Messiah

In our Jewish Literature class this afternoon, we watched a film called "The Disputation", which depicts a debate (held at the palace of King James of Aragon in 1263) between friar Pablo Christiani, a convert from Judaism to Christianity, and Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, also known as the Ramban. While intellectually intriguing, the film also struck a personal note with me as it reminded me a little bit of how some of my conversations nowadays with friends and family tend to go. It's pretty irritating, actually, to have to constantly repeat the same arguments over and over, when really, all you want to do is stop arguing. I can only give thanks that my safety and quality of life don't hinge directly upon how my Christian friends feel about my beliefs; the Ramban and the Jews of his time didn't have that privilege.

Anyway, to tie together a bit of the Ramban with a bit of the Rambam (see how I did that?), I'm going to just go over a couple of the proofs found both in the film and in the twelfth principle of Maimonides (perhaps if the post turns out well I can just refer those antagonistic relatives to this page once and for all). I'm not going to make this a debate, and for the most part, I'm not going to try and shoot down Christian beliefs unless I can't explain the Jewish perspective without doing so.

Here's some of what the רמב׳׳ם and the רמב׳׳ן have to say about Mashiach:

- A descendant of Dovid (through his son Shlomo), the Messiah is going to be greater than any king or ruler ever. Although some people think that there have been multiple messiahs down throughout different periods of Jewish history (and indeed, the Ramban discusses this viewpoint in the film), we're still waiting for this special one, this Messiah that is going to bring all the dispersed Jews back to Israel. The Jews aren't all in Israel living peacefully, so this Messiah hasn't come yet.

- In the film, the Ramban talked about what the world will be like once this Messiah comes; he insists that the world will be full of peace, that people will be good people, there will not be violence and war and aggression, and the Jews will not be oppressed or under the subjugation of foreign governments. I feel that this interpretation of the Messianic Age is similar to how Christians view what the second coming of Jesus will be like. However, the Rambam seems to have a differing opinion when he says that not much will change in the Messianic Age, save for the Jews' independence. I like to think that the Nachmanides is on the right track here, but maybe that's just the former Christian in me coming out to play.

- Nevertheless, even though the Rambam doesn't make the Messianic Age out to be a utopia, he does say that man's lifetimes will be prolonged and that the Messiah's kingdom will last for a long, long time. In fact, the Messiah (according to the Rambam) is not going to die until he's set the world right (here he quotes Isaiah 42:4).

- The reason that we Jews long for the Messianic Age is not because we long for wealth and excess and indulgence, but because righteousness will abound and we will have the freedom to observe Torah freely and without oppression. This observance of Torah is, to my understanding, what will ultimately usher us into the World to Come.

- Something I find very interesting is that the Rambam writes that the Messiah isn't going to have to prove to us that he's the Messiah by doing miracles. He's not going to be making people clean or unclean, and he's not going to be legitimizing some people and deeming others illegitimate. He's just going to be bringing peace to the world, and seriously folks, that is a miracle if I ever heard one.

Bad Things, Good People

There are so many, many books that discuss the question of why on earth bad things happen to good people (or its converse: why do good things happen to bad people?), and normally, I don't think I'd even attempt to tackle this one. I don't consider myself nearly qualified to try and answer a question that so many have wrestled with for so many years, but for my own sake, I'm going to take a stab at working through my own thoughts about it.

When I was seventeen years old, I went to Costa Rica with a church group. It was my second time in the country, and I was absolutely ecstatic to be there. I couldn't wait for hugs from my Costa Rican friends, sand between my toes, and the chubby cheeks of the kids at the bible camp we would be helping with. After a red eye flight into San Jose, I was starting to fade, both physically and emotionally. I felt strange, and I thought that if I could only get some sleep, I'd be back to my chipper self in the morning. That's not what happened.

Instead of feeling better, I felt worse. Bizarre thoughts kept running through my mind, I became scared of friends, and early in the morning, when I would wake up and lie in my sleeping bag staring up at the concrete ceiling of the classroom I slept in, panic would overtake me. I didn't know what was going on; the only explanation for the strange horror I was living was some sort of possession, but even that didn't make sense to me. I prayed, I cried, I curled up into balls on the floor, and I begged G-d to get rid of whatever it was that was going on with me. He didn't. I'd gone from confident, headstrong teenager to a hopeless, shaking huddle of a person in a matter of days. I felt a part of some strange, evil reality that no one else could see or feel. I no longer believed in any sort of god.

