Answer #1: What changed the most is that I am now part of something much larger than myself: I am part of the Jewish People, for better and for worse. Honestly, nearly everything about my life changed, but not all at once. I am the same person I was before but my relationship to most of my world has changed dramatically.
Conversion to Judaism was like finding a lost part of myself, and it took time for all the pieces to come together -- really, they are still coming together, because Judaism well lived is a lifetime journey. Sure, my eating habits changed and my Saturdays are different, but the deeper changes came in the ways I relate to other people and even to myself.
Periodically something I read or a sermon I hear will cause me to examine the way in which I live a certain mitzvah. For instance, after hearing a sermon I decided that I needed to take better care of my body, which led to changes in my eating and exercise. I am a "conflict avoider" but I know I am commanded to make peace -- genuine peace, not fake peace! -- so I am much more likely to deal with problems than in the past.
I worry about different things: I am very careful not to embarrass anyone. That was not on my radar twenty years ago! All these changes have made me a happier person. I knew I wanted to be a Jew; I did not realize, going in, how much it would challenge me and how rewarding the changes would be.
I have received much, much more than I have given up, but in truth, there are some things that will always be a bit of an effort for me. (I miss pork -- ridiculous but true.)
However, I've never been sorry that I came home to Judaism, not for a moment.
Answer #2: I would say to this woman very seriously that her life will change no more and no less than she wants it to. Becoming Jewish is like coming home - it's not a matter of pushing yourself to look like someone else, it's a matter of growing so that you can look like *you*, so you can find that sweet spot where you are the person you know you were meant to be. I find that idea makes the superficial outside changes (will I keep kosher, will I cover my hair, what-have-you), so much less scary. Because *you* are in control, it's not change being forced on you. And it's not an on-off switch, your life can look as different or as similar as you want, and each day you can choose something new.
Answer #3: Since my conversion and bar mitzvah, my life has changed in several ways. I find myself thinking as if I have always been Jewish. I may not have the cultural experiences that born Jews have, but my soul seems Jewish to me. When I read passages from Torah, the stories are from my family history. Sarah is my mother. Abraham is my father. Israel is my home. I feel intimately connected to the stories. Before my conversion, I was a "ger". A stranger on the outside looking in. Also, when I look at life, I look at it from a Jewish perspective. "Oy" is an essential part of my personal vocabulary.
In my daily life, I attempt to keep as kosher as my life situation allows. I don't eat meat (from mammals) with dairy and I use separate plates when eating dairy. I find myself looking at what I eat and consciously deciding if it is "fit" for my consumption. I tend to lean towards the "eco-kosher" movement. Not only do I want to avoid eating things Torah doesn't permit, I want to support agricultural systems that are sustainable and humane.
Since my bar mitzvah, I have taken to wearing a kippah all the time--even at work. This has been the biggest impact in my life. It identifies me publicly as a Jew and thus makes me more conscious of my conduct. I want my actions to reflect positively upon the community. One wonderful thing about being visibly Jewish is that it invites curious people to learn about Judaism and its people. I see those invitations to be teachable moments where misunderstandings can be cleared up and people's horizons to be broadened. Even in my own family, my relatives ask questions about what it means to me to be Jewish. I wouldn't say that I'm perfectly Jewish, but I'm working on it.
This is another video from our LGBTQ and Converting Panel. Scott tells his story.
by LJ, a female Reform convert
I can’t say with any honesty that Judaism sprang from a single thought in my head. Rather, it took time to see that it just may be the answer to many issues in my life.
I had just recovered from cancer, Stage 2 colon cancer. As anyone who has had cancer can tell you, you never get rid of it. Even if every speck has been removed from your body, you think about it. It’s with you always. You wonder how many years you might have left, years of productive life.
A year after my colon surgery, I retired from a career that had consumed 33 years of my life. I poured my heart and soul into that job, into working with those people, and now, due to my own choice, it had all been ripped from me. I had nowhere to go in the mornings. I had no social life. Sure, I had friends, but there were few that weren’t part of my work environment, and many of those friends were located in another city, where I had previously worked.
I had thought about retirement for many years, but not very seriously. I had thought about doing good things. I wanted to do good things. Volunteer? I actually tried several volunteer tasks along the way, and none matched my personality.
The final point of this journey was that I fell in love with a Jew. A lot of her friends were Jewish, and they became my friends. I was surrounded by Jews, and I really liked the way they lived their lives. They did good things. As a lesbian, I feel I was fortunate to have been accepted by these Jews, that my “gayness” wasn’t a second thought for them; that told me right there that I could fit into Jewish life as a gay person.
As it turned out, this wasn’t the final point of my journey at all. I found a rabbi to study with, to learn what Judaism was really all about, and I joined a new community. They’re my community now. The journey was just beginning.Hear Linda talk about her conversion process in this video.
By L., a female Reform convert
When I came out to my mother as gay, I was in my 40’s. I had finally come to the long-fought decision to come out to my family if I ever landed in another relationship. When I did, I sat down with her, and she took it better than I thought she would. Her reply was, “I think I knew all along. I was just hoping it was a fad.”
At the age of 63, it’s no fad. And 8 years after my mother died, I came out again, this time as a Jew. While I would give almost anything to have one last conversation with my mother, to see her again, I’m glad I don’t have to try to explain her to her that I’m a Jew. Because, you see, I’m going to Hell. And it would be Her Fault.
So, spared that last conversation, I very easily converted – well, after it took me three tries to find the right rabbi, but the right rabbi I did find. The rabbis at my Reform synagogue in the East Bay have been super, everything you could have asked for as a lesbian or gay man, or as any Jew, actually. Kind, warm, accepting. Completely accepting. Their constituents are sometimes another story. But it’s a work in progress.
Some people typecast me as Ellen DeGeneres, others as someone who would love to tell lesbian stories (you know, with sex ‘n stuff), and others ignore me completely. This is my community. They’ll get used to seeing me, get used to what lesbians look like and sound like, ones like me and ones who are completely different (because it’s really hard to stereotype us). And as more gay men and women join, we’ll just be normal Jews around temple. I look forward to that day.
Another response to the last post on: Why be Jewish?
I read all the comments to the article. Intellectually I know that I converted because I wanted to be a Jew - to take on the responsibilities of and reap the rewards of being a member of the tribe. It wasn't because I wanted to do something specific in the synagogue. But, because belonging to a synagogue is pretty important to converts (especially those of us who have no Jewish family whatsoever - not even in-laws) the idea that anybody can walk through the door of a temple and be seen as equal to converts without doing the work involved to convert rubs me the wrong way. To me, it devalues the conversion process if nothing is required of someone. One of the things I liked least about growing up as a Protestant was anybody could walk through the door of the church and purport to share those same values - but in reality their belief system could be all over the map. What I like about Judaism, and in fact what drew me to it in large measure, was that there is a shared belief system and you have to learn about it, go through a process of claiming it as your own, and then as a Jew you are held accountable by other Jews if you do not live up to those standards.
Quite different than someone who is lukewarm to the idea of being a Jew because their family might get upset or friends might not understand.
You can't be a little bit pregnant and you can't be a little bit Jewish - at least that's what I think. You either are or you aren't.
Every convert has had their own obstacles in the process of their conversion. Family members get incensed, friends ask questions that make you uncomfortable, fellow Jews don't "get" why you want to be Jewish. It's a big deal to convert and a process one should have to go through to become Jewish. It toughens you up for living a Jewish life. By going through that process you claim your Jewish identity in a way that you couldn't have if there not been those challenges.
I was thinking about Daniel Pearl's declaration of "I am a Jew" before he died. It is a claim I too would be willing to make, if faced with it. Would someone who attended my synagogue who was unwilling to convert be able to say the same if they were being persecuted for being affiliated with a synagogue? How would their declaration go - "I thought about becoming Jewish but decided the feelings of my extended family who would be annoyed or disappointed if I converted came first, so I didn't, but I really like the Jews and feel 'Jewish,' but I'm really not a Jew - my spouse is and we've raised our kids that way. Yes, I admit, I am asking my kids to live and die as a Jew, but I'm not willing to do the same myself."
I know that sounds harsh - but through the lens of a convert active in my synagogue - that was my immediate reaction to the discussion. It sounded to me more like people who want it both ways: convincing the clergy that they should be allowed to do everything a Jew does in the synagogue or else they will raise their kids outside the temple or something. If the clergy really doesn't believe being a Jew is of value - then we're really in trouble. Warm bodies at all costs. I don't get it. You can be warm and welcoming and not give away the store.
I could write a book with this response. Quite simply. I converted to be Jewish, not just to live Jewishly.
I believe you should be Jewish in order to perform certain things, like perform an Aliyah. However, I think it's up to the Rabbi to make the call. This is especially important in the case of people studying to convert (but not yet converted) and interfaith families.
Converting, instead of just living Jewishly, is a symbolic act of your commitment to the community, with all the rights and responsibilities therein.
This is Dawn's interview with a man who went through the Hatafat Dam Brit. The comments in bold are hers.
I was struck by how mysterious this procedure feels and the lack of information around it so I asked someone I know to tell me about his experience of hatafat dam. He agreed.
Not exactly a topic I like to revisit, Dawn... But for you, here's the story.
The most painful part of the process was writing the check to the mohel. The actual procedure was a walk in the park - I didn't feel a thing. My mohel was Rabbi Chanan Feld, of blessed memory.
One thing to consider is the time in between the hatafat dam and the mikvah - when you are technically in this weird nexus of not a Jew but not-not a Jew either. Strange.
Dawn: What was the level of pain?
Zero physical pain. This is more info than you probably care to know, but the mohel draws blood from the scar tissue on the man's penis, which isn't near the head. Again, I'm not trying to be graphic or inappropriate, but you asked.
Dawn: Where was it done?
It was performed at a house which I believe doubled as Rabbi Chanan Feld's office. Specifically, it was done in a room designed for little kids (Winnie-the-Pooh wallpaper was hung and toys were in the room). Obviously no children were present, but still a little weird.
Dawn: Was your rabbi with you? Or did you go on your own?
I went on my own. I'm sure if I’d asked my rabbi to be there, he would have, but it wasn't something I needed him there for.
Dawn: How did you get the contact information for the mohel?
I was given Rabbi Feld's contact info by my rabbi and told exactly what to ask for. Rabbi Feld was very responsive.
Dawn: How much did it cost?
Feld charged $200 for him and $25 for each witness, which there were two. Total bill was $250.
Dawn's comment to us: For everyone’s information, Rabbi Chanan Feld, of blessed memory, was a mohel by profession. Not every doctor who performs the ceremony charges this amount. Most of the men who emailed me said that they paid less. For example, Dr. Piser, when asked about the cost, suggested that the man give a donation to Dr. Piser’s synagogue, Temple Beth Abraham. The gentleman chose to give $50 to the shul.
While I was strongly encouraged to do a Hatafat Dam Brit, I was also told that my denomination (Renewal) would not require it. After talking to a couple of other male converts who said that it was meaningful for them, I decided to do it.
Since the Rabbi that was guiding my conversion was female, we worked with a male Rabbi who could help with the Hatafat Dam and the mikveh. Since he was not a Mohel, he asked a friend and more senior Conservative Rabbi who was a Mohel to supervise. The senior Rabbi served as one of the witnesses, and two other males from his congregation were called in as witnesses.
I admit that I was completely out of my body for the whole experience, which was done after Mariv services at the senior Rabbi’s schul. I was out of it since, honestly, hanging out the private parts in a Rabbi’s office in front of four other men was a bit much. Thank heavens my mother told me to always wear good underwear with no holes. The actual lancet (same as they use for diabetes tests on the finger) prick was negligible pain-wise, and the least of the considerations. I barely remember the brief prayers or being presented with my certificate. (And BTW, it did not hurt at all later—there was only a tiny scab the next day and then it was gone).
Immediately after my Brit, I was not sure how this could be meaningful to anyone. I was feeling like it was a combination of a trip to the dentist and a somewhat embarrassing mishap from grammar school.
However, a few days later I was at my synagogue for Friday Shabbat services, and then I understood. There was a profound sense of belonging that I had not quite ever felt before. Not to go too mystical, but it felt like I was suddenly connected to the Patriarchs, that they were present, and that I was therefore a definite part of the family. Nothing on the outside was different, only a few people in the room knew that I had undergone the Brit—but it made all the difference in the world to me. I sang louder and davened more deeply is how I would express it, and ultimately, felt a deep sense of being welcomed into the family.
KM
We're very excited to begin this new blog. And "Into the Jewish Pool" seemed appropriate because our first topic will be the Mikvah, a Jewish ritual bath.
There's only one in the East Bay, in Oakland, at Beth Jacob, a mikvah that is shared by the entire Jewish community in that area, thanks to Beth Jacob.
Our photos above show Rabbi Judah Dardik, who is the Beth Jacob rabbi, and who gave us a tour of the mikvah earlier this year. The photo to the right of him, shows the little anteroom where friends, rabbi, and family can wait while you're in the mikvah room; your privacy is assured. You will be saying 3 blessings while you completely immersed, and the rabbi sticks his or her head into the room to make sure you say the blessings, and that your entire body is completely immersed immediately afterward.
You can see the mikvah is small, narrow, but is wide enough and deep enough to make sure anyone can get into it. There are steps leading down. And the water is warm when you step into the body of water.
Have you gone to the mikvah? Are you curious about what it looks like, what it feels like, who can use it? For the purposes of this blog, we'll only be talking about the mikvah in terms of the ceremony attached to conversion. Let us know what you think.
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