My religious upbringing was unique but not stable: my mother is Jewish, making me Jewish by birthright, and my father is a European Christian, rooted in the Danish Lutheran tradition. I had, therefore, a festive but confusing childhood. While I identified as a Jew, I did not feel particularly entwined with the theology; we celebrated the bigger holidays and observed the Sabbath, but as my brother and I grew up, religious tensions in my family were exacerbated we began to practice less. I stopped attending Hebrew school, I didn’t have a Bat Mitzvah, and eventually I lost touch with Judaism all together.
Religion thus became a social and cultural identity rather than a system of faith. For a long time I was never quite sure in what I believed, or if I believed in anything at all. I participated in Jewish youth groups in high school, but I still felt a certain separation from the other girls, most of whom practiced consistently. It was frightening to be trapped in this theological no-man’s land. I experienced a sense of inadequacy and shame: the fear of disappointing my parents, who held deep religious identities, was consistently on my mind.
It was reasonable to think, then, that I might lose what little faith I had when I left for college. I experienced a pang of nostalgia for the soft feeling of flour on my hands as I kneaded dough on Rosh Hashanah, for my mother’s placid voice reciting Shabbat prayers at dusk. I craved desperately the warm comfort of flickering candles and knew I had to do something to regenerate my religious wonder. I gave the campus Hillel a shot.
During my first Friday night service I only knew a handful of the prayers, and many of the songs were unfamiliar, but I was welcomed immediately as part of the community. A curious part of me, the part that knew there was more to my faith than I could comprehend, awoke. In the next few months I attended my first High Holiday services since my childhood, and as the Rabbi spoke I felt not only a sense of belonging, but one of joy. When I broke fast on Yom Kippur I realized the point of my hunger, not only in a biblical sense but in a contemporary one. I volunteered to make Challah for the campus kitchen, which provides food for low-income families in my area, and my hands were once again reunited with soft flour.
Religion, for all of its beauties and idiosyncrasies, is difficult. For me, it was difficult to reconcile the opposing forces of my parents’ faiths with my familial loyalty. For others, it is difficult to see the purpose in religion at all. It is not for everyone; it should not be for everyone. It is meant to be a comfort and a peace, a sense of community and the satisfaction of belonging. I am proud of my faith and I am humbled by it; most importantly, I still question it and wonder about it. Flickering candles on a misty evening are my theology; love for my family is my culture. Faith is a beautiful spectrum, whether one’s life is absent of it or dictated by it. College is a wonderful place to discover it, to build relationships with people who listen to your skepticism and your blind hope, to find comfort in a favorite song, to be a positive force of good and justice.
I am grateful for my unstable religious upbringing because it allowed me to make my own discoveries. The satisfaction is in the process itself. You’d be amazed at what you can explore.