Tag Archives: faith and doubt

December 25, 2023 · 6:30 am

An Unexpected Invitation

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

Brooklyn hosts many different religions,

but for this less than practicing Jew,

the invitation to attend a Mennonite

prayer service was indeed a surprise.

Much different from traditional

services in my own synagogue,

this service was held in a coffee shop

with hymns and readings wafting

over the cakes and pastries.

What impressed me most

was the unmistakable

sense of community,

a fellowship of followers.

Fundamentalists, sure, but

holders of a tenacious grip

to the tenets of their faith.

I bore witness to their devotion, 

admiring the warm coat 

of their faith while I shivered 

in my own garment of doubt,

a requirement, it seems,

of the Jewish religion,

while I sat and prayed during

the High Holidays. 

It must be so comforting

to be so sure.

Mel Glenn, the author of twelve books for young adults, is working on a poetry book about the pandemic tentatively titled Pandemic, Poetry, and People. He has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years. You can find his most recent poems in the YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy, edited by M. Jerry Weiss. If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

1 Comment

Filed under American Jewry, Brooklyn Jews, Jewish, Jewish identity, Jewish writing, Judaism, poetry

Tagged as , , , , , , , , , ,

December 11, 2023 · 7:30 am

The Challenges of Conversion

By Joseph O’Keefe (Rockville Centre, NY)

Please do not call me by my Hebrew name. As a convert, I am considered the child of Abraham and Sarah (Avram v’Sarah), but they are not my parents. Brian and Cathy are.

For all the richness that Judaism has brought to my own life and family, I have never been able to reconcile with this tradition – particularly as it involves the love and support of those that positioned and prepared me for the choice to embrace a new faith. 

Is it possible to feel fully accepted when such a distinction is made between Jews-by-birth and Jews-by-choice? At what point does the symbolism of a shared ancestry ostracize the convert? And how can their ‘real’ past be recognized while simultaneously honoring the history of their adoptive one? 

Anita Diamant opens her invaluable book Choosing a Jewish Life with an anecdote about a rabbi telling a convert that even Fitzgerald can be a Jewish name. That may be true outside of temple. But where it also counts, during rites and rituals, the gentile’s past is essentially disregarded.

Having been raised a Roman Catholic, I was familiar with the Biblical stories of Abraham and Sarah, including how they are told that their descendants will someday be as numerous as the stars in the sky – the very beginning of Jewish lineage and the reason why all converts are considered their children. 

There is an undeniable beauty in the idea that we Jews share a common set of parents and that our ancestors were prophets singled out by the Almighty. To be born to Jewish parents is to draw a continuous line between oneself and the ancients, but the convert lives both inside and outside the diaspora, and assigning a single surname to the entire group can leave us feeling ‘other.’

Heritage should be a point of pride, particularly for a group whose history is so heavily defined by attempts to eradicate it. The stories of crypto-Jews, those Jews who secretly practiced their faith in 13-14th century Europe, were an inspiration to me during my conversion and remain so now. Even today, some Jews proudly refer to themselves as Kohans – descendants of an exalted line dating back to the Israelites. My birth name, O’Keefe, tells its own story, but it is easy for converts to feel some insecurity when their Hebrew names so clearly denote newness, i.e., the absence of longevity. 

Not all sects recognize converts like myself as equal members of the faith, and those looking to join stricter denominations are subject to an even more rigorous process than I was. Between the ascendance of antisemitism and the hard-right drift in Israeli politics, I worry about the distinction becoming relevant should my family ever need to seek safe haven – this despite the fact that, as many of the Jews I know have noted, the conversion process has left me more knowledgeable than some born into the faith. In fact, there are plenty of stories of Jews by choice who took to their new faith so strongly that they became more orthodox than their partners had anticipated or hoped. 

My parents had already come to know and love my wife before I chose to convert. From the time we began dating, we knew that religion would be an issue, and there were plenty of intense discussions along the way. She had been raised in an observant home, attended yeshiva, and wanted to be married under the chuppah. Like countless others in our position, we took a class together while I did some one-on-one study with our rabbi and learned some basic Hebrew. In time I found myself in the mikvah, successfully pleading my case in front of the beit din and embracing a new faith while my wife was reconnecting with hers. 

Admittedly, I do not recall thinking much about my new name during the conversion work. It was not until we were invited to  to the bema after I had finished that it truly dawned on me. 

