I have a hell of a Jewish pedigree. My mother’s ancestors are Eastern European Jews all the way back, my grandfather and uncle served as president of our Conservative synagogue and my grandmother was the grande dame of the Jewish social scene in our small town. My father, after converting to Judaism, served on the synagogue board of directors, helps build the community sukkah every year and is by far the best latke maker in the family. Of my own accord, I taught Hebrew school, did Kadima and USY (the Conservative movement’s youth organizations), got involved in my campus Hillel and attended Shabbat services almost every Friday night. When I graduated from college, I sacrificed the fancy fellowships and lucrative consulting jobs my friends took to work as a Jewish communal professional for three years. When I go to Jerusalem this summer, it will be my third time in Israel in the course of a year. And, of course, I spend my Sunday evenings working on Shebrew. I’ve done it all because my Jewish identity and my connection to the ethical and spiritual teachings of Jewish tradition give my life shape, form and substance.

I’m pretty damn Jewish, right? Right. Except that in some people’s eyes, the fact that my last name is Kristan and my father’s family is Catholic calls my Jewish validity into question. For some people in the community, it makes me a lesser Jew, suspect, somehow not quite legitimate. Even worse, it makes my mother a traitor to the Jewish cause, my father a potential usurper of Jewish vitality and survival.

Yes, I am bitter. I am bitter because since my bat mitzvah I’ve put in twelve years of willing and passionate Jewish service, and I still feel like a 2nd class Jew. I am bitter because so many discussions about interfaith dating and marriage still put the blame on couples that choose to intermarry without examining the organized Jewish community’s consistent failure to engage young Jews, to make Judaism relevant. And I am bitter because every time I hear interfaith marriage described as the number one threat to Jewish continuity, I want to stand up and scream “What about me?”

Interfaith marriage does not have to be a threat to Jewish continuity. If we truly believe in the idea of a bashert, of a soul mate, we cannot ask each other to make decisions about love based on faith. But, we can make our communities, our institutions and our programs so welcoming and important and engaging that interfaith couples choose to incorporate Jewish practice into their lives. We can approach the complications interfaith marriage creates as a fact of life in the Diaspora, just like Saturday soccer practices and limited Kosher food. At the same time, we can celebrate the diversity and new perspectives it brings to our community.

My name, roughly translated from Hebrew and Hungarian, means “lion of God, son of Christ.” It’s a mixed-up, complicated, intense name, and I’ve struggled with it throughout my life. When I was considering rabbinical school, I thought of changing it, but quickly dismissed the idea. I love my name, I love the complexities it implies. I love teaching my Catholic relatives Hebrew prayers at Hanukkah and helping them decorate the tree at Christmas. But, most of all, I love Judaism and I love being Jewish. If the Jewish community cannot find some way to honor interfaith marriage, it cannot honor me or the thousands of other children of interfaith families. And THAT is the greatest threat to Jewish continuity.