Ritual Immersion || Faith in Flux

I was baptized as a teenager in my Wesleyan church. At the time, I wholeheartedly believed I was about to be transformed into a better person. I thought my queer thoughts would vanish, that I would magically feel different, and that I’d emerge from the water a completely new person without struggle. I’m not sure if that promise was ever explicitly made to me, or if it was something I clung to with hope. My friends and family were there, but instead of feeling supported or changed, I felt like this major moment was little more than a box to check off. Beyond the meaning I personally tried to infuse into it (which crumbled when none of my hopes materialized), the experience lacked significance. My first thought when approaching the mikveh ritual was simple: I don’t want this to be a repeat of that experience.

What is a Mikveh?

A mikveh, or ritual immersion, takes place for many reasons in Jewish life. You might immerse for a life cycle event, for reasons of sexual purity (a topic better left to others more qualified to discuss), or, in my case, for conversion. Based on stories I’ve heard and learned about, a mikveh can be a beautiful and transformative spiritual experience. The imagery of entering the mikveh with burdens, immersing in natural waters, and emerging cleansed and renewed is powerful and poetic. It’s a sentiment I can understand deeply—but for me, it doesn’t work.

Ever since my experiences with sexual assault and compounded by other abuses in my childhood, the idea of undressing in front of others has been a source of immobilizing fear. Swimming pools, doctors’ offices, intimate situations—I avoid undressing at all costs. Part of what makes the mikveh unique, and what sets it apart from its distant cousin the baptism, is the requirement to be fully nude in the presence of a rabbi or attendant. For me, that was an immediate non-starter. If I were to proceed with a traditional mikveh immersion, my anxiety and fear would strip the ritual of all meaning and reverence. But should I be denied the feeling of cleansing and spiritual renewal just because tradition doesn’t accommodate my trauma? I didn’t think so. While planning my Bar Mitzvah rituals, I crafted two alternatives that would mimic an immersion experience while holding far more personal meaning.

Wrapping Myself in Meaning

Similar to my thoughts on the Star of David necklace (see my earlier post), I refused to touch, buy, or wear a tallit until I was officially affirmed as a member of the Jewish people. The tallit, or prayer shawl, is deeply connected with Jewish spirituality, ritual, and tradition. For me, wearing it prematurely would have felt like cultural appropriation at worst and disrespectful at best. I wanted the first time I wore a tallit to be significant, and I decided to incorporate it into my affirmation service.

The first step was acquiring a tallit. Not knowing where to start, I turned to Amazon, which offered an overwhelming array of options. Some were large, some small. Some were intricately embroidered, while others were simple. Then one caught my eye: a white tallit adorned with six rainbow stripes on the sides and a geometric rainbow motif on the neck and corners. It was perfect—a blend of tradition and identity. The only catch? It was expensive.

In traditional Bar Mitzvah celebrations, many ritual items are gifted by family. My Shabbat candlesticks came from Goodwill, my menorah from Target, and my kippot from the free bin at my synagogue. This, however, felt different. I longed for the tallit to be a gift, connecting me to the tradition of family involvement. But how do you ask for something like that as an adult? It felt awkward and selfish to ask directly, but I eventually mustered the courage.

I created an online registry filled with Judaica I had been wanting (mostly books, because of course). Then, with my friends’ encouragement, I explained the significance of the tallit to my family and made my request. To my surprise, they responded enthusiastically. Not only did someone gift me the tallit I’d hoped for, but another family member surprised me with a second tallit from my list. When I showed these to my rabbi, she informed me that I now owned Yair Emanuel tallitot—essentially the “Prada” of tallitot. I felt beyond blessed.

On the day of my Bar Mitzvah, a friend wrapped me in the tallit as part of the service, speaking words of blessing over me. It was deeply meaningful—but it wasn’t the full immersion I sought.

Immersed in Words of Love

While the tallit ritual carried immense significance, I still yearned for a feeling of complete immersion. During my Here to Ger course with Judaism Unbound, we discussed creative alternatives to traditional mikveh immersions. One idea involved a “digital immersion” in love, where a cohort of students on Zoom spammed the screen with emoji reactions. I found this concept—an immersion in love—deeply moving, but I struggled to translate it to an in-person setting. How could I recreate that same sense of being enveloped?

Then I remembered something from my past: words. Words of affirmation are my primary love language. As a teenager, I once asked friends and family to write me letters for a three-week missions trip. The intimacy and warmth I felt from reading those letters stayed with me. I wanted to recreate that sense of connection, but how do you ask people to say nice things about you without feeling selfish? The answer: you just ask.

I planned an immersion of love using words. During my Bar Mitzvah, my brother stood as the central speaker and guided the small group of attendees in forming a circle around me. Each person passed around a candle, symbolizing warmth and light, and shared words of encouragement, blessings, and love. As their words surrounded me, I felt fully immersed in the moment. Their kindness and affirmations washed over me, lifting my burdens and replacing them with an overwhelming sense of connection and belonging. I teared up more than a few times.

Through the rituals of the rabbinic court, my symbolic covenant with the necklace, and this immersive experience of love, I felt I had completed my transformation. These adaptations allowed me to honor tradition while addressing my own needs and boundaries. By the end of my affirmation, I was ready to step forward fully as a Jew—and my next step was choosing a Hebrew name that would encapsulate my journey and identity.