Converting to Judaism - A Personal Essay

The Jews had light and joy and gladness and honor. So be it with us.

לַיְּהוּדִים הָיְתָה אוֹרָה וְשִׂמְחָה וְשָׂשׁוֹן וִיקַר כֵּן תִּהְיֶה לָנוּ תִּהְיֶה לָנוּ תִּהְיֶה לָנוּ

Layehudim hayetah orah vesimkhah vesason vikar. Ken tihyeh lanu, tihyeh lanu, tihyeh lanu

They say that every essay needs a thesis – a singular message that is supported by evidence and information. The thesis of an essay is generally in the first paragraph of a writing, and every subsequent paragraph presents compelling evidence elucidating the numerous points that reinforce the thesis. The final paragraph will summarize and reiterate the message succinctly, tying a nice little bow on the entirety of the writing. Thus concluded, a reader can say “I see the point that was being made” whether it is agreed to or not. This thesis is the thread that brings the reader along from the first paragraph of the essay to the last. The thesis to this essay is “I have lived my entire life in search of a community that now I have found. I earnestly wish to be fully a member of the people of Israel”.

I was born a Navy brat to two Catholic parents at Letterman Army Hospital in California. My father’s family has always been an enigma. I met my paternal grandfather less than a handful of times, and only when he was asking my parents for money, and all before I turned ten. My paternal grandmother passed away before I was born. My father’s brothers had difficult times and were either in jail or off scheming for money with lies. The only family I knew growing up was that of my mother, Annie, who was the middle child of 13.

My grandmother was an epic cook who never learned to drive and could make magic happen with any four ingredients from a pantry. She was resilient and caring, though set in ways that did not align with my own. Upon entering the house, she would ask if you were hungry. If you answered yes, a meal was produced. If you answered no, she made you a sandwich. My grandfather was a kind man, full of laughter and love. He welcomed everyone to the house despite little means, and he thought it best not to judge others. He was very active in the Catholic church and laid out the priest's vestments every morning at his home parish. Along with my six aunts and six uncles, their spouses, and countless cousins, family became a tremendous and important structure in my life. We didn’t have much, materially, but we were surrounded by love.

My grandfather, who we called Gumpy, was the first to read me the bible. Though the Christian bible contains a number of books describing the life of Jesus, my grandfather thought it important to read me the books starting from the beginning. I remember times we were at his house and he would share stories that were from the early books – Genesis, Exodus, Numbers, Samuel, Kings. I remember being frustrated reading Chronicles (particularly the first several passages) and the kind look on Gumpy’s face when he explained its meaning: we are part of a lineage that takes us back to when God made mankind.

I loved my grandfather very much, and through him, the things that he loved. My grandfather loved God, and so I loved God. I was too young to process what that meant, but I often would ask him to read me the Bible. Though he had many many children and grandchildren to spend time with, it seemed this request always gave me time that was special and private and between us.

But I grew up with questions. Many questions. I wondered what it meant that there was so much suffering in the world. I was confused by parts of the Bible I could not reconcile with my lived experience. Why two origin stories in Genesis 1 and 2? What does it even mean to keep holy the Sabbath? Growing up with questions feels normal to me, but questioning things is not part of Catholicism.

I followed the path that was laid out before me. I received my first holy communion and made my fear-filled confessions and was confirmed. I was confirmed by Cardinal Law, a family friend of my grandfathers who often would eat at my grandparents’ house to partake of my grandmother's meatballs. My grandfather was my sponsor. Upon completing this phase of my life and becoming an adult in the Catholic church I did what so many teen Christians did: I promptly stopped going to church.

But I didn’t stop asking questions. I didn’t stop making statements and standing for values I believed were right. I didn’t stop having a belief in a God.

My parents volunteered to host a protestant and catholic child from Ireland as part of an exchange program – they both had to room together and attend services at each other's churches. I watched in horror as two young girls who happened to have slightly differing faith beliefs spoke so poorly of each other. I watched as they let darkness foment in their souls over what I believed were minor differences in systems. As the Catholic came out of the protestant service, there was an admission that it didn’t feel that different. The same happened the following weekend in the opposite way. Those girls became friends by the end of the summer and headed back to Ireland a small beacon of hope.

When I was a young teen I found myself dreaming of a world at peace. My dad had been a Navy flight attendant and then a flight mechanic in Viet Nam, and the eighties were a time of great invisible hostilities against the spectre of communism. I hated all of it. I just hoped that if folks could get to know one another, they’d realize we’re all kind of the same. Just like those Irish girls. If we were all God’s children, why do we always find ourselves fighting?

