Faith at 15 and 50

What would the 15-year-old firebrand version of me say to the 50-year-old incarnation—and vice versa? Both have a lot to learn from each other and in fact more in common than they think. The real question is: am I, at 50, open to listening?

When it comes to my religious observance, my 50-year-old self looks back at my 15-year-old with a lot of self criticisms – I was intolerant, self-centered, immature, rigid, and clearly lacking in “gray hair” and life experience.

My 15-year-old self, in turn, would probably see me now as soft, compromising, middle-of-the-road, and antiquated—a bit of a sad old man who has lost his sense of passion.

I don’t know how much they would see eye to eye, or to what extent they would respect each other. Sadly, they are so similar in many ways, and I’m not sure they’d even recognize it. That, in itself, reflects one of the main challenges of our time—our inability to empathize with others.

As I reflect on the 35 years in between, I realize I need some of that spark, passion, and fire in my belly back—but not at the cost of the wisdom I’ve gained. Can I pull it off?

Back then, I had a burning passion for Judaism and Torah—a true thirst. Life was simple: black and white, with no room for gray. If the Torah or the rabbis said X, then it simply was X.

I adopted, somewhat irresponsibly, the worldview that “new is bad,” loosely drawn from the phrase “חדש אסור מן התורה”—a mantra used by followers of the Chatam Sofer in their resistance to the Haskalah and the march of modernity. Ironically, I grew up before mobile phones, so I’m not sure how that would have influenced me.

Every Midrash was literally true. Every Torah narrative was taken at face value. If something didn’t fit the world around me, it was the world that was wrong. Automatically anything added was not a good thing.

I emphasized ritual over the softer, emotional aspects of faith. I genuinely believed—with real fear—that any misstep could be punished.

Above all, I felt the raw power and passion of Torah. It was intoxicating.

Things are different at 50. Maybe it’s the country I live in, the era, or simply the accumulation of life’s challenges over three and a half decades. But something deep inside me has shifted.

Now, I’m far more reflective and nuanced. I believe that unity, tolerance, love, kindness, mutual respect, and ethical behavior are the true hallmarks of our people—and these are the values we must preserve. I believe in allegory and metaphor and the fact that our relationship with God is by definiition more complex – and I appreciate the depth this brings because life is not simple.

I’ve also discovered a Judaism I never knew existed: the halachot and obligations tied to running a modern state—dimensions that were never part of my upbringing.

Yet, for all this growth and nuance, the question remains: Have I lost the passion and all-consuming intensity for Judaism, Torah, and—dare I say it—God, as an active part of my life?

The answer, of course, isn’t simple. But I do know this: while I feel more at ease, more grounded, and more “correct” at 50, I miss the raw energy of my youth. And I want to reconnect with it.

There’s another aspect to this, of course. The above focuses on the differences. But in many ways, we were always similar—our basic ethics, our love for family and goodness, our overwhelming desire to keep God’s word. So much is shared, yet it would likely be obscured by the differences. We – as a people – are so often blinded by our differences.

Last night, I sat with my 15-year-old daughter and studied a Rashi she was learning in school. It sparked something in me—a connection I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was wonderful, actually. Our differences aren’t really that major (though she’d disagree and say that fashion, taste, music, and pretty much everything else is different).

So how do I get the passion back, while keeping the gifts that come with a more mature perspective? More broadly, how can we maintain our unity and sense of family.

Perhaps God gave me a little clue last night.

Will I do something about it? I hope so.