I had many of the trappings of Judaism in my life, but they were all half-measures. I was circumcised, but not by a mohel. I went to religious school once a week, but retained little of what I learned. I became bar mitzvah, but I had memorized all the Hebrew phonetically and understood none of what I was saying at the ceremony. I fasted on Yom Kippur, but only some years. I went to Jewish sleepaway camp, but I hated it and left after one summer. I had Jewish friends, but we never talked about Jewish topics. There were lots of Jews in my community, but I had no sense of belonging to a Jewish community. What’s more — and here’s why I’m writing this essay — I did something shameful quite regularly. It’s something I haven’t admitted to anyone since I had my Jewish awakening a few years ago. Just thinking about it makes me feel like a man living under a false identity who’s been found out by a sleuth. I reel at the memory.
I celebrated Christmas.