Members of my family had come to temple to celebrate, and my in-laws were sponsoring the post-service meal. My wife had been helping me with my pronunciation and I was sitting nervously waiting to be called when the rabbi introduced us by our Hebrew names. She said it quickly enough that few likely   noticed, but I did. And then again at our aufruf. And during our vows. Now it is written in the ketubah that hangs in our home and will be recited at my children’s mitzvot and someday at my own funeral. 

My conversion certificate is a joyful souvenir of the time spent learning about and embracing Judaism, but its signatory line stings. It is a reminder that no matter what has been gained and how I have worked to join this community, there are some lines that can never be breached. Nevertheless, I continue to live a life informed by faith, and we are raising our children to do the same. My parents have since passed and though their names are illuminated on the dates of their Yahrzeits and I remember them at Yizkor, I cannot help in moments of solemnity to feel envious of those who carry the names of their actual parents along with them and, even more, to think that mine deserve better.  

The questioning of tradition is itself an expression of Judaism. On the very first night of conversion class, the rabbi told us that doubt was an essential part of the journey and that so long as we were to be Jews, it was our responsibility to argue and debate. So here I am doing my part. If Judaism means to embrace its converts, recognition of their actual pasts is a good place to start. 

Joseph O’Keefe is a research administrator from Long Island, NY where he lives with his wife and two children. 

1 Comment

Filed under American Jewry, Family history, Jewish, Jewish identity, Jewish writing, Judaism

Tagged as , , , , , , , , , , ,

July 18, 2016 · 8:47 am

Of Death and Coffee

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

So, three older Jewish guys

are sitting around a table

at an older Jewish restaurant

talking about death.

It’s the subject of some worried inquiry

as all three approach the finish line.

“Jews don’t believe in heaven,” says the first man.

“Your soul lives on after you,” says the next.

“Perhaps,” says the third, “the big surprise

is there is absolutely nothing – gornisht.”

“You mean this is all there is?” the first one asks.

“Could be,” replies the second.

“Maybe it’s like this,” the third man says,

“just ten minutes before you die,

you get a message, like an e-mail, from God,

telling you exactly what’s gonna happen.”

“That would be nice,” the first man agrees.

The three men stare into their coffees,

each one contemplating his own mortality,

together as friends facing the dreadful uncertainty.

“Same time next week?”

“God willing.”

The author of twelve books for young adults, Mel Glenn has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years.  Lately, he’s been writing poetry, and you can find his most recent poems in the YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy, edited by M. Jerry Weiss.

If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

4 Comments

Filed under American Jewry, Jewish identity, Jewish writing, poetry

Tagged as , , , , ,

August 24, 2015 · 6:00 am

Taxi Driver

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

A man of faith, transporting a doubtful believer,
he negotiated the stop-and-go of
Brooklyn traffic from under his yarmulke.
When asked if he were driving full time,
he answered, “No, I am a religious teacher,”
his tzitzis hanging outside his pants.
Assuming rightly I was Jewish, he asked,
“Do you put on tefillin?”
“Why should I?” I countered, cheekily.
“Because the head is over the heart.
Also, you should observe Shabbos.”
“It’s a little late for me.”
“It’s never too late to be a good Jew.”
He had arrived from Casablanca
because there weren’t enough Jews there to teach.
“I hope to lead a congregation here,” he said.
I paid my fare, concluding I was walking to hell
while he was driving, sans map, a straight path to heaven.

The author of twelve books for young adults, Mel Glenn has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years.  Lately, he’s been writing poetry, and you can find his most recent poems in the YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy, edited by M. Jerry Weiss.

If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

Leave a comment

Filed under American Jewry, Brooklyn Jews, Jewish identity, poetry

Tagged as , , ,

October 28, 2013 · 8:40 am

Scenes from a Movie

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

Three nuns are bouncing on trampolines.
Why are they bouncing on trampolines?
It’s a parody on leap of faith.
And that, my friends, is the sticking point.
Either you have faith, or don’t, or hedge your bets,
caught between the chasm of doubt,
and the certainty of belief.
Current events test my faith;
senseless murders torture it.
I would love to believe that God has a plan,
but lately I have been coming to the conclusion
His plans are rather arbitrary.
Yes, I know man has free will,
but I wonder if that gives him too much license.
I have read that faith heals when
family and community come together in prayer.
Small comfort for tragic loss, I feel.
All great religions posit a higher power,
but in the certainty of my doubts,
there is no trampoline I can jump
to reach the upper vaults of heaven.

The author of twelve books for young adults, Mel Glenn has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years.  Lately, he’s been writing poetry, and you can find his most recent poems in a new YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy,  edited by M. Jerry Weiss.

If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

Leave a comment

Filed under American Jewry, poetry

Tagged as , ,

December 17, 2012 · 9:17 am

The Broken Country

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

No poem expresses enough;
no word heals enough.
We are the broken country.
We have been felled by madness,
swamped by guns, abandoned by God
who seems to have attended business elsewhere.
We are the broken country.
Reason provides answers after the fact.
Faith provides comfort after the fact.
People will gather in churches and synagogues
in a fruitless attempt to make sense
out of what is senseless.
Psychologists will offer theories.
Clergy will offer solace.
Politicians will offer legislation –
all too late.
You can’t close the gate
after the horror has been released.
We are the broken country.

The author of twelve books for young adults, Mel Glenn has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years.  Lately, he’s been writing poetry, and you can find his most recent poems in a new YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy,  edited by M. Jerry Weiss.

If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

2 Comments

Filed under poetry

Tagged as , ,

September 10, 2012 · 8:01 am

Me, George Herbert, and the High Holidays

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

What do I, little Jewish boy from Brooklyn,
have in common with George Herbert,
17th century metaphysical poet and priest?
A lot more than you might think,
he in italics, me in Times New Roman.
I Struck the board and cry’d, No more.
How many times have I abandoned
the temple, the service, and my God?
But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde
at every word….
How many times have I rebelled
at droning words, incomprehensible to my ears?
…Me thoughts I heard one calling, ‘Childe.’
And I reply’d, ‘My Lord.’
And so, when the shofar sounds this year,
for reasons I can’t fully explain,
I will be sitting in my usual seat, Row U, Seat 4,
saying “God, I am here,” despite, or maybe
because of, all questions and doubts,
looking to find the exquisite moments of
wonderment and epiphany
I suspect are there.

The author of twelve books for young adults, Mel Glenn has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years.  Lately, he’s been writing poetry, and you can find his most recent poems in a new YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy,  edited by M. Jerry Weiss.

If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

Leave a comment

Filed under American Jewry, Jewish identity, poetry

Tagged as , , ,

March 5, 2012 · 9:08 am

A Fan in the Stands

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

A fan in the stands
reaching over the railing
for a foul ball falls 20 feet to his death.
His son next to him witnesses all.
So now tell me there is a God.
Tell me this wasn’t some kind of celestial joke,
exacted upon a father taking his son to a game.
Yes, the world has seen greater calamities,
but is this not a microcosm of the universe’s absurdity
when a tragedy so sudden, personal and wrong
can happen without a second’s notice?
Sure, it is not up to me to ask Job-like questions,
questions beyond my meager capacity to understand.
Yet, I am more outraged by these minor disturbances
than by full-scale slaughter I cannot comprehend.
I weep for the death of an individual,
but “at the immolation of a race, who cries?”

The author of twelve books for young adults, Mel Glenn has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years.  Lately, he’s been writing poetry, and you can find his most recent poems in a new YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy, edited by M. Jerry Weiss.

He wrote this poem in response to last summer’s baseball tragedy when a fan fell twenty feet from the outfield stands while reaching for a ball during a game at the Texas Rangers’ ballpark in Arlington, TX. The quote in the poem’s last line is from John Blight’s “Death of a Whale.”

If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

Leave a comment

Filed under American Jewry, poetry

Tagged as , ,

August 23, 2010 · 7:34 am

A Jew by Choice

by Anna Gersman (Schomberg, Ontario, Canada)

Doubts, fears and uncertainty have plagued my life and the choices I have made, including my decision to become a Jew. I was brought up an atheist, knowing nothing of God, prayer or ritual. I feared religion and avoided it. I could not understand its purpose. Growing up, my ears were filled with jeering words of ridicule for those who did have faith. “Religious people were weak;” “Religion has caused all the wars and problems of the world;” “There is no scientific proof or rational thought to verify religion;” “Look at the millions murdered in the name of religion,” I was told. As a child, places of worship filled me with dread. The great emptiness of godlessness clouded my childhood. I was firmly exiled from God.

The conversion of an atheist is not easy. The long process, for me, was a series of small steps, gently guided by the encouragement and patience of those who loved me, my family and friends. I found my way cautiously with great fear and distrust.

