Oh My God!
My road to religion was not exactly straight. Growing up in a small town in the Florida panhandle, the idea that I would one day be Jewish and would be preparing to read from the Torah was not even on my radar screen. I knew only one Jew. Although he was supposed to be different from the rest of us, he seemed just like any other father in Panama City.
I grew up in the Presbyterian Church, not by choice but by happenstance. This was a church where they baptized by sprinkling instead of by dunking. I always said prayers of thanks to God for not making me a Baptist because I was scared of putting my head under water. At the age of 10 I was awarded a white leather bound Bible with a zipper for learning the entire book of catechism. What I didn’t realize was that they gave the same Bible to anyone who tried. When I was 12 years old, I requested a meeting with the minister to discuss the fact that the church didn’t allow black people to attend services, or even funerals. But they did employ two black janitors, who they referred to as NEEEGROES. At 14 I distinctly remember a Sunday dinner discussion where I declared that none of the Bible stories that I had learned over the years of Sunday school could have actually happened. My mother was aghast. My father just kept on eating. I don’t think he believed it all either.
During this entire time there were two constants. I was regularly praying to God and I am sure he was listening. And I was singing in the choir and playing the piano and the organ. There is not much than can beat Christian music. The rush you get from playing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” (my Norwegian grandmother’s favorite hymn) on a pipe organ at full volume is unequaled. I quickly realized that you didn’t have to believe to get tremendous pleasure out of the music.
My agnostic period continued when I went away to college. At one point, I briefly joined a group of “Young Presbyterians” because their leader was a really cute fraternity boy. When I realized that the really cute sorority girl was his girlfriend, I quickly dropped out.
Then I moved north to Washington, DC, and forever left the deep south behind. I met David on my first visit to the place where I now work. I remember wearing tall boots and a skirt that was so short my fingers came below the hem. He was my first Jewish friend, although I really didn’t even think about the fact that he was Jewish. We were just friends for a long time until I moved from his couch to his bed and we decided we really liked each other. After about a month, he told me that my religion might be a problem to which I replied, “We’re not exactly going to get married.” I guess he was always planning ahead. For at least a year, I was his little secret when he spoke to his parents. I felt like a kept woman! On my first trip to Detroit with him, his parents treated me like I was from outer space and had leprosy. His mother made it clear that she was not coming to any wedding unless it was in a synagogue.
When it became apparent that we might have future together, I decided to take a class in Judaism because I always had this idea that a family should have a single religion. I came to understand that the only requirement was a belief in God – no creeds, no catechisms, no Son and Holy Ghost. It all made so much more sense than the watered-down religion of my childhood. So I took the class again and at that point with no reservations decided to convert. I tried many times to discuss my rationale for conversion with David’s parents, but to his dying breath, his father believe I did it for them.
There were things I was leaving behind. I lay awake at night pining for the many Christmas trees I would no longer have. But the music was the hardest thing to give up. Upon arriving in Washington, I had auditioned for an been accepted into the National Presbyterian Choir. While there I sang in an elite group of chamber singers who did a capella music that would make your spine tingle. For a year after my conversion, I refused to say the Apostles’ Creed and made a project of reading the entire Old Testament during the sermons, but after a while I could no longer carry on the charade.
As I became a Jew, I realized that I could still pray to my same Florida God. That part had not changed. And he was still listening.
At this point, I entered a 20-year period of religious stagnation. We belonged to a synagogue, where I attempted from time to time to join some really pathetic choirs, that always ended up falling apart. I attended services only when it was absolutely necessary and hated every minute of it. Unfortunately I didn’t serve as a great role model for my children, although they attended religious school and had their bar and bat mitzvahs.
I finally realized that I needed more than a prayer partner. I needed a congregation and I really needed music again.
Upon our first visit to Temple Micah, I realized that I had found both. When we affiliated shortly before the High Holidays, I quickly joined the choir (no audition required). I struggled to learn the notebooks of music, a really daunting task. When I told the Rabbi that I was not comfortable singing strange syllables that I didn’t understand, he hooked me up with some people who are much more knowledgeable than I will ever be in this stuff, and we met for a year after services each week to translate and discuss the prayers.
Music at Temple Micah is special. Everyone in the congregation sings, sometimes getting into a clapping frenzy with the joy of the music. And although there is nothing like the music of Bach and Beethoven, haunting melodies like the Kol Nidre are unequaled in any other musical repertoire.
I am now studying trope so that I can chant the Torah, just as all 13-year-olds do as their right of passage into adulthood. I look forward to standing before my Micah friends and chanting from this most sacred book. I have lost my concern that the stories may not all be true. It really doesn’t matter any longer.
At this point, I have been a Jew longer than I was not. I still talk to my same God and I once again can make a joyful noise. I may not know all the intricacies of traditions passed down from generation to generation, but I am at peace with my religion, finally...
I grew up in the Presbyterian Church, not by choice but by happenstance. This was a church where they baptized by sprinkling instead of by dunking. I always said prayers of thanks to God for not making me a Baptist because I was scared of putting my head under water. At the age of 10 I was awarded a white leather bound Bible with a zipper for learning the entire book of catechism. What I didn’t realize was that they gave the same Bible to anyone who tried. When I was 12 years old, I requested a meeting with the minister to discuss the fact that the church didn’t allow black people to attend services, or even funerals. But they did employ two black janitors, who they referred to as NEEEGROES. At 14 I distinctly remember a Sunday dinner discussion where I declared that none of the Bible stories that I had learned over the years of Sunday school could have actually happened. My mother was aghast. My father just kept on eating. I don’t think he believed it all either.
During this entire time there were two constants. I was regularly praying to God and I am sure he was listening. And I was singing in the choir and playing the piano and the organ. There is not much than can beat Christian music. The rush you get from playing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” (my Norwegian grandmother’s favorite hymn) on a pipe organ at full volume is unequaled. I quickly realized that you didn’t have to believe to get tremendous pleasure out of the music.
My agnostic period continued when I went away to college. At one point, I briefly joined a group of “Young Presbyterians” because their leader was a really cute fraternity boy. When I realized that the really cute sorority girl was his girlfriend, I quickly dropped out.
Then I moved north to Washington, DC, and forever left the deep south behind. I met David on my first visit to the place where I now work. I remember wearing tall boots and a skirt that was so short my fingers came below the hem. He was my first Jewish friend, although I really didn’t even think about the fact that he was Jewish. We were just friends for a long time until I moved from his couch to his bed and we decided we really liked each other. After about a month, he told me that my religion might be a problem to which I replied, “We’re not exactly going to get married.” I guess he was always planning ahead. For at least a year, I was his little secret when he spoke to his parents. I felt like a kept woman! On my first trip to Detroit with him, his parents treated me like I was from outer space and had leprosy. His mother made it clear that she was not coming to any wedding unless it was in a synagogue.
When it became apparent that we might have future together, I decided to take a class in Judaism because I always had this idea that a family should have a single religion. I came to understand that the only requirement was a belief in God – no creeds, no catechisms, no Son and Holy Ghost. It all made so much more sense than the watered-down religion of my childhood. So I took the class again and at that point with no reservations decided to convert. I tried many times to discuss my rationale for conversion with David’s parents, but to his dying breath, his father believe I did it for them.
There were things I was leaving behind. I lay awake at night pining for the many Christmas trees I would no longer have. But the music was the hardest thing to give up. Upon arriving in Washington, I had auditioned for an been accepted into the National Presbyterian Choir. While there I sang in an elite group of chamber singers who did a capella music that would make your spine tingle. For a year after my conversion, I refused to say the Apostles’ Creed and made a project of reading the entire Old Testament during the sermons, but after a while I could no longer carry on the charade.
As I became a Jew, I realized that I could still pray to my same Florida God. That part had not changed. And he was still listening.
At this point, I entered a 20-year period of religious stagnation. We belonged to a synagogue, where I attempted from time to time to join some really pathetic choirs, that always ended up falling apart. I attended services only when it was absolutely necessary and hated every minute of it. Unfortunately I didn’t serve as a great role model for my children, although they attended religious school and had their bar and bat mitzvahs.
I finally realized that I needed more than a prayer partner. I needed a congregation and I really needed music again.
Upon our first visit to Temple Micah, I realized that I had found both. When we affiliated shortly before the High Holidays, I quickly joined the choir (no audition required). I struggled to learn the notebooks of music, a really daunting task. When I told the Rabbi that I was not comfortable singing strange syllables that I didn’t understand, he hooked me up with some people who are much more knowledgeable than I will ever be in this stuff, and we met for a year after services each week to translate and discuss the prayers.
Music at Temple Micah is special. Everyone in the congregation sings, sometimes getting into a clapping frenzy with the joy of the music. And although there is nothing like the music of Bach and Beethoven, haunting melodies like the Kol Nidre are unequaled in any other musical repertoire.
I am now studying trope so that I can chant the Torah, just as all 13-year-olds do as their right of passage into adulthood. I look forward to standing before my Micah friends and chanting from this most sacred book. I have lost my concern that the stories may not all be true. It really doesn’t matter any longer.
At this point, I have been a Jew longer than I was not. I still talk to my same God and I once again can make a joyful noise. I may not know all the intricacies of traditions passed down from generation to generation, but I am at peace with my religion, finally...
posted by Barbara at 7:34 PM
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