Becoming Jewish Is Well Worth The Effort

Any non-Jewish person of sound mind who feels a personal draw to Judaism can become Jewish. People commonly convert to Judaism out of personal spiritual conviction, marriage to a Jewish partner, or a desire to raise a family within the Jewish community. Recent academic research into modern conversion patterns highlights that modern American converts are significantly more ethnically and socially diverse. For instance, a notable percentage of modern Reform and Conservative converts openly identify as LGBTQ or come from diverse Latinx and African American backgrounds.

Many Synagogues have reported a distinct wave of modern seekers initiating conversion because a commercial DNA test unexpectedly revealed a lost Jewish heritage, Recent conversion stories highlight a deep spiritual pulling toward community, an embrace of a “difficult freedom,” and a desire to stand with the Jewish people during times of global trial. Rather than being deterred by rising global antisemitism, many recent converts describe feeling that their “Jewish souls” have finally come home.

In Utah, Luis Guerrero Muñoz and his wife Fabiola, were originally a Catholic couple from Venezuela. Then Luis discovered that his ancestors were actually Sephardic Jews who fled Spain centuries ago to escape forced conversion. Over generations in South America, their Jewish identity slowly faded. Hearing the hidden call of his ancestry, Luis undertook a study process. His recent immersion in the mikvah (ritual bath) was an intentional “act of memory” to officially bring his family’s lineage back into the Jewish community.

Millions of Spanish and Portuguese speakers are descendants of Jews who were forcibly baptized during the 15th century. Many of these people have Jewish souls and are now returning to the Jewish people. How would you know if you could be one of them?

Signs of a Jewish soul.

1- You like to ask questions? But when you asked them as a child, you were told faith is a gift from God and you shouldn’t question it. This never satisfied you, although others didn’t seem to have a problem with this view.

2- The trinity never made any sense to you even as a young child. You prayed to God the father more easily than Jesus the son of God, even though you were told to pray to Jesus. You could not believe that people who didn’t believe in Jesus wouldn’t go to Heaven.

3- You found you related well to Jewish people you met at work or at school even though they were culturally different from your own family.

4- When you first learned about the Holocaust you reacted more emotionally than did other members of your own family.

5- When you started to learn about Judaism the ideas and values seemed reasonable and the traditions and heritage seemed attractive. You felt that at last you were coming home.

If most of these statements apply to you, you probably have a Jewish soul. If you can find a possible Jewish ancestor you definitely have a Jewish soul.

After October 7th 2023 Jeannie Suk Gersen shared her story in The New Yorker regarding her decision to finalize a decades-long connection to Judaism. After living “like a Jew without being one” for 25 years, the crisis of October 7, 2023 acted as a catalyst. Rabbis note that many recent candidates feel like a “Jewish soul born into a non-Jewish body.” When tragedy struck the Jewish community, these seekers did not run away; instead, they looked at the Jewish community and realized these were their brothers and sisters, and wanted to stand in solidarity.

Molly Laufer is a Jew by choice who converted after 13 years of living Jew-ish. She jokes that unlike the common assumptions of Judaism rejecting you, she rejected Judaism three times before finding the right time, place and community to convert.

My path to Judaism took 13 years. And while I ended up marrying the first Jewish person I ever met (my now-husband Dan), I felt like an outsider for much of my journey toward and with Judaism.

It started the first time I met Dan’s family for their traditional Israeli Sunday brunch at their home. Dan’s family is incredibly welcoming. His Mom’s legacy centers around food and community, and making everyone feel comfortable in her home. At the time, though, I was a 19-year-old undergrad and felt like a fish out of water, far away from the rural, conservative town in Maryland where I grew up.

While I was not brought up in a “strictly” religious household, going to church and being an active part of a church community was a big part of my upbringing. My mom and I participated in service projects, holiday gift drives, fundraisers and more.

So there I was, preparing for brunch in a new environment. “Brunch,” I thought. “I can do brunch, I’m good at eating and socializing.” As I sat with Dan’s family’s house that day in front of pickled fish, olive bread and salad (for breakfast?), and tried to follow the conversation that dipped in and out of Hebrew and English, my self-consciousness got the better of me. “They’re talking about me, I know they are, they don’t like me,” was all I could think.

This was my first exposure to Judaism and after that meal, I was skeptical that differences in religion and culture would be a deal-breaker in our relationship. Although my comfort level around the Laufer family grew with every celebration, I still felt like an outsider around Jewish rituals. I spent services mumbling along, eyes down and hoped nobody noticed my lips barely moved.

Before getting engaged, Dan and I discussed what raising a family might look like in the context of religion. Dan was a grandson of a Holocaust survivor and though he would never ask me to convert, raising Jewish kids was a non-negotiable. I completely understood why this was important to him and we decided on an interfaith wedding. Our wedding was in Charlottesville, Virginia, and our officiant was the university’s Hillel rabbi, who, like Dan, was open-minded and married interfaith couples who promised to raise their future children as Jews.

I spent the next eight years living Jew-ishly and keeping a (somewhat) Jewish home, During this time, I embarked on the conversion path three times (different classes at different synagogues) before I ultimately decided to go through with my conversion. I had spent most of the past decade battling “imposter syndrome” in my professional career and here it was, surfacing in my personal and spiritual life as well.

When I asked myself if I was “ready” to be Jewish, the lingering questions ranged from serious to humorous: Had I experienced enough lifecycle events and holidays authentically enough? Is it OK that I still don’t like lox on my bagels or pickles in my falafel shawarma? Will people know that I’m a Jew by choice? How do I raise children who may be subject to anti-semitism? Do I know everything I need to know about Judaism?

I read a quote about parenthood that I think applies to anyone grappling with these uncertainties in becoming Jewish: “There is no one way to be a perfect mother, but a million ways to be a good one.” When I subbed “mother” for “Jew,” I knew I had a pretty good answer for navigating the road ahead. I already knew there were a million ways to be a good Jew and almost all of them start with showing up: For yourself, your community, for Saturdays and all of the days and moments in between.

When I told my mom about my decision to convert, I think she felt a bit like I was rejecting my upbringing. I told her I understood how it could feel like a rejection, but it was actually the experiences we shared together with our local church community that made me want to convert to Judaism. I yearned for the same kind of community she had introduced me to, for myself and for my family; I was simply living out that desire within a different religion.

Sometimes I feel sad that I spent so much time worrying about how I was perceived as I explored Judaism, which may have created missed opportunities to connect more deeply with the religion, the community and the rituals. But now I understand that I needed those years; I needed time and space to explore Judaism on my own terms, in ways that were authentic to me, to see if it was right for me.

Thirteen years after that first brunch, I felt comfortable. I submerged into the mikveh 35 weeks pregnant at the age of 32, and knew it was the time and place for me.

After converting, Dan and I continued to celebrate holidays and take care of each other, our family and community—Jewish and not. I still mumble in services through some of the prayers, but with a bit of rhythm and clapping and humming, I fit in on a Friday night. I finally feel like I’ve turned off the blinking “NOT JEWISH!” sign that hung over my head in the synagogue for all those years. It was only there in my imagination anyway.