statement of belief for conversion

There is an obvious way start to this story, and a more round-about way. The obvious way to start this story is when I was 18: my hall-mate freshman year of college invited me to Friday night Shabbat services. Her mother had died of cancer only a few weeks before the start of the school year and I remember feeling keenly how important Hillel was to her. My own father was in remission after a second fight with cancer and the specter of his illness traveled everywhere with me. And there, in Hillel, saying Psalm 51:15 — Open my lips that I may praise Your name — I felt God. Not that God entered the room, not that God spoke, but that I became unmistakably aware of God’s presence for the first time in my life. 

The round-about way to start this story is when I was 8: I read a book about Wicca and, entranced by the idea that there was something larger than myself, I convinced my parents to let me light candles and spread circles of salt. The less obvious way is to start the story with me, age 12, dragging my parents from Catholic church to saint’s home to Catholic church across Europe, lighting candles at every opportunity. Less obvious, of course, because they are not, on the surface, about Judaism.

But underneath the surface, the seeking is still true: I have spent most of my life chasing answers to the question, “How should a person be?” And by that I mean — What does it mean to do good, to be good? What does it mean to be in a world that is chaotic, in a world made up of fallible, mortal connections and structures? I have been looking for a safe place to land the vessel of my heart and soul, a safe place that does not erase the brokenness of the world but instead energizes me to help repair it.

I am having a hard time explaining this even to myself: there are two things at play, but they are essentially intertwined. I want to be Jewish because it is through the rituals, the prayers, the history, and the community of Judaism that I become aware of God’s presence in my life and the world around me. Heschel wrote that “We are alone even with our friends. The smattering of understanding which a human being has to offer is not enough to satisfy our need of sympathy…It is such a sense of solitude which prompts the heart to seek the companionship of God” (Man’s Quest for God, 17). I have always felt this solitude and unmooring, this sense of needing a safe place to land — and that no person or human-created structure could offer that safety.

But God can. So — I want to be Jewish because through Shabbat, through Passovers at Amy’s house among her laughing children, through the melody of the cantor on Yom Kippur, through reading Heschel early in the morning before I face the day, through saying berakhot, I find more and more moments when I can feel God’s presence in my life, when my soul finds a safe place to land. It is through the “sanctification of time” that Judaism releases me from the solitude of being human and into the presence of God (Heschel, Sabbath, 8)

But there is a second part of reaching for Judaism, that while fundamentally tied to my personal experience of God, is also rooted in the world around me and what kind of person I am in that world. 

I want to be Jewish because I understand that life is built not from one epiphany, but from the choices we make every day. The way we spend our days is the way we spend our lives, and to build a life that tips the balance towards good requires that we choose every day to orient ourselves towards justice, reflection, kindness, and curiosity. I want to be Jewish because Judaism is an actionable framework for doing and being in the world, for building a life that tips the balance towards good — towards tzedakah — despite the fact that “the world is unredeemed and deficient” (Heschel, “The God of Israel and Christian Renewal”). 

I want to be Jewish because to be Jewish is to believe that what I do and how I treat people matters — to God “above”, to God within me, to the God within those around me. In my early twenties I read Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg’s Surprised by God, in which she describes her own reading of Buber’s I and Thou — which I promptly went out and read for myself. It’s beautiful and important, I think, that in the original German Buber used the intimate “du,” rather than the formal English “thou.” There is an intimacy to standing “in relation” to one another — the sort of profound, focused attention that much of society only reserves for romantic or familial relationships. But Judaism — through the idea of b’tzelem Elohim, through the teachings of Hillel (“If I am only for myself, what am I?”), through Buber’s I-Thou, demands that we hold this relational space with the world around us (and not just the abstract world, but the specific world, the specific people in the world). 

So, Judaism offers answers to that question which I have held for my whole life: How should a person be? And Judaism offers answers not through dogma or conclusion — the answers to be found in Judaism continue to yield questions, continue to invite debate and discussion, continue to deepen through time and study.

small sicknesses

December has not been kind to my body: in the early part of the month, laryngitis took my voice; a week before Christmas, in grappling class, I caught an accidental elbow to the mouth that split my lip on the inside, making eating painful for days; now, I’m trying to kick a cold that’s left me running on what feels like 10% of normal energy. Today, I’ve been awake for maybe five hours.

Whenever I am sick, I feel the desire to imbue it with meaning — sickness as a metaphor for some deeper arc or turn in the narrative of my life. It’s an impulse borne out of the fact that I am able-bodied, and sickness is not my “normal.” For the most part, my body is a patch of firm ground on which to land. It is dependable. I understand: it is not this way for everyone, and it will not always be this way for me.

Rabbi Ruttenberg is one of my favorite Jewish writers; her book Surprised by God helped me to name that I, too, wanted more God in my life. I’m so happy to have found her on Twitter, where today she published a beautiful thread about gratitude for our bodies.

I think we all have media we turn to when we’re sick: the shows, the books, the albums that comfort us in the absence of a Platonic-mothering figure. I listen to Azure Ray’s Drawing Down the Moon; I watch The Princess Bride; I read Robert Hass’s “Tall Windows,” which is only a little bit about being sick, and more about courage. “The desire to sleep” he writes, “was lightbulbs dimming as a powerful appliance kicks on…What kept you awake was a feeling that everything in the world has its own size, that if you found its size among the swellings and diminishings it would be calm and shine.”

I use Azure Ray and The Princess Bride as a stop-gap when I’m sick — a way to trick my brain into sleeping with their familiarity, because like Hass I am kept awake by the sense that there is something to be found, some key understanding that would let the world “be calm and shine.” I have thoughts, and then — as Terry Pratchett’s Tiffany Aching would say — second thoughts, and third thoughts. A side effect of “normal” being a steady place to land is the self-imposed expectation I should always be doing. Sickness destabilizes; I am not able to be doing. In fact, sickness demands that I not do. And in the not doing, I sometimes find it hard to pinpoint who I am.

Sometimes, when I am sick, I tell people, “My body was telling me to take a break.” I have ascribed my sickness a meaning, and the meaning is: I work hard so I deserve a break. Where does this come from? Why do I feel this need to justify rest?

The flip answer is capitalism, which is also a true answer. But another true answer is teaching. The narrative of teachers is one of self-sacrifice, of willingness to give of oneself tirelessly because a teacher is working for a Higher Purpose. Another true answer is the story of being a woman, which glorifies multitasking and continual support of others.

Judaism has a lot to say about rest; rest can be found in the palace of Shabbat every week. Heschel writes that “[t]he Sabbath is not for the sake of the weekdays; the weekdays are for the sake of Sabbath. It is not an interlude but the climax of living.” When I read this, and when Rabbi Adar went over this in my Jewish Rituals class, I underlined it in my notebook. We do not earn rest through work. Rest is our right as living beings.

(Forgive me a longish aside? Over the holidays my uncle and my father got into a tense political conversation. My uncle resented the idea of higher taxes and “his money” being used to social services because he perceived people on welfare as “lazy.” My father argued that even if some people who receive social services are “lazy,” the good that the money does for those in need is more important. The whole conversation clarified something so distinctly for me: I believe our value as humans is not defined by our labor. We all deserve food, shelter, education, stability, healthcare. Those rights are not determined by what we contribute to the economy.)

But for those of us (ME) who define our identity through work and doing, rest is hard. I rarely keep a full Sabbath; there is simply too much I feel like needs to get done. So sickness — when rest is the only activity possible — is difficult. It means confronting unspoken and pervasive expectations I have for myself, the definitions I have of who I am.

lime bars & shabbat thoughts

Last night I made Gabrielle’s Lemon Squares from Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything. Except I used lime instead of lemon, and bumped the juice up to 1/2 cup. But they still aren’t very lime-y — more generic citrus. Which I guess might have to do with the limes I used (plucked quickly from the not-so-fancy Safeway off 13, while so ravenously hungry I though I might actually collapse into a fountain of tears. Catastrophe-Hungry). I liked the crust, though — this morning when I ate two for breakfast (yes, I know, they aren’t really breakfast food), the crust had crisped nicely in the fridge.

It occurred to me that they would be good with basil. So I’ll add that to the “To Try” list.

But I’m also trying to figure out if they didn’t taste quite right because what I actually wanted was key lime pie. In which case, better limes would not solve the problem.

It’s been a week of a lot of second-guessing and feeling a little helpless in the face of Things That Must Be Done. I have been trying to practice self-forgiveness, but it’s hard to do when so much of the Not Quite Doing My Best (grading, walks and training) affects others so directly (students, Rilke). Grades are also due next week, which adds a kind of high pitched whine to the background of everything.


It is also Shabbat today, and I think Shabbat is the real answer to all of the helplessness and second-guessing. Shabbat, or the Sabbath, runs from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday each weekend. Shabbat demands we acknowledge that we are more than our labor, more than the goals we meet or the things we do. The Torah commands that we both “remember” and “keep holy” the Sabbath by engaging in services on Friday evening, Saturday morning, and Saturday evening, as well as abstaining from labor — labor including, for Orthodox or Conservative Jews, lifting anything from the public to the private realms (or visa versa), handling money, or traveling.

Heschel names it as a “realm of time” rather than a realm of “things [which] when magnified are forgeries of happiness.” Instead, Shabbat offers us joy, holiness, and rest. Personally, it feels almost rebellious to take a day of rest — although to be fair, the days of rest I’ve taken have not fully adhered to the rules — I have read and done writing for fun (rather than school), taken my dog on long walks, and cooked. And Heschel is right — it creates a separate realm, a space I find it sometimes hard to leave. I want to learn how to perform the Havdalah, because I think closing Shabbat is probably necessary — a reading I did described the way the Chassids sit at their Seudah Shilshit late into the evening on Saturday, unwilling to let the bride-queen of Shabbat go. I understand that feeling. I have often found on Saturday evenings it is hard to return to the regular world; I feel resentful and out of place.

So this Saturday I will carve time for some silence, some time away from labor (and all the things that feel like labor).