Daily Excerpt: Since Sinai, Chapter 1. 4
Book Excerpt from Since Sinai by Shannon Gonyou (currently in Amazon Top 100 Jewish biographies)
CHAPTER 1 (continued from May 14, 2025)
Immediately after
law school, I took part in a Holocaust studies trip to Germany and Poland with
FASPE, or Fellowships at Auschwitz for the Study of Professional Ethics.
Through the program, I spent time studying Jewish history in Berlin and walking
reverently through Auschwitz in Poland. Being at Auschwitz changed me, that
much I’m sure of. Learning about the history of Judaism before, during, and
after World War II was a moving experience. However, as much of an impact that
the trip had, it wasn’t the one thing that made me want to become Jewish. In
fact, it made me wonder if the realities of Jewish history would make it
impossible to fit in as a brand-new member of the community.
I joined a
sorority as an undergraduate student at the University of Michigan. Jewish
students were heavily represented in the Greek Life population and in the
campus population at large. I met a lot of Jewish students during college, many
of whom I consider close friends. But aside from knowing that they were Jewish
and that some of them didn’t eat pork, I wