A few months ago, I was invited to speak at a local Jewish conference about my conversion to Judaism. Anyone who knows me knows how much I hate public speaking, and although I'm very proud to be Jewish, I hate to discuss my personal conversion, so of course I said yes.
I really need to learn how to say "no."
Fortunately it was part of a panel, so I only had to speak for about ten minutes. One woman was talking about her father, who was raised in a strict Orthodox family but then completely rejected Judaism, married a Catholic (who didn't even know he was Jewish), and refused to even discuss anything Jewish...except he kept all of the Jewish customs, like lighting two candles on Friday night, and making a stack of toilet paper for Saturday. (Orthodox Jews are not allowed to tear paper on the Shabbat. Don't ask.) When he died, his daughter got in touch with his side of the family (whom she'd never met) and finally started to understand her father, which led her to "convert" to Judaism.
Another woman was born in Hungary, and did not know any Jews. During World War II, Hungary was so supportive of the Nazi regime, even Adolf Eichmann -- who was responsible for the "final solution" -- was surprised. Of the 850,000 Jews, 600,000 were killed. (And of those who survived, 116,000 had already been deported to concentration camps but were liberated by the Allies.) She only learned about Jews in school, but for some reason she felt a very strong affinity which continued to grow, until she sought out a synagogue and eventually converted.
And then there was me. Here is my speech:
Hello, my name is Gregg, and I
don’t believe in G‑d. There, I said it.
That’s not uncommon for someone born Jewish, but it’s probably rare for
an atheist to convert to Judaism.
I was obviously born in the
States and my mother was—is--a devout Christian. My parents were both involved in the church;
we went every Sunday; I was baptised and confirmed; I attended Sunday school;
but I don’t think I ever really believed on G-d.
By the time I was 19, I
grudgingly accepted I was an atheist.
I say grudgingly because atheists
still experience life in the same profound, emotional, illogical way; we just don’t
have any tools to help make sense of it.
Rejecting faith doesn’t make you feel enlightened; it makes you feel empty
and alone. I’ve always said atheism is
its own religion, based on the faith that that there is no faith. It has its own zealots and dogma, but without
any of the benefits.
In any case, in today’s secular
world nobody cares if you’re an atheist (except my mother). So I grew up, married a woman who described
herself as agnostic – although I’m pretty sure she didn’t know what that meant
– and just got on with life.
Then two things happened. In 2006, my wife and I moved from Los Angeles
to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, restored a 250-year-old mansion and opened a bed
& breakfast. It was a true labour of
love: it cost over a million dollars, took 18 months, was incredibly stressful,
and at the end of it all I had was two suitcases and a divorce decree.
But I also had, for the first
time in my life, a real sense of belonging. The
mansion had been a fixture in the community, and the number of people who came
to tell me about their connections to the property was both overwhelming and deeply
humbling. I felt, for the first time,
that I’d been part of something bigger than me.
In addition, Lancaster is the
centre of the Amish community in the States, and it was really the first time
I’d been in contact with deeply spiritual people. I got to know several of them quite well, and
I was forced to shed all of my preconceptions about such close-knit
communities, because these were some of the most engaged and open people I’d
ever met.
But unfortunately I had to
leave and start my life over. The
obvious choice was to return to Los Angeles, so instead I moved to London,
based solely on the fact that I’d been here on holiday a few years before, and I quite liked it.
I didn’t know a single person here except the owner of the small hotel
I’d stayed at. I called her and asked
for a room for a couple of weeks.
My plan was to come over for a
couple of years, see a bit of the world, and then go back, but life
intervened and I met a woman and fell hopelessly in love. Needless to say, she was Jewish. Or to be
more accurate, she was “culturally Jewish.”
Me being atheist obviously wasn’t an issue, but when we got engaged and
started talking about having children, she suddenly told me she wanted to raise
them Jewish.
Now here’s a bit of irony for
you: Despite my own lack of faith, I always felt children should be brought up
within a religion. Being raised without
a faith doesn’t allow them to choose their own beliefs; it alienates them from
all religions, because they have no framework to start from. It would be the equivalent of not teaching
your child how to speak in order to allow him to choose his own language! So I knew I wanted to bring up my children
with a faith, but Christianity didn’t make any sense to me, so how do you teach
a child a religion that you don’t believe in yourself?
So the thought of raising my
children Jewish was not a problem, but obviously I needed to know more
Judaism. My fiancé was hopeless—she
didn’t even belong to a synagogue—but her parents referred me to a reform
synagogue in London, and although I was clear I was only interested in learning--not
converting—the rabbi suggested I attend the conversion classes because, as he
said, “all we do is talk about is what it means to be Jewish.”
Now, I can’t speak for any
other rabbi at any other shul in any other branch of Judaism; all I can talk
about is my experience. But had I gone
in and we started talking about G‑d, I probably would have been finished in
five minutes.
But instead we talked about
people and community, traditions and values, history and continuity, and all of
the life affirming aspects of religion without any dogma or voodoo. For example, the rabbi challenged the class
to find meaning in the Torah. Now, if
you believe G‑d wrote the Torah, then of course you should elevate it and try
to understand it and do what it says.
But if you believe people wrote the Torah then what makes it different
to, say, Oliver Twist? Sure it’s a good
story, with lots of interesting characters, but nobody thinks Charles Dickens
is a god.
So the logical response is to
say there is no value in the Torah, but that wasn’t how I felt, and as I
learned more, about how people responded to the Torah, and the community that exists
in relationship to the Torah, then for me the Torah became meaningful because other
people found it meaningful. Is that
logically consistent? Absolutely not. Does it have to be? No, we’re talking about spirituality
here. What’s important is that I could
suddenly empathise with a group of people who were asking important questions
about who they were and what they were supposed to do, and they were finding
beautiful, subtle, and complex answers in the Torah. And I could identify with people 5,000 years
ago as easily as I could identify with people today.
That’s when I knew I wanted to
convert.
I should note my fiancé and I had
split up during this period, and I was finishing the class on my own. I could
have left it as a fantastic intellectual exercise, or I could have adopted some
aspects of Judaism in my life, but I knew it wasn’t enough to admire the Jewish
community; I wanted to be part of it. I
knew it wasn’t enough to practice the rituals; I wanted them to be my
traditions. I knew that when asked about
my religion, I didn’t want to quietly mumble “atheist” but to proudly say, “I’m
Jewish.”
I’ll finish by telling you
what happened when I told my devout mother I was converting. I’d been dreading the conversation, thinking
she would be devastated, but she said she was thrilled! Confused, I had to ask why and she said, “I’m
just happy you finally found G‑d.”
I hope that by G‑d she meant people who inspire me,
a community that accepts me, rituals that connect me, tradition that grounds
me, ethics which bind me, and a real faith which fulfils and sustains me. Thank you.