My beliefs, however, were broad. By this time in my life I had already kissed another boy. I had many friends in the LGBTQIA+ community. I had seen what violence did to communities. I experienced the aftereffects of war through friends whose parents experienced PTSD. I had seen kids that were a little different being called out and bullied. I had seen how suicide could impact an entire community. I saw broken homes and kids trying to find a place to sleep and eat. I had experienced a brief time of homelessness myself.

I was not particularly good at being quiet about this stuff. I was not content to let things just be and sought to improve the world around me. I took action. I was named to the Governor's Peer Leadership Council in Massachusetts, distributed condoms for free out of my locker in high school, advocated for and won the legislative fight to mandate AIDS education in Massachusetts classrooms, created and starred in a public access television program that was award-winning focused on issues of race and gender and violence presented to teens from teens. I met a lot of folks from a lot of walks of life and I felt the same feeling repeatedly: Peace is possible. By the grace of God, and the hard work of man, Peace is possible.

My work in high school earned me entry to Lafeyette college where I had the chance to work in the community outreach center as part of my work study and expand my horizons. Though I had several Jewish friends growing up, Lafayette was the first time I had really spent time with the Jewish community. Many of my fraternity brothers were Jewish and learning how to respect their faith was the right thing to do. Moreover, it was interesting.

I still had not fully engaged with any form of Jewish life, but I was slowly learning. I also met and befriended a number of folks from other Fraternities at the college. This included meeting Evan Gordon. Evan was a fantastic musician and someone I enjoyed spending time with. He was generous with his time and his talents, and his coffee house performances were some of my favorite memories from college.

It was just before one of these coffee houses I met my first Rabbi. Evan was to perform that evening at the local coffee shop, and he had planned to stop at Hillel just before the event. Without much thought, I simply tagged along. It was brief, and it was fundamentally as an outsider, but it was something quite different than the kinds of religious moments I had experienced in my upbringing. There was warmth. There was a sense of honoring tradition and adapting it today. There was a sense of acceptance that was unusual but refreshing. This was my first real moment of engaging with Judaism.

I finished my college degree, married my college girlfriend, and started working. I found myself seeking community, and seeking God, and so returned to the place that I had learned growing up. I engaged in the local church and volunteered my time. I joined the local Knights of Columbus. I found ways to engage in community. My first marriage and my children were very much tied to the Catholic Church, but the questions of my youth remained with me. When I became “Grand Knight” of the Knights of Columbus I recall bending the organization a little, pushing the edges of what was appropriate according to the strict nature of the church. I was quieter than my fellow members when they audibly added “for the born and the unborn” to the pledge of allegiance, and I was adamant about directing the funds of the organization to issues of human rights rather than organizations that supported practices and activities I felt were not caring to all humans.

Because I was bisexual. Because I was a feminist. Because I cared for all humans.

If we are all made in the image of God, we are all perfect as we are.

I knew Catholicism, and perhaps Christianity writ large, were not for me.

I had children, and I had a rocky marriage. I moved to Pennsylvania, stopped attending church, and got a divorce. Found an apartment. I found myself exactly where I was when I graduated college: in turmoil and needing community. I knew, though, that Christian churches were not where I would find what I was looking for. I knew that that was a place that would not accept me as God created me. I knew it was a place where I could not find the love that I needed from God or community.

Then I met Emily.

Emily and I have been together for more than 8 years. When we first met, both of us coming out of divorce, we agreed only to be a fling. We neither had the emotional energy or desire to undertake what we had just undone. We had a wildfire of a romance, and within a year we were introducing our children to each other. And as our relationship evolved, she made clear that she was Jewish, and that her twins would be raised Jewish. This was a non-negotiable for our relationship. I was not asked to or required to convert, but this was part of her life and would be going forward.

At the time, most of what I knew to be Jewish were what most uneducated former Christians knew. It was laden with inaccuracy, assumption, and surface level understanding. I would quietly and respectfully sit at the table as she lit Shabbat candles and recite the prayers while the twins sat waiting for the challah to be broken. It was foreign to me, but it was a practice I adapted to.

I am a cerebral person. I care to know things, to explore them in my mind. I want to research and understand. I want to gain perspective and lived experience. This was no different. I asked myself “what is shabbat? You asked yourself this when you were a child – keep holy the Shabbos, so what is it?” and then embarked on a quest of understanding. I looked at the prayers. I looked at the words and their meaning. I returned to the words of the Bible including Genesis, Exodus, and Deuteronomy. This was not enough, though, it was all words I had already read, I needed more.

