THE NON-FICTION EXPERIENCE

To have a Jewish soul while not being Jewish has been one of my dilemmas ever since I first stepped foot in my town’s synagogue in the summer of 2023. To be inside, but not fully in—these were the struggles I felt as a non-Jew in the process of conversion.

Coming mainly from a Christian background, I had been listening to things about Judaism without realizing it. Half of the Christian Bible is literally the Bible of the Jewish people, known to Christians as the Old Testament. My first teachings about Jewish people were fundamentally Christian views—contradictory beliefs taught to me as a young man: “Jewish people are holy, chosen by God to spread the message,” and at the same time, “they killed the Christian messiah.” I have to admit, what first attracted me to Judaism was not the religion itself but the identity of being known as a Jew, both by others and by myself. Why? Because in my mind, to be Jewish was to be mystical, and ever since I was a little kid I was drawn to all things mystical. To be Jewish meant to be wise, smart, and deeply spiritual. I wanted that perception of myself. So, by email, I contacted the rabbi of the town’s synagogue and asked for permission to attend the services held on Fridays. They did not answer, but I went that Friday anyway, leaving it to luck—and primarily to God—that they would let me in.

When I arrived at the temple, I was met by a security guard. Jewish communities often rely on extra security because of antisemitic acts. After being vetted by Michel, the guard, he went to look for the rabbi. I explained who I was and made clear that I would like to join the services. I was welcomed in. As I entered, I could see the members looking in my direction as if they were schoolchildren staring at a new student in the classroom. It was a great feeling. I sat down and listened to the proceedings with the utmost respect and caution.

After weeks of attending, the rabbi and I began having private meetings, mostly to discuss how I could move forward with conversion. The process was strenuous, with many serious rules to follow—what to eat, how to dress, and more. I was told about circumcision and how, as a man, I would need to undergo it to be part of the tribe. At first, I accepted these rules, since I was in what I would call the honeymoon phase. I kept meeting more Jewish people, attended special holy days in their homes. Three of my closest friends also are Jewish. For me, Judaism was always a mystical source of spirituality, and to my disappointment, almost every Jewish person I met viewed being Jewish as just an ethnicity—like being American or Mexican. I saw many Jewish friends not follow the rules of Judaism themselves, and this hurt me emotionally because, in my eyes, being Jewish was like being Moses—a mystical figure so close to God that he could part the seas and perform other wonders.

I fell in love with the culture, the language, and the ancient teachings of wise rabbis throughout history. I feel a special bond with Jewish people. Yet, I am not a Jew. I decided not to continue the conversion for two reasons. First, I grew lazy with the routine. Second, I realized that consistently following all the rules would be extremely difficult for me, since I had not grown up with them. This realization filled me with shame. How could I want to be Jewish but not commit to the important Jewish customs?

Judaism teaches that a convert has a Jewish soul but not a Jewish body, and that conversion is how they obtain the Jewish body. If you are not Jewish but follow the same God, you are called a Noahide, after Noah. My close Jewish friend who supported my conversion would tell me that I was using the Noahide path as an excuse not to go all the way. Maybe he was right. The truth is, I tend to be curious about things Judaism considers heretical, and I would sometimes explore those, even though they should not concern a Jew. Maybe it was also the fear of circumcision—making a permanent change to my body in the name of conversion. Maybe it was my lack of faith in God Himself, since all these rules are said to serve God and God alone.

I feel bad about the fact that I was beginning to be welcomed into the Jewish community, yet at the same time, I still felt like an outsider looking in. Eventually, I stopped attending services and stopped communicating with the rabbi. At first, I would miss a week or two, then return, but those breaks grew longer until I no longer went at all. Deep down, I did not feel Jewish. I wanted to—still want to—but what does it mean to be Jewish? Can I call myself a Jew while freely breaking the rules that define Jewish life? For someone born Jewish, breaking rules might not feel as disastrous, since they still have the birthright of identity. But as a convert, it felt different. I had to prove my Jewishness through perfect adherence, because I had no claim to the religion besides following the rules.

Trying to belong to Judaism while still keeping one foot outside of it has been quite an experience. Do I regret it? No. It taught me a lot and allowed me to reflect on aspects of myself I had never considered. All I can say is that I am both grateful and a little sad, because I longed for the connection Jewish people have with each other. But I am, for better or worse, not willing to go through the trials of becoming one.