The initial strands of my journey began when I met my Jewish sailor husband in the early 1980s. I fell in love with his warmth, humour and kind spirit.  We sought adventure and together one glorious September, we set sail for the Caribbean in our sailboat. Looking back, I wonder what guided me, where my inner faith and strength come from that helped me push off from the shore. We were not of the sea. He was a Jewish boy from Johannesburg, South Africa, and I was from Newmarket, a small town in Ontario.  Together we sailed out onto that massive expanse of water, enveloped by its surging power and energy. As we crossed the Atlantic Ocean to Bermuda, our world was endless sky and sea. We felt God’s breath blow across the surface of the ocean, softly, gently at times and then fiercely.

Caught in our first storm at sea, I was terrified of capsizing and being pulled down into the cold dark depths of the Atlantic. I did not know how to pray, and yet I prayed with a desperate conviction for survival. I felt God’s presence many times out on the ocean, in the power of the universe, in the vast array of stars, in the schools of dolphins leaping in the moonlight. I realized I could not feel exiled from God at sea, and after several ocean voyages, I was no longer an atheist. I knew there was a God and yet I was a long way from formal religious practice.

My husband was a secular Jew, and we enjoyed the social part of being with family and friends during the Jewish holidays. My mother-in-law accepted me as a non-Jew, regularly encouraging me to “just have a baby dear.” Her words were wise because in fact the miracle of childbirth brought me significantly closer in my journey towards Judaism.

When my oldest daughter was five-years-old, prompted by discussions at school, she asked me “Mommy, what are we?” Those words sent a hollow echo reverberating though my godless soul. I sensed my duty as a mother was to understand my own spiritual identity and pass this on to my children. I had learned over the years to prepare the traditional menu for the Jewish High Holidays. I could make chicken soup and knaidlach (matzoh balls), but I did not understand the rituals or historical significant of the holidays. I spoke to my husband about our children’s sense of uncertainty about their religious identity, but he could not fully comprehend the void I experienced. He had an unshakable confidence in his own heritage, a strong sense of belonging and identity. He had difficulty seeing the yearning and bewilderment in our child, but he took her hand and went to find a synagogue to attend High Holy Day services.

For me, the goal of parenting is to create an independent, capable person. My understanding of the goal of conversion is to create an independent confident Jew, eager to explore further. For my children’s sake, I knew I had to convert. I told my husband and he looked at me tenderly saying, “I have waited a long time to hear you speak those words.” I felt privileged to have married someone, who stood by me while I stumbled on a personal journey towards faith. We joined Temple Kol Ami, a Reform synagogue. Our children were enrolled in Saturday morning Hebrew school, and gradually over time the unfamiliar became familiar.

I cannot describe the joy I felt learning the Torah stories alongside my children. The stories of Noah and the flood, of Abraham and Sarah, of Moses and the exodus from Egypt, came alive for me as I slowly painted my interior world with their ancient symbols of hope, redemption and forgiveness. The first few times we attended services my husband wept as emotions long buried in childhood flooded back. The Hebrew prayers and melodies he had long forgotten came back with new significance and meaning as he sat with his family in shul. It was wonderful for me to witness his reconnection to Judaism, and his experience helped me feel secure in my decision to become a Jew.

During my conversion interview the rabbi asked me, “Why do you want to become Jewish?” “For my children,” I replied. “I want them to know God.” He smiled and his eyes twinkled as he said “usually we want people to choose Judaism for themselves, but this is a good place to start.” At first I struggled to be part of the synagogue world; I was uncomfortable with the prayers, fearful I would do or say the wrong thing. The rituals of Shabbat drew me in like a moth to a flickering flame. Gradually, as I stumbled through the Shabbat blessings each week, I came to know the peace that Shabbat brings.

At synagogue services I wrap myself in my tallit (prayer shawl) designed by my husband and painted by my daughters, feeling the shelter of God’s love when I draw it around myself. I have learned the great comfort of communal worship, being led in prayer as though through a beautiful garden. Now, I feel safer to ask questions as I continue to search for my own way of being Jewish. The loving ancient words of the Torah and the siddur (prayer book) bring me solace and comfort in this fast paced high tech world.

At my daughters’ B’nei Mitzvot the rabbi spoke to them, stating “our hope is that you will continue in the path of Jewish learning.” I hear that universal message and know that their journey, like mine is ongoing. I hope one day to visit Israel, and to chant Torah, but for now I listen for the sound of God’s voice as often as I can in all that I do.

