Enlarge By Envogue Photography & Video Limited Relationship changes: Hasidic Jew Shaya Rochester, left, with his father, Marty, at a family wedding, was raised “Jewish lite.” Enlarge By John Zich, USA TODAY contract photographer Visible difference: Reem Rahman, left, talks with her mother, Ruby Rahman, on the Riverwalk in downtown Naperville, Ill. Both are Muslims, but Reem wears a hijab, or head scarf, and her mother does not. Digg



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Facebook Pamela Moss worships every Sunday at Messiah Baptist Church in Grand Rapids, Mich., where they preach the Bible straight up, sing the old hymns "and then let me get on with my day." But her son, George, 24, is a fervent Evangelical, witnessing to strangers and praying "in a church that looks like a gym. To me, he's just out the gate," his mystified mom says. Stephen Rochester, 32, grew up "Jewish lite" in St. Louis, says his father, Marty. "So I was stunned when Stephen went religious with a capital R," switching to his Hebrew name, Shaya, and adopting the black hat of Hasidic Jews. Mari Beth Nolan, 22, grew up a "Christmas and Easter" Catholic. Now she plans to go to work at a missionary clinic in Ecuador, leaving her parents proud — but confused. Small wonder parents are befuddled. Though Gallup polls dating to the '50s say young adults are less likely to attend services or say religion is very important in their lives, clergy of all stripes say they are seeing a small wave of young adults who are more pious than their parents. And they're getting an earful from boomer moms and dads who range from shocked to delighted. Statistically, these devout young people are "floating below the radar," says Rabbi Zalman Shmotkin of Chabad.org, which encourages Jews to deepen religious practice. Such stories are ancient: Abraham smashing his father's idols; young Jesus teaching his elders; Buddha leaving his father's home. "Freaked-out parents are nothing new here," says the Rev. Jeremy Johnston, executive pastor of First Family Church, a Baptist megachurch in Overland Park, Kan.. "The parents are intimidated by their child's depth of feeling. They threaten college students to 'cut off tuition support if you're going to be such a fanatic.' They think the normal way to be a young adult is the way they were. But it's not. "We tell young people when they are all wound up in new faith that the best thing you can do is show your parents the changes God is working in you. Parents can decide for themselves whether they want to follow." Brooke Havarty, 21, says her parents struggled when she transferred from Arizona State to Liberty University in Virginia, founded by the late Rev. Jerry Falwell. "I had a great childhood in a great family," she says. "We went to church on Sundays, but it was just what you did. I was never shown the value of the Bible, the role God had in my life. I saw the consistency and joy in the lives of faithful Christians, and I wanted that in my life." Havarty, whose parents are divorced, adds that her dad "is an amazing father, but he doesn't want to give every area of his life to Christ the way I do. It's hard for him to understand why I'm so black and white about things." Her father, Mike Havarty of Overland Park, says Brooke is "an incredible young lady, academically and in her faith." He says his daughter has "earned the right" to study where she pleased. Parents will go along when they "realize their kids are becoming more spiritually attuned, not rejecting their parents or their past but growing from within, finding new and deeper ways to interact with God," Shmotkin says. Catholic writer Scott Hahn, who teaches at Franciscan University in Steubenville, Ohio, says parents may be reluctant if "kids are casting their parents' lives into question. I hope when kids come home, naturally zealous but not always tempered by reality or maturity, they will appreciate their parents more." 'A little obnoxious' Nolan says she felt a deep connection to Catholicism as a teen when her family had just moved cross-country for the second time. She insisted her parents, nominal Catholics, send her for religious studies and drive her to Mass. "At first I was a little obnoxious. There were a few conversations like, 'You need to calm down,' " she recalls. And when she chose Franciscan, known for its traditionalist fervor, "I know my dad was leery." Her father, Tom Nolan, 53, of Atlanta, says the demands of a divorce, a move and travel in his sales job have left him "disconnected from church." Yet he supported her, as he does now that she's going to do social work in the Andes instead of going straight to graduate school. Mari Beth says her parents "have a knowledge of God, but they don't always like to follow the ways of the church. I absolutely wish they were more into it. It brings me so much joy, love and peace. It's hard not to be able to share that with the most important people in my life." George Moss also feels that divide. He finds it "harder to sit down with your own mother and talk about Christ than it is to share the Gospel in the streets of Jamaica." "My mom was always very churched," Moss says. "But it was a habit without heart behind it. I wanted real faith, not just church. I wanted my faith to play out in everything I do, all the time — raising my son, rapping Christian music, DJ at a Christian radio station." But his faith, like his non-denominational church, is too "free-spirit" for his mother. "I dress up and give the Lord his respect," says Pamela Moss, 53. "But I even saw someone barefoot there. And the pastor was out walking around in a shirt and pants, not on the pulpit in a robe. "I was brought up in the Word, and I will never depart. But George does take it to another level. He's out there rapping, and I can't catch the words. He's going on mission trips. He's always out there witnessing. Now, I don't have a problem with witnessing, but I'm sorry, I have a job, and when I get home, I'm tired. On Sunday, I go, hear the Word and leave." The religiosity gap runs across faiths. Marty and Ruth Rochester rode an emotional roller coaster after Shaya, a philosophy major at Yale, deferred law school for intense Jewish studies at a yeshiva. Ruth says that when Shaya called to tell her he'd bought his first Hasidic black hat, "I burst into tears." "To me, it means he had gone off the deep end, setting himself apart from the family and Judaism as I knew it. But he's my son, I love him dearly, so I decided this is just something else to get through." Shaya, now a lawyer at a Manhattan firm, believes "my father was more opposed than my mother. He was concerned I would drop law school and be this crazy religious guy who would waste my education and never be able to support myself." Yet, his father says other things, small things, have been harder. He misses their father-son heart-to-heart evenings, talking over beer and burgers at a favorite hangout, O'Connell's. The end of evenings at the unkosher pub "symbolized a break in the normal rhythm of our family life. It upset me." The swoops and dips have leveled out now with Shaya's more mature faith, his marriage and the arrival of grandchildren. Although Marty sees Shaya "gently noodge us to become more observant, it's never been in-your-face, never been pushy, always gentle. Shaya is flexible wherever he can be." 'They're so visibly Muslim' Ruby and Inem Rahman of Naperville, Ill., are puzzled to find that their daughter, Reem, is more publicly religious and active in Islamic life in the Midwest than they were in their youth in Pakistan. Reem, 21, founded student chapters of the Council on American-Islamic Relations and an interfaith youth action group at the University of Illinois-Urbana, and she inspired her younger brother to step up observance and activism, too. Ruby, 50, praises her children's "good faith and strong characters. I know they are pure, that they are working for peace and liberty. But I'm concerned they'll be stereotyped by prejudiced people because they are so visibly Muslim." Her own faith is strong, says Ruby, a substitute teacher, but beyond dressing modestly, she feels no need in the USA, "a cosmopolitan country, to proclaim it to the world by wearing a scarf." Inem, 55, loves that everyone here can follow his or her own faith, "but it should be a personal path. All religions give you your ethics and moral values, but it's best to keep your passion private." Reem, now working in the Chicago office of the Council on American-Islamic Relations, says wearing the hijab allows her to be "in a state of God consciousness and readiness to pray to God at all times." Still, she agrees, it can attract unwelcome attention. "People think you're oppressed if you're covered. People ask me all the time now where I'm from. I say Detroit. I have a degree in cognitive neuroscience. I can be a working woman, a scholar, a lawyer, a teacher, whatever I want. Do I sound oppressed to you?" For all her devotion, however, Reem won't call herself more religious than her parents. It wouldn't be Islamic, she says, "to place myself as judging anyone. It's only for God to know who is practicing, who's more observant." Share this story: Digg del.icio.us Newsvine Reddit Facebook Enlarge Handout photo George Moss of Grand Rapids, MI, performs during a concert at Knock Alva High School in Jamaica in June. "The box I was holding was a prop for a skit that we did called Sin Box. It showed how we have all been trapped in the box of sin, but God offers us freedom from it." Conversation guidelines: USA TODAY welcomes your thoughts, stories and information related to this article. Please stay on topic and be respectful of others. Keep the conversation appropriate for interested readers across the map.