Fast forward two weeks. My pastor's wife was sitting next to me on the beach while I tried to suppress my despairing thoughts, clear my head. She asked that dreaded question, the one that everyone had been asking everyone else all week:

"What's G-d been doing in your life this trip, Emily?"

"I don't know. I don't think I believe in him."

Allison was silent. After a moment, she asked me what I meant, I think.

"I feel weird. I wake up every morning, and I just lie there and cry. I think there's something wrong with me."

It was like a flash that I still remember when Allison sat bolt upright, looked me full in the face, and demanded to know what medications I was taking. I told her that I'd been prescribed an anti-malaria pill for the trip, and she nearly jumped at me as she blurted out, "Stop, don't take it anymore!" I heeded her advice immediately, and we left for home a couple of days later. Of those days following our return, I don't remember a lot, but I certainly remember the year after.

The psychosis subsided, but it left in its place a houseguest: depression. Sometime that following August, I ended up in the emergency room, afraid that I was a threat to my own safety. The doctors told me that I'd had an adverse reaction to the anti-malaria medicines and that my mind had learned the patterns of depression; they prescribed me an antidepressant. It worked for awhile, but everything seemed to turn grey and lifeless. I felt numb going through each day. Over the course of that next year, they would change my medication three more times, finally landing on a prescription that clicked with my body chemistry. I am on that medication to this day.

I still struggle with depression. It doesn't rear its ugly head every single day, nor do I feel like each minute is an agony, but there is definitely a shadow that follows. I don't know how many times I have asked G-d, "Why? Why did this happen to me?" I have begged Him to change things, but four years later, my depression has not been conquered. I'd always thought I was an okay person; why, then, was this happening to me?

Here's my answer:

I am 21 years old now. I am converting to Judaism, and I can honestly say that my faith, though tested, was ultimately intensely strengthened during these last four years of struggle. It's almost as if pain is some sort of megaphone, getting my attention. When I hit that hard, rockbottom, I am forced to look up. I don't believe that without my depression I would be where I am today, and I can honestly say in my heart of hearts that, although it's been difficult, I am thankful that I was entrusted with this burden. It has opened my heart to others dealing with mental illness; it has made me more compassionate; it has made a better listener; most of all, it has caused me to learn to trust my G-d, even when I can't see what He is doing.

That, I think, is why bad things happen to good people.

Unchanging

Although I'd read Aryeh Kaplan's explanation of the Rambam's ninth principle earlier, it wasn't until I reread it this morning that things really clicked into place. See, over the weekend, I spent some time with a few of my good friends, who happen to be Muslim. All four of us (my three friends and I) are very interested in talking about religion, in encouraging each other to live according to what we believe, even though we may believe differently. Obviously, all this involves a lot of discussion, and sometimes even banter back and forth when things get a little bit heated.

This particular weekend, we'd gathered at our oldest friend's apartment to kick back, play some backgammon, and eat ice cream. Somewhere amidst the Turkish music playing in the background and frequent fits of laughter at the broken accent of our friend still trying to master English, the conversation turned to religion, just as it usually does. I honestly can't remember how it started, or what exactly prompted the discussion, but soon I was sitting with my knees hugged to my chest on the couch, listening to my closest friend gush excitedly about how merciful Allah is. Another friend would cut him off, interjecting something relevant with a giant wave of his hand, and then Ahmed (as I'll call him) would start talking over him in his rush to convey to me just how fantastic Muhammad's words were. Through all this, I listened. While Ahmed pointed out verses in the Torah, linking them to ones in the Koran, I followed his thoughts, trying to understand, trying to fit his words into the context of the Judaism that I knew.

I was left with questions. It wasn't that I'd believed every single word that Ahmed had spoken (in fact, there were many parts that left me more than skeptical); it was that I was searching for something more solid than simply repeating my beliefs. I was searching for foundation, a why.

So, this morning, I reread the Rambam's ninth principle, along with Aryeh Kaplan's writings on the topic.

"I believe with perfect faith that the Torah will not be changed, and that there will never be another Torah given by G-d."

There it was.

It was so simple, so relieving.

I didn't have to go searching for details, for evidence, for proof. G-d clearly states in Deuteronomy 13:1 that no one shall ever add to or subtract from His Torah, and in the Jewish mind, this includes the prophet Muhammad. Stam.

Now, that's not to say that the above statement answers another question that Aryeh Kaplan poses at the end of his chapter (did G-d give the world any other religions besides Judaism?), but it is an answer for my dilemma. While I'm not going to rush to pick up my phone, call Ahmed, and blast him with this news, it is a good feeling to realize that I am standing on generations and generations of firm foundation, and more than that, I am standing on the word of G-d Himself. There is no end to the respect I have for Muslims, and I've found that even though our beliefs may differ, we serve the same G-d, and this is evident in our friendships. Ahmed's excitement about having the privilege to live for Allah every single day of his life is contagious, and I am reminded that I, too, have this privilege. It's an unchanging one.

Music for the Soul

This year, I had the privilege of spending Rosh Hashanah with my Lubavitch friends at the Chabad house in downtown Chicago. Although I'd thought that I was fairly familiar with Chasidic traditions, the experience was wonderful and eye-opening. I specifically remember that on the last night of services, we women sat and listened to the beautiful nigunim drift up from the other side of the mechitza. Before the service had started, my friend, Eliyahu, had explained to me the importance of each of the nigunim. He'd explained that music is infinitely more powerful and connecting than we can know; this is why, he said, it so important to choose wisely the music that we listen to.

There is no doubt that music has a soul-touching quality to it. I don't think that any of us can explain it, but we have all felt moved by a certain melody--maybe even certain words. I did a little bit of research on the importance of music in Judaism, and I was fascinated to discover that music was used by the prophets to attain the level of simcha needed to reach a state of prophecy. Growing up in the Christian tradition, this is something I had not heard before. However, when we stop and think about exactly what this means, the idea of music is transformed from rap songs on our iPods into something beautiful, mysterious, and completely spiritual. How can we take something that aided in the revelation of G-d's will to humans and use it to convey such meaningless (unfortunately, sometimes even twisted) ideas? Doesn't it seem unthinkable that something could be experienced with such opposite intentions?

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not going to throw away my Michael Jackson CDs. I think that music is meant to be a gift, and it's meant to be enjoyed. However, I think that realizing this sacred element in music should cause us to stop and think about the way in which we are using this gift. If we are using it to promote and instill ideas contrary to the nature of Hashem, we might want to stop and reevaluate what we're listening to. In Eliyahu's words, "Music connects our soul to the soul of the one who wrote it." Who are you connecting your soul to?

Approaching G-d

The first thing that I thought of as I read through the Rambam's fifth principle, was not necessarily that it seems strange that man should be able to talk to G-d, but that I have had to adapt to a different way of thinking now that I have begun to align myself with the Jewish faith. In Christianity, the idea that man has the privilege of going to G-d with absolutely any concern is extremely prevalent; in fact, it is one of the most emphasized facets of the faith.

Christianity stresses the idea that man can go to G-d with absolutely any concern; G-d concerns Himself with our needs and emotions. I grew up with this notion, and I still hang onto this idea that G-d is available to us, no matter what we need. However, I feel that in Judaism, I have been able to modify this idea so that I am more aware of G-d's holiness. Christianity, while it emphasizes the availability of G-d, does not emphasize the holiness of our G-d. It isn't that Christians don't believe that Hashem is holy--it's more that Jews recognize the very holiness of G-d's name. I love this about Judaism. Even the very name of G-d is considered too holy to say, except during prayer. The way that we approach G-d shows respect, and this is something different than I had experienced in the faith of my upbringing.

Should we have the right to approach G-d? I cannot answer this question. However, I do approach G-d: it doesn't matter who or what or where I am---I can approach the G-d that created me, that cares about me, that has my future in his palm. I love, though, the fact that I can bow before Hashem in the midst of all his glory...and tell him how much I love him.

In the Beginning, G-d...

As I was reading through the Rambam's fourth principle, I couldn't help but think again back to what I had been taught growing up in the church. As Christians, we all believed that G-d had made himself into a man. Now, though, I see where the contradictions lie between this piece of central doctrine and what the Rambam says about G-d.

I wrote last week about the disparities between the Christian idea of the trinity and the Rambam's second and third principles; this week, I want to examine this a bit further by incorporating the fourth principle--that G-d is the creator of everything, that nothing existed before Him. This idea is not new to Christianity. It is well known that G-d is the creator of everything. However, if nothing existed before G-d, and if G-d has no beginning, how could he have become a human? Wouldn't that mean that he was created (even if by Himself)? How can this jive with what the Rambam says about G-d creation and timelessness? If G-d had become a human, wouldn't that have meant that He was subject to the confines of time and physicality?

It doesn't seem to me that, if we take into account what the Rambam has written, G-d could have created Himself. In fact, there was no point of creation for G-d. He simply was, and He simply is. (Actually, I think these verbs are too limited to even describe G-d. These verbs denote a sense of time, and G-d does not exist within the confines of time.) If G-d didn't create Himself--was, in fact, never created--it strikes me as unreasonable to claim that G-d created Himself later in the form of a man. Even if we were to assume that G-d in the form of man existed since the dawn of time, this still does not satisfy the second and third principles of Maimonides, the ones that discuss G-d's unity and formlessness.

To Christians, all of this might seem strange and foreign. I don't write these things to provoke anger, but rather to provoke thought. No matter what a person believes, the important thing is that one has come to a conclusion based not on the simple absorption of what one is told, but on a rational, logical, and even sometimes emotional response to investigation. What matters is that one can stand behind his or her beliefs with solid reasons.

Coexist...

I should be posting on the suggested topic for my class, but I feel that I need to address something that has really been weighing on my heart today. It is, of course, September 11, and this day stirs up sadness, anger, hate, confusion, and so many other emotions in the hearts of Americans and others around the world. To remember what happened on this day eleven years ago breaks my heart, too. I am reminded of exactly where I was, of the thoughts rushing through my fifth-grade mind, of the fears and the sadness that seemed to drown everything else out.

My Facebook newsfeed is overflowing with photographs and statuses dedicated to remembering this day, and I think that the fact that people are remembering and honoring those who died in the attacks is wonderful. However, what is crushing my heart this morning is the number of posts full of hateful, angry comments about Muslims...and most of these comments have been made by my Jewish friends. I am ashamed, and I am saddened to see the disgusting attitudes displayed by my co-religionists. I realize, of course, that the September 11 attacks were carried out by radical Muslim terrorists, but in my mind it is absolutely unthinkable to blame the Islamic faith for that terrible day.

I think that, because I am a convert-in-process, I tend to have a more accepting view of religion. I have managed to break out of the fundamentalist viewpoints, and I can now see the bigger picture. G-d didn't create us to be in a state of turmoil with each other, and He didn't create us so that we could fight and hate and kill and point fingers. This semester I am taking Arabic at my university, and I have been so blessed to be able to become friends with some of the most wonderful, inspiring people I've known. These friends are hijab-wearing, Kurdish speaking, five-times-a-day-praying Muslims, and never once have I heard a hateful thing come out of their mouths. They know I am Jewish. I know they are Muslim. We are able to discuss religion freely, and we have found that although we disagree, we are still drawn to each other as people...because that's just it: we are people. I am not restricted to merely being a Jew, and neither are they to being called Muslim. We all have the same blood, the same emotions, the same facial expressions, and the same sorts of laughs.

So, if a Jew and a Muslim can be friends, why are we hating? Why are we attributing to all Muslims so many awful things and deeds? If to be a Jew means to hate the Islamic, Arabic-speaking world, I am intensely saddened. Today, let's remember what happened on September 11, 2001, but more than that, let's strive to make our world a better place, diminishing hate, and spreading peace.

Steps and Boundaries

I find that all it takes to regain a step that you took backwards is to really start sprinting ahead; even if you slam into a brick wall after two feet, at least you're back to where you were before. I keep feeling like I'll be in a place to take small steps forward, and then something will happen, and I'll falter. It's so discouraging, and sometimes I just want to stop altogether and just stand still in one spot. The solution? As far as I can tell, immersing myself in a Jewish lifestyle is exactly what the doctor ordered. Spending a shabbat in Omaha at Beth Israel with nurturing friends and support circles works its magic every time, and I come away with a renewed motivation to stick with my Jewish lifestyle at home in Lincoln. Feeling as though you are being welcomed into a loving, close-knit family helps to ease some of the tension I find myself experiencing during my everyday week.

The funny thing is, that same tension is sometimes a help, also. If I allow myself to focus on the things that make me different now that I am on this path to conversion, I find myself bumping constantly against boundaries: ethnic ones, social ones, cultural and religious ones. The boundaries help, and I work to strengthen them, not because I want to isolate myself, but because they help to solidify the new sense of who I am. For example, I am almost constantly aware of my knee-length skirts and high necklines when I'm surrounded by girls in jeans and tank tops. At the beginning, I used to envy their fashion freedom, but I no longer feel that way. Now, instead of pining after a pair of shorts, I am comfortable in my skirt because it serves as a constant reminder of the life I am choosing. Something as simple as the clothes you wear can help to set you apart.

It's not that I see myself as any better because of these boundaries. It's not that I condemn girls who wear skinny jeans (quite the opposite, I absolutely adore skinny jeans and sneakers). It's simply that these separations help me to remember and nurture the identity that I am taking on through this process. I can't help but think that perhaps some of these mitzvot were put in place by Hashem for exactly this reason (although I don't claim to know His reasoning).

I was talking with my rabbi's wife this past Shabbos, about how long it took her to become frum after she started to make the decision. Her response surprised me because I'd been feeling like I was the only one plagued by a routine of forward steps and setbacks. When she told me that it took her about two years to really become very religious, I wanted to run across the kitchen and hug her! I guess I realize now that it's not something that's wrong with me, these steps forward and backward, but something normal and necessary that everyone faces. I call myself a Jew-by-choice, and in one sense I am. However, I think that in another sense, we are all Jews by choice. Being consciously, intentionally Jewish is a choice that we make every single minute of every single day, and even when it's hard sometimes to live in the tension, it is worth every struggle.

Timeless, Formless, Matchless

The most glaring difference between Christianity and Judaism is, of course, the dissenting views on the person of the historical Jesus. Obviously, this was something I'd thought long and hard about going in to my conversion process; however, what I hadn't thought so much about was what fathoming a G-d without form would be like.

Don't get me wrong--Christians believe in the trinity. They believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and of those three parts, two of them are formless. It wasn't that the idea of a bodiless G-d was new to me, it was rather that I had to adjust to thinking of G-d as only formless. Lots of times, when Christians are going through rough times in life, they will comfort themselves by remembering that Jesus knew firsthand what it was like to suffer as a human as well. They compare their temptations to his temptations, their physical pain to his physical pain, and their loneliness to his loneliness. It is, actually, an incredibly comforting thought, and some days I struggle to connect to Hashem, this formless G-d that my human mind can't even fathom.

I've realized, though, somewhere along the way, that my connection to G-d is not based on similarities, but rather on differences. I can trust Hashem not because I know that He has experienced my pain, but because He is so awesome and wonderful and terrifyingly mind-blowing that nothing my human emotions stir up could ever even compare with how amazing He is. Because He is without physicality, He is beyond anything I can dream up. Because He is matchless in power, I have nothing to be afraid of. And because He is timeless, I know there's nothing that can slow Him or stop Him. My fears of being somehow disconnected from a formless G-d have been realized--but it's that same acknowledgement of such an incomparable G-d that is so comforting. He is One, He is second to none.


.שׁמע ישׂראל, יי אלהינוּ, יי אחד

Hijab & Tznius

I saw a girl wearing hijab today. I guess that's nothing new--there's a lot of girls who wear hijab here at UNL--but I think I'm becoming more and more aware of it. It's not that I didn't notice them before; it's just that I feel as though somehow we are connected now. There aren't a lot of other girls wearing long sleeves and making an effort to dress modestly during the month of August, and when we passed each other on the sidewalk, the girl smiled at me. I smiled back, of course. It was like we acknowledged with just that small, fleeting smile that we shared something special even though we didn't know each other.

I have such admiration for those girls in hijab. It's one thing to be wearing a skirt and entirely another thing to be covering your head, neck, and in some cases, even your face. Hijab is just so striking, so mysterious; I used to find it intimidating, like those girls were from some other world that I would never know, but now I find myself closer to that realm. No, I am not covering my hair at this point in my life, but the idea behind our way of dress remains the same. We are embracing our inner beauty, leaving something to be discovered.

(Besides, I get cold now in short sleeves.)

Comfort Zones

I'm not going to hide it--after Meir and I broke up, I definitely comfort zoned myself. At that moment, Judaism was so connected with him and the life we'd wanted together that I just couldn't bear to be reminded of what I'd lost. So, I pulled on jeans every day for a week, used my computer on Shabbat, and tried to order shrimp at Ruby Tuesday (which I just couldn't bring myself to do).

