a really nice woman. She’s your age, loads of fun, never married only because she was waiting for the perfect one….” Well, that might have been too much, but the temptation. Think of the temptation.

So I went out to Queens to speak to Mary, the Cardinal’s sister, to see what she thought of it all. I knocked and she came to the door in a housedress.

“Hi, I’m Marquel,” I said, “from the Pothole. I wanted to know how this Jewish ancestry might have changed the Cardinal had he learned about it during his lifetime.”

“Vey is meer,” she said, “that he only could have lived so long.” she said.

I was taken aback.

“That’s Yiddish,” I said.

“And you expect maybe Greek from a Jew?” she said.

“No,” I said, caught by surprise. “It’s just that I wondered how your family would take it.”

“My family, my family,” she said. “They never visit.”

“Really,” I said, “because of the Jewish thing?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “but they think once a week is a proper amount of time to visit. We are family! There’s no limit on family.”

“That’s certainly true,” I said. “But what I’m wondering is how this news would have affected the Cardinal.”

“Who’s to say?” she wondered. “I could have cooked him babke. He would have handed it out to his congregants.”

“Babke,” I said. “That’s the only difference?”

“Babke, shmabke,” she said, “of course that’s not the difference. Everything would have been different. We could have had everything wholesale. Imagine wholesale babke.” she said dreamily.

“It probably would be worse than regular babke,” I said.

“You don’t love babke?” she asked.

“Oh, I do, I do,” I lied. “But when it’s made kosher, they tend to avoid the butter so you can eat it with anything.”

“That’s sensible. Why waste when you can eat?” she said. “By the way, you look skinny. Have some babke” she said, shoving an entire cake pan of babke in my direction. “You want something to drink? Some coffee. Let me bring you coffee.” She disappeared for a moment and returned with a complete coffee service. “Now tell me about yourself,” she said.

“Well, I was hoping to learn more about your family.” I said.

“Family, shmamily,” she said. “You need a family. Do you have a girlfriend? A wife? You look lonely. Life can be hard. Only a woman can soften it.”

“I know that well,” I said.

“I have a friend,” she said, lowering her voice and almost whispering, “she has a friend, only thirty five. Never married. Not because no one proposed. Lots of offers. But she’s waiting.”

“Thanks, Mary,” I said, “but I am really quite set from a family point of view.”

“That’s nice. Gott in Hemmel, you know that we are meant to live in pairs.”

“God mentioned that.” I said.

“Oy vey,” she said, “I forgot my Mah Jong appointment. You’re such a sweet boy, I completely forgot. You won’t mind if I try to make it before it’s over, would you? And, do you have some quarters for a five?”

I searched and I came up with some change.

“You’re such a ketzelah,” she said. “We play a quarter a game. Vei is meer, if only John could have lived to see this day.”

‘You’re right,” I said, “if only he had. God works in mysterious ways.”

We hugged and I was back on the F train. It was clear to me that if the Cardinal had found this out before his death, things would have been very, very, different. The Cardinal liked the mayor but he didn’t always get along with some of the other politicians in the city. I could hardly imagine the Cardinal discussing gays in the St. Patty’s parade. “What shlemiels,” he would have said.

With an Irish smile.