Faithless, But Home: My Soul Belongs to Israel

Between Pillows, Between Faiths — A Personal Journey Towards Israel and Judaism

They say in the Netherlands, “Twee geloven op één kussen, daar slaapt de duivel tussen” — two religions on one pillow, and the devil sleeps in between. It’s a saying meant to warn against interfaith marriages, but in my case, it was a glimpse into the complex reality I was born into. My father, a non-practicing Protestant who respected his parents more than any scripture, and my mother — officially Catholic, though later in life, I would come to realize she was more Jewish than she ever dared to admit, or even knew.

Raised in a secular household, my parents chose not to impose religion on me — a decision I’ve always appreciated. Religion, after all, seemed a source of so much violence, hypocrisy, and sorrow. I was a rock-solid atheist, unwavering. I’d argue heatedly: “If God is good, why did He allow six million Jews to perish in the Holocaust? Why are innocent children dying of cancer or famine?” Christians would tell me, “That’s the fault of mankind, not of God.” But that argument never landed. If God created humans, knowing what destruction they were capable of, why create them at all? Surely, an all-knowing, all-powerful creator would have known better.

So I steered clear of it all — churches, cathedrals, mosques. I’d visit respectfully, cover my hair in Islamic spaces, dress modestly abroad. I respected the people, but not the belief systems. Especially not the ones that left trails of violence in their wake. Priests abusing children. Women murdered in the name of honor. Books could be written — and they have — about the pain religion has caused.

And yet… something shifted.

The Turning Point

On November 18, 2014, a terror attack in the Har Nof neighborhood of Jerusalem shook me to my core. I had already supported Israel, but this — this felt personal. It led me to start a grassroots movement: Time to Stand Up For Israel. A few weeks later, during the week of the Charlie Hebdo attacks in Paris, we held a memorial at a synagogue in Amsterdam for the victims of the kosher supermarket massacre.

That synagogue visit changed me.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t zone out during a religious service. The words of the rabbi hit home — they made sense. It felt real. It felt… like home. Something about Judaism, even in its ritual and rule-based form, touched a nerve in me. Not the way Christianity ever had, not with the insistence on divine forgiveness and salvation through someone else’s suffering. No — Judaism was practical, wise, deeply intellectual.

I began reading the Torah and the Talmud. The logic behind Jewish law amazed me. Take the kosher rule of not mixing meat and milk — what seemed archaic at first suddenly made sense when you look at it through a health lens. Milk inhibits the absorption of iron, crucial when you’re consuming meat. Coincidence? Maybe. But likely not. Circumcision on the eighth day? Science confirms that’s when pain-reducing hormones in infants peak. Judaism doesn’t just preach — it reasons. It teaches. And it respects questioning, unlike so many other faiths that demand blind belief.

And yet, I still don’t believe in God — not in the traditional sense.

Energy Over Divinity

I believe in energy — the kind you feel when you stand on Israeli soil for the first time. That unexplainable buzz that tells you, “You are home.” Energy cannot be destroyed; it transforms, it lingers. Maybe that’s what people feel as “God.” Maybe clairvoyants, prophets, whatever you want to call them, are just finely tuned receivers of that energy. That’s a belief I can hold onto.

My journey brought me to consider aliyah, immigrating to Israel. But the bureaucracy of proving Jewish ancestry — long lost in the ashes of the Shoah or scattered across Europe — stood in the way. I tried to go the route of a giur — a conversion. I chose the Reconstructionist path because it seemed the quickest way to live in the land I loved.

Ironically, the more religious the process became, the less it resonated with me.

I found myself annoyed by women wearing kippot, irritated by liberal interpretations. In some ways, I became more orthodox in thought than practice. After a year, I knew it wasn’t right. It wasn’t genuine. My heart wasn’t in becoming religious. But my heart was in the synagogue. In the tradition. In the people. In the land.

A Love Without Labels

I won’t make aliyah. Not in the official sense, anyway. But my soul belongs to Israel. My love for it is unconditional. It’s a bond deeper than blood, stronger than paperwork. I don’t need to believe in a divine being to feel spiritually connected to Judaism. I don’t need to be “religious” to feel that energy surge through me every time I sing Hatikvah, or step foot in Jerusalem, or cry in a synagogue service.

Some things don’t need proof. They just are.

And if more people could feel that — truly feel it — maybe the world would be a better place.

Am Yisrael Chai.
The nation of Israel lives.
And in some small but unwavering way, I live through it too.