NMH Magazine : Fall 2006

Parting Words

“I thought you were Jewish because you were wearing a yarmulke,” a woman from my synagogue said to me after services, “but then I looked at your nose and realized you weren’t.”

So it goes. I’ve had a variety of reactions from people when they learn that, although Jewish, I wasn’t born into the faith. Most of them have been funny; fortunately the painful ones have been rare.

So what leads someone to leave the tradition she grew up in for another?

My father was raised Catholic, and my mother was a Congregationalist, but neither was pious. My religious upbringing was scanty: I occasionally went to Congregational services as a little girl and have dim memories of Sunday school. In some ways my change in faith began at Northfield, where, for the first time, I went regularly to religious services and studied the Christian Bible in depth. Required chapel and Bible classes allowed me to connect spirituality with something organized; they gave me a foundation. Sometimes I even went to the chapel by myself to pray. I tried to believe in a Christian God, or at least develop the beliefs that I thought I should have. I had questions, but I didn’t always get answers—at least not ones I understood.

The summer after my Northfield graduation, I read three novels dealing with Judaism: two by Chaim Potok and one by Noah Gordon. Potok’s writing introduced me to Orthodox Jews and their way of life, which appealed to me. Gordon’s novel showed me that someone from outside the religion could become Jewish.

Two major events provided the impetus for my religious conversion. I was 18 when my father committed suicide; I’d been trying to be what I thought was a good Christian. For several years after his death, I felt guilty and doubted myself as a Christian. If I’d been a better one, I reasoned, his suicide wouldn’t have happened. The second event was my divorce at 30, which left me traumatized and longing for an indefinable support that was lacking. My Christian faith wasn’t helping enough, and I felt lost.

During this time I met and began dating a Jewish man. His background reminded me of my interest in Judaism a dozen years earlier. Should I convert? I thought about it for two years, constantly questioning my motives and potential outcomes: Was I good enough, whatever that meant? What would I do if there were another Holocaust? It would be easy to deny the religion I had chosen. What if we got married and divorced? Having been through one divorce and being aware of how much I’d twisted myself emotionally throughout the marriage, I refused to change for someone else. Finally I decided I was ready. I went to classes weekly for six months; then I stood in the synagogue and took a vow to renounce my previous religion.

Why give up my Christian roots for another religion? There were things about Christianity I didn’t feel comfortable with or outright disagreed with. I felt that I could never measure up; Christ was supposed to have been perfect, and because I was so far from perfection, I would always feel inadequate. Judaism requires me to be the best person I can be, and that is something I can understand. It is easier to work toward improvement— I know what that is. I have no idea of perfection.

More than 22 years have gone by since I took my vow in the synagogue. I did marry that man, and we had two wonderful children. And we did divorce. Several months after separating from my husband, I realized I had no temptation to return to Christianity. I kept kosher for about a dozen years but no longer do. My son is preparing for his bar mitzvah, and I plan to chant part of the service. My daughter will follow suit in two more years. I lead services on Friday nights sometimes and—if I may brag a bit—people like to hear me chant. Three years of singing for choir director Al Raymond have paid off.

Judaism has given me the spiritual foundation I longed for when I was a young woman, and I thank Northfield for laying some of the first stones.

Chris Fleuriel ’69 lives in Boston and is librarian at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.

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