The thing was, I had thought all of that stuff would make me feel better. I had thought that wearing jeans and sneakers would make me feel more like myself, that texting on Saturday was going to somehow solve my problems. After less than a week, though, I realized that what I'd thought was my comfort zone was no longer really my comfort zone. When I slid on a skirt and long sleeves, I felt instantly better, like I belonged to something and there was something solid that was mine regardless of what was happening in my life. I'd never doubted that my decision to convert was for me and me alone, but something about having to stand on my own two Jewish feet for the first time was wildly strengthening. The next day I started davening again, started saying modeh ani again, started washing again when I got up. I put away the jeans, and I got out the siddur. I know now where my real comfort zone is.

So, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, missing Meir, and focusing on all the hard things going on right now, I'm choosing to use this time to really establish my Jewish identity. In fact, I think this period in my life could really be a blessing from Hashem even though it is a bit uncomfortable and scary at times. Baruch Hashem for triumphs disguised as trials!

The G-d of Israel

As a Jew-by-Choice, I am hyper-aware of the deeper differences between my ways of thinking and the ways of thinking that I feel I should become more aligned with. What I mean to say, I guess, is that there are certain beliefs and attitudes that lots of Jews possess that go without saying, and because these values and perspectives were not necessarily instilled in me as a child, I get caught in the tension between what I think I should feel and what I actually do feel.

When Rabbi Gross posed the question, "Who is the G-d of Israel?", I realized that my response to this seemingly simple question would most likely be different than what someone raised within the Jewish faith might say. For example, I grew up with my view of G-d focused on His compassion, His forgiveness, and His love. I am not suggesting that Jews do not hold these views of G-d as well (in fact, they do!); what I'm trying to point out, though, is that I believe that Christianity stresses different aspects of G-d's character than does Judaism. So, instead of trying to give the "right" answers that I sometimes think I should try to give as a convert-in-process, I'm going to be honest and candid in my answer.

The G-d of Israel is my everything, my reason. He gives meaning to the meaningless and hope to the hopeless. He gives comfort and supplies strength when I have none. Just because I know He exists, I can face my tomorrows, and I can trust that He will take care of me--even if it's not in the way that I'd prefer in that moment. The G-d of Israel believes in me, and He set out a purpose for my life; I'm not just breathing in vain. He has expectations of me, rules for the way I should live, and He knows my potential. The G-d of Israel created me with a Jewish soul, and even though it's difficult sometimes, He is guiding me through to acknowledgement of that soul. He has provided through Judaism a way of expressing my love for Him tangibly and physically--through my behavior, through my speech, my dress, my eating habits, and my loyalty.

The G-d of Israel is the creator of everything, and although we've heard it all before, it never hurts to really let the truth sink in: without Hashem, there would be nothing. He has complete control, has ultimate wisdom, and He's my biggest cheerleader. The G-d of Israel, the same One who has the plot of history perfectly intertwined with the future, hears every single word that I pray. He is omnipotent, He is omniscient, and He's bigger and better and stronger and wiser and more awesome and powerful than I could ever even begin to fathom. Just the sound of His name sends an exciting shudder down the spine. I try to wrap my mind around His perfectness, and it's frustrating when I can't. But then again, He's G-d: that's the whole point.

A Little Background

Hello and Shalom!

I'm not very good at keeping up a consistent blog, but for the sake of my friend (who I won't name), I'm going to do my very best at recording some (or a few) of the trials and joys that are being thrown at me during this time in my life.

I'll start off by saying that I grew up as a Christian. Practically everyone around me--my parents, extended family, neighbors, friends, schoolmates--had some sort of tie to the Christian faith, and it was a huge part of my life. I can probably count on one hand the number of Sundays that I missed church growing up, and I did the whole youth group scene as well. Which was wonderful. I loved it. I'd never trade those memories. The thing is, though: my mom always talked about the Jewish people. I remember the exact moment when she told me I wasn't a part of G-d's chosen people, and I just sat down in the middle of the floor and cried (I was probably about four). Although she assured me that Christians also occupied a special place in G-d's heart, I just couldn't shake the feeling that Judaism was special to me. It would be years, though, before I would start to struggle with the issue.

I'll save the rest for later posts, but here I am--17 years later--in the process of an Orthodox conversion. While I'd say that I'm loving most of it, it would be a lie to say that the process isn't an extremely difficult one. I wish I could say that those days when I just want to pull on a pair of jeans didn't exist, but I can't. They do. Late night cheeseburger cravings, stolen glances at the shrimp cocktail during the Super Bowl party, a terrible urge to hit the mall on a Saturday afternoon--they don't go away. It's okay, though, because with every active choice I make to be Jewish throughout the day, I am reminded once again of the journey I'm taking.

And it's a good one.