It is not easy to convert from nothing, to construct a religious life without a solid foundation set in childhood. Each person undertakes their own unique and personal journey towards faith. I have been fortunate.  I chose a loving Jewish partner who waited patiently for me to make my choice; lucky, to have chosen a shul and congregation accepting and tolerant of differences; lucky, to have found a rabbi able to encourage and welcome the unaffiliated, the disenfranchised, and do the holy work of outreach. As we read in synagogue, “Prayer may not bring water to parched fields, nor mend a broken bridge, nor rebuild a ruined city, but prayer can water an arid soul, mend a broken heart, and rebuild a weakened will.” (Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, Mishkan T’Filah – Reform prayer book.)
___
Anna Gersman grew up in a large family in King City Ontario. She has traveled and sailed extensively in South Africa and the Caribbean with her husband and children. She has been a nurse for over 20 years. She is currently working with seniors as a case manager in home care and as a camp nurse at URJ Camp George during the summers. Anna has been a member of Temple Kol Ami, a Reform congregation in Thornhill, Ontario since 1997. There she found a spiritual home, encouraged to develop every aspect of Jewish life. Anna is currently working on a memoir of her journey to find her Jewish voice. She lives in Schomberg, Ontario near Toronto with her husband Sydney, and their teenage daughters Ariel and Liora.

This piece is reprinted with permission of the author from Living Legacies –  A Collection of Writing by Contemporary Canadian Jewish Women, Volume II, edited by Liz Pearl,  PK Press: Toronto, Canada, 2010.  For more information about this publication or to order copies please visit http://at.yorku.ca/pk/ll.htm

Leave a comment

Filed under Canadian Jewry, Jewish identity

Tagged as , , ,

May 31, 2010 · 1:32 pm

Faith and Doubt

by Bruce Black (Sarasota, FL)

The Ten Commandments are the bedrock of Judaism, the cornerstones of our heritage, the foundation of our faith, yet few Jews talk of them as such or of the revelatory scene that took place–if it took place– atop Mt Sinai.

Every year we read the words of the Ten Commandments on Shavuoth, believe in the truth of them, live our lives by them throughout the rest of the year… whether or not the event atop Sinai actually occurred.

In some sense, maybe it doesn’t matter if it occurred because the Ten Commandments in and of themselves are truth. That is, they contain truth, and it’s irrelevant where the commandments came from–from God or from Moses or from some anonymous scribe who wrote them.

On the other hand it seems essential to believe not only in the truth of the Ten Commandments but in the truth of how they came into being, even if we can never know the full story.

We know (or think we know) that Moses ascended Mt. Sinai. And we know (or want to believe) he returned holding the tablets. But what happened between those two events… in the time it took for him to climb up and down the mountain?

Those moments–were they moments or hours or days?– are shrouded in mystery, in the fog of history and time.

Did Moses “see” God? Did he “hear” God’s voice? Or did Moses merely imagine God speaking the words to him?

And did Moses write the words down himself? Or did God hand him the tablets already inscribed?

There’s no transcript, no record of the event that we can turn to in order to learn what happened. All we have are the words of the tablets, and the record of the event as its presented in the Torah.

Does it matter if we know the whole story or just part of it? Does our lack of knowledge–or our limited amount of knowledge– change how we live our lives as Jews?

If the event–the revelation atop Sinai– didn’t happen, if it’s just a figment of someone’s imagination, does that mean the commandments are worthless, not to be taken seriously, not to be followed?

What rules–if any–would we replace the commandments with?

What would become of us–as Jews, as human beings–without them?

Standing in front of the open ark on Shavuoth, I thought about the Torah and the Ten Commandments and wondered if the words had passed from God through Moses to my ancestors to me, or if they might have originated in Moses’ heart, or in the heart of some unknown writer.

No matter where the words may have originated, they possess the ring of truth in the way all great literature contains the ring of truth.

But is that ring of truth enough?

When I left the temple after services, I still had no answers, only more questions.

I’m still learning how to live with faith and  doubt simultaneously, and how to balance knowing and not knowing.

Bruce Black, the founder of The Jewish Writing Project, is a writer and editor whose work has appeared in Jewish publications such as The Jewish Week, The Jewish Exponent, Reform Judaism Magazine, and The Reconstructionist, and in secular publications such as The Sarasota Herald-Tribune, Cricket and Cobblestone magazines. Online Education News ranked his blog on writing, Wordswimmer (http://wordswimmer.blogspot.com) , among the top 100 creative writing blogs of 2009.

1 Comment

Filed under American Jewry, Jewish identity

Tagged as ,