Jewish teaching provided much, much more.

I found rules, commentary, and spiritual practice. I learned about the Talmud and read rules and meaning and the importance of preparation, intention, and joy in the weekly celebration. I read what Rambam wrote to clarify and support the practice. Here I found new words to study and learn and contemplate. Words like kiddush and oneg. In the Mishneh Torah I was able to learn much about the rules and frames and structures of the day. It started my regular questioning with Emily (much to her chagrin) on the whys, whats and hows of Jewish practice. I even looked at what the Zohar said about Shabbat, learning even more words and perspectives. Of the writings in the Zohar, my favorite was the idea of Shekhinah.

To be fair, I was, and am, still one who enters into study as one not born into the culture and belief of Judaism. I recognize that in my perspective and learning that my soul capturing these terms and ruminating on them is imperfect. I realize I am not, nor will I ever be, the expert on these terms and language and concepts. But this was the moment I found myself truly connected to God for the first time in many years as an adult.

Shekhinah, as one of the very many names of God, feels comforting to me on a number of levels. First, it connects with my very sense of being a feminist. Second, it catches my great love of a God who is not only setting guidelines and establishing practice, but loving and nurturing. Most importantly is the idea that when we experience this version of God it is because God is dwelling with us. Shabbat is a moment when we can feel the very presence of God. Every week. At home.

It is about rest. And family. And saying thanks for our days. It is about food and community. It is about reminding ourselves of what is important. And when we say goodbye to neshamah yeteirah as Havdalah occurs, we smell the herbs to remind us that we had that moment of connection with God, that we can embody for the entire week ahead that very same knowledge that God is in each of us, and God is among all of us, and God will be there as we navigate our world.

I made Challah my Covid skill. To this day when I begin to knead the bread, staring out the window of my kitchen at the beautiful world that God has made, I feel the gentle presence of Her returning to me.

Emily has an Aunt and Uncle who live nearby, Alan and Karen. Conservative Jews who attend synagogue in Wilmington. When Emily felt comfortable introducing me to them, it was a lively discussion. Alan asked about my religious background, and Karen clearly declared that it was irrelevant as we all have our own connection with God. Alan and Karen have a vibrant, argumentative love that is palpable. They disagree almost for the sport of it, and argue their points like learned debaters.

Alan challenged me directly and sternly when I said I was beginning to consider conversion. He told me clearly that he was not convinced. He angrily challenged me if I would renounce Jesus. He was fiercely protective of the community of Israel. I was not yet fully in understanding of the idea of a closed practice, and I admittedly may have crossed some lines in participating in prayers I had memorized in Hebrew and speaking openly about my love of both what I was learning and the community itself. I perhaps was out over my skis in partially practicing what I could learn along the way. It was a fair question given my upbringing.

I didn’t hesitate at all. It came out of my mouth before I contemplated it. “I don’t need to renounce Jesus. I’ve already done so.”

I hadn’t thought of it until that night, but as I continued in my relationship with Emily, as I helped her look at Synagogues, as I made sure we had our Friday night prepared fully with food and drink and candles, I had allowed myself to let go of many vestiges of my past. I let go of an entire Christian community that was as closed minded as suppressive. I let go of the pretzels I needed to turn myself into to continue to believe in eternal damnation of non-Christians. I let go of the strange stories and twisted histories that tarnished the Torah. I let go of the community that spoke out of both sides of the mouth, very often acting outside of the purported belief. I let go of Jesus entirely.

Later that night, and that entire weekend, I thought about things. Alan wrote me a nice note to apologize for his tone, but to reiterate his point that I should take this line of thinking very seriously, and he was not wrong at all. I looked back at my past, my connection to God, and I really felt myself called to the people of Israel. Alan’s direct challenge cemented my desire to become part of the people of Israel. To take on the burden and blessing of the Torah. To live my life embracing my God and building a better world here. To make my life a blessing to those who are around me.

Conversion is a difficult process. One doesn’t always get responses to emails or time after asking. I’ve come to learn this is part of the process. All humans are God’s people, but Jews are unique in that they have been given the Torah, and that is a commitment. I began monthly meetings with Rabbi Michelle Pearlman. I took an intro to Judaism class with Rabbi David Levin. I made sure to read and read and read, and question question question.

In that time of reading, reflecting, practicing, and living as I learn, I had a few more moments of deep connection with God. On my first high holidays with the family I felt a deep connection. I was moved by the Shofar, calling in the new year and giving us a tonal reminder that we can all be renewed. I was moved by Tachlich, where I was able to let many things go as I watched the paper fade into the stream behind the synagogue with symbolic power. I was moved by the sound of Avinu Malkeinu, knowing that my God is one of many names and we are His people. Knowing that we call out to God in all these many forms, and that we receive Our Father, Our King in so many varied ways. I was moved by the idea that, unlike Christianity, we sin as a body against God, and we own that failure to live up to the standard God has set as a community. It was here that I found my peace with the idea of our failings, finding a new sensation of care from God in a phrase Emily uses around the house “we can always make a better decision tomorrow”.

I learned much along the way. Rabbi Pearlman provided a number of books for me to read. I remember sitting by a pool reading Choosing a Jewish Life and To Life and The Way into Jewish Prayer. I’d jot down thoughts and questions. Set goals. Reflect. I received help in hosting my own Passover celebration and in time, built my own Sukkah. I read and wrote daily, reflecting on holidays and moments in the Jewish calendar.

I also learned much from Rabbi David Levine whose intro class was not just informative but transformative. It was from Rabbi David I learned the importance of choosing my kind of Jewish. I remember a conversation where he told us that Reform Judaism was perhaps the most challenging to practice. That our Orthodox and Conservative brothers and sisters generally have more definition on how they practice, how they worship, how they act in community and that our Reconstructionist brethren operate in a post-halakhic world but Reform Jews must read, learn, contemplate, understand and then choose what to follow. The effort to do this is tremendous. We can be Kosher or not Kosher, he said, but we must do it with an understanding of what the laws are, why the laws are, and determine our position from that point. We are not at liberty to say we are Kosher or not Kosher meaningfully if we have not chosen our practice deliberately. It is from him I learned that my learning and questioning was never-ending, and that my choices would have to be made based on my understanding. I needed to learn and understand much more (and still do).

I’ve learned a great number of other things, of course, and have continuously added and included a number of them into my daily living. I become more fully Jewish in my practice and living every day. I have learned that the act of thanking God 100 times per day is a way of celebrating living in this beautiful world that God has made. I have learned that saying the Hamotzi before I eat reminds me that this world we live in has an abundance of gifts. I have learned that the Torah is infinitely deep and powerful and worth studying and studying again, bringing me new joy when Simchat Torah comes around. I have learned that fasting brings a new depth to my Yom Kippur practice. I have learned that I am not Jewish alone, I am Jewish in community. I have learned that being active in my Synagogue is a mitzvah that rewards more than I give in all cases. I have learned that Rosh Hashanah is wonderful under the stars. I have learned that celebrating Purim is pure joy.

My practice with Emily and the Twins has been meaningful, and I only endeavor for more. Though my Hebrew is developing very slowly, I continue to practice and try, becoming more adept at the letters and becoming more capable when I follow along in services. My daily reflections are deeper now that I can very slowly sound out several of the words on my own. I see the world through a lens of Tikkun Olam, finally putting a name and a belief to the fundamental sense of being I’ve embraced since I was a child. I find myself quietly singing to myself Oseh Shalom as I stare at the world having re-embraced my belief in peace and love as I did when I was young.

I have been helped a great deal on this journey. By my family, most importantly Emily, but also her parents, her Aunt and Uncle and cousins. By our children as they joyfully participate in our practice at home and don’t get too annoyed when I listen in to the twins Hebrew practice as they prepare for their B’nai Mitzvah. By my Jewish friends from college who joyfully proclaimed “welcome to the tribe” when I shared that I had started the process.

I have been helped along by a number of wonderful Rabbis including Rabbi Michelle Pearlman and Rabbi David Levin. I have been helped by the incredible community at Beth Chaim Reform Congregation. I have been helped by the many authors who published books directed at reflection on Judaism from ancient to modern.

I view this opportunity of conversion as a moment to honor their gifts by offering mine fully. I cannot be more thankful for their contributions to the man I am today.

I think the message is this: when I was young I had a deep love of God. I was called to worship. I was taught love. I was able to realize that love when I began engaging with the Jewish Community. I have studied and learned and participated and given of myself. I now, very earnestly desire full inclusion in the community. If my Thesis is to be believed, everything in my life has led me to this place, this moment, this ask to be formally what I wish to be and practice in my life. I have Kavanah as I wake, and I have Kavanah as I move through my day, and I have Kavanah as I fall to my rest.

That intention is to take on the wonder of the Torah and live my life as a Jew.

I can only imagine the immense power and wonder of saying the Shema after submerging myself in the Mikveh. I dream of that day.