For most of my adult life I felt little need to have conversations about religion or politics outside of places designed for those investigations. Dialogue in the secular world always seemed to lead to uncomfortable conversations and create division amongst people who would otherwise be amicable.
My own theology is an inclusive form of Christian Universalism that recognizes other faiths as alternative and equally valid paths to the Divine. I attend an affirming Episcopal church where all are welcome and accepted, including those with different belief systems. I did not avoid answering questions about my religious choices, but rarely volunteered information. I listened politely when others chose to share their views but rarely sought them out.
When I married a Muslim later in life, conversion was never on the table for either of us. Initially I tried to learn more out of curiosity, but although I could see the hand of God reflected in my husband’s life, I could not connect with his practices or theology. The why remained hidden in spite of my effort, so eventually I moved on.
After all, wasn’t this a perfect demonstration of the existence of diverse but equally viable paths to God? He went to the masjid on Friday afternoon, I went to church on Sunday, and we shared our core beliefs and values regardless. I accepted the presence of God in my husband’s faith as an ineffable truth, and we set aside the harder conversations.
The unlikely birth of our son disrupted our fragile balance. Suddenly we had the unanticipated and impending responsibility of explaining the enigmatic things we had chosen to coexist with, but not necessarily embrace, to a brand-new person. I knew I had neither the knowledge nor the tools to accomplish the task because I had already tried, failed, and given up. I started searching again, this time for the wisdom of other people who had approached this problem.
I was frequently met with diatribes about the futility of creating an interfaith household and warnings about the spiritually crippled children that they produced, ultimately forced to choose between parents or abandon faith altogether. But I also found some more hopeful voices, people who recommended communication, further reflection, and creative solutions. They challenged the traditional view of religious boundaries, and some even put forth the idea of a mixed-religious individual, unbound by existing categories.
I arrived at ICJS because I wanted to take the optimistic road but didn’t know where to start. I wanted a roadmap, but what I got was a different way of perceiving communication and understanding across religious differences and the recognition that I started with some flawed assumptions.
Although my family is Christian and Muslim, it was the Jewish thought that helped the most because we share so much scripture, but I had so little exposure. Having studied the Hebrew Bible , I imagined I had a strong understanding. But Rabbi Abraham Joshua Herschel described the role of a prophet as “that of an advocate or champion, speaking for those who are too weak to plead their own cause.”
Not a foreteller, not a forthteller, but a meddler with such a powerful sense of justice that it is intolerable for them to stand by while others are harmed. The Talmud, I discovered, was not a single book, but a 46-volume encyclopedia that provides cultural context and interpretation for Biblical texts but never made into even one of the hundreds of Christian Bible studies I’ve done.
Perhaps most relevant to my work in the social and criminal justice space, the Hebrew Bible does not actually advise the death penalty for every wrong. Jewish jurisprudence uses the concept of the death penalty to work backward to the sanctity of all life and the need to preserve it, creating so many safeguards that the death penalty is constructively abolished.
Understanding Jewish thought helped me better understand my own belief system and challenge some false presumptions. It also helped me learn how to think across the traditional religious boundaries that threaten to create barriers for my son. If he can learn that kind of thinking, perhaps he can just continue learning and never have to make a choice at all.
My son is about to turn 2. He likes dancing, scribbling with crayons, and playing with rubber ducks. He runs around the church and the masjid without understanding the difference, but someday he will, and he will have questions. I may not have an answer, but I will always encourage him to keep having the hard conversations.
August 2026
Anne Bocchini Pack is the Director of advocacy at PREPARE and was a 2025-2026 ICJS Nonprofit and Civic Professionals Fellow. Learn more about the ICJS programs for nonprofit and civic professionals here. Opinions expressed in this blog are solely the author’s. ICJS welcomes a diversity of opinions and perspectives.
If you are interested in applying for the upcoming Fellowship for Nonprofit and Civic Professionals, click here.
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