At a school that’s a gold mine for golddiggers, it’s not surprising to find that the population is popping with Jews. But as I spend my Sunday morning noshing on latkas at Izzy and Zoe’s with the rest of the Long Island crew, I can’t help but wonder — is there a real salvation for my Saturday night sins?
As I deviate from my kakameyme life as a Jew, I stumble upon the twisted truth of a whole new world — I open my eyes to a campus filled with ongepatsht churches, a mishmosh of havens to hear the whole Christian megile in one form or another.
I did a mitzvah the day I went to church. Lulled by the melodious tunes of classic hymns like “How Great Thou Art,” “Christ the Lord has Risen Today” and “Here I Am Lord,” intrigued by the profound sermon about lambs and shepherds and brainwashed by the chorus of prayer, I must admit — I got a little farklempt.
I traded in my matzah and Manischewitz for wafers and the blood of Christ, and I cherished my first communion. The Priest had a lot of khutspe, as he gave me a piece of Jesus himself while I knelt in front of him in submission. I started shvitsing in apprehension.
I learned a lot that day, and have lived to tell the tale to my peers at Jew-Penn. Stray from that same old shtick, quit your kvetching and go with a nice young goy to church. Yes, church. A nice Christian church. Maybe you can find yourself a mentch — your mother will be kvelling. It might not be too kosher, but you know what they say — a man that prays is a man that pays.