The Epitome of Chutzpah || Faith in Flux

I was discouraged after my visit to the Conservative synagogue. I had hoped it would be my path forward for conversion. The location was perfect, the rabbi welcoming, and it seemed promising—until my experience left me feeling otherwise. Instead of turning away from Judaism completely, I leaned into the pull I’d felt all along toward the Reconstructionist synagogue I had connected with during the pandemic.

It took a couple of weeks to gather my courage, but I eventually made the hour-long trip to Kehillah for a Shabbat service. To justify the drive, I reminded myself that my daily commute to work was already 30 minutes in the same direction—so really, I was just adding an extra half-hour. Girl math, right? Armed with one of my newly acquired kippot (thanks, Amazon bulk pack), I approached the synagogue’s door, passing a police officer on the way—a sight that made me feel both secure and uneasy. The door was locked. Thankfully, someone passing by let me in.

"Of course! Welcome!" a woman greeted warmly when I explained I was new and wanted to attend the service. She handed me a set of prayer books and a Torah, adding, "Sit wherever you like; we’ll get started soon." The sanctuary was much smaller than the one I’d visited before, with far fewer people—but the energy was vastly different. Everyone was deep in conversation, creating an atmosphere of warmth and familiarity.

I had emailed Rabbi Jess beforehand to let her know I’d be attending but hadn’t received a reply. Scanning the room, I spotted her, and we seemed to notice each other simultaneously. She excused herself from her conversation and came over to greet me.

"Andrew! So good to see you. No pressure to participate—just follow along as best you can, and feel free to ask me questions after the service, okay?" she said. I nodded and thanked her before she hurried to the bimah to begin the service.

Feeling at Home

It’s hard to pinpoint why I felt so comfortable in that space. Objectively, I should’ve been nervous: sitting alone, surrounded by strangers, following a service in a language I didn’t understand, awkwardly sitting, standing, and turning pages a few beats behind everyone else. Yet, I felt like I belonged. What happened next only deepened that feeling.

During the Torah reading, members were called up to the bimah for their aliyot. I followed along in the translation as best I could. That week’s portion was from Genesis and consisted mostly of genealogies—names upon names. I skimmed the commentary, occasionally pausing to note which sons of sons would later play significant roles.

Suddenly, an older woman in the front row stood and cleared her throat. "Excuse me, Rabbi," she said. "I’ve been coming to synagogue year after year since I was a girl, and I’ve heard these names over and over again. Why can’t we just skip sections like this and move on?"

My stomach dropped. I glanced at her, then at Rabbi Jess, bracing for a stern rebuke. But instead, the entire congregation burst into laughter. Rabbi Jess, smiling warmly, walked over to the cantor’s microphone and spoke.

"Well," she began, her tone light and thoughtful, "we all know that Jewish tradition is over 5,000 years old, right?" The room nodded. "But our history goes back even further. The Torah itself predates much of what we call tradition. And over those millennia, how many times have we been nearly wiped out? How many enemies have tried to erase us from existence? And yet, we’re still here. The Torah is still here."

She paused, letting her words settle. "These names may seem boring. I won’t fault you there, Denise. But think of it this way: these are our ancestors. By reading their names, we preserve their memory. After all the atrocities our people have faced, these names survived. How many names didn’t make it through the millennia? By reading these names, we honor our history. We make a stand and declare: ‘We’re still here, and we’ve been here all along.’"

Her words sent chills down my spine. That final sentence felt like a direct echo of Sarah Hurwitz’s book, affirming my journey. The congregation’s discussion afterward was lighthearted and understanding, embodying a value I had come to admire deeply in Judaism: the encouragement to question, discuss, and learn—even in the middle of a service.

Connection and Community

The service continued with a short sermon from Rabbi Jess, touching on fear as explored in the Zohar. Before Kiddush, she asked us to form groups of four to discuss the sermon and the Zohar texts further. My gut twisted. While I love open discussions, I get anxious when I don’t know anyone. I hesitated, but to my surprise, a woman in front of me turned and invited me to join her group.

We formed a circle, and the women introduced themselves. Lisa, to my left, was a French immigrant whose family fled Europe during the war. Though she hadn’t experienced antisemitism directly, her parents’ trauma deeply shaped her perspective. Ethel, to my right, shared that her family was killed during the Holocaust, and her parents survived only because of a timely move to Britain. Anne, seated across from me, had tears in her eyes as she listened. She shared her story of escaping an abusive marriage and finding refuge in Judaism through conversion.

Their vulnerability and resilience left me in awe. I shared a bit of my own journey, and though it might not have been the wisest choice given the ongoing pandemic, we ended our discussion with hugs.

Finding My Place

That first Shabbat at Kehillah was transformative. I stayed for Kiddush and spoke with Rabbi Jen about my previous synagogue experience. The warmth, connection, and openness I felt at Kehillah convinced me to make the hour-long drive every week. Over time, I learned prayers through repetition, helped with small tasks like opening the ark, and felt like I was becoming part of a true community.

As winter passed and spring approached, Rabbi Jess told me about an Intro to Judaism course offered asynchronously online by American Jewish University. It fit my teaching schedule perfectly. I applied, was accepted, and then received even more incredible news: Kehillah would cover my tuition for the class.

This act of generosity solidified what I already knew—Kehillah wasn’t just a synagogue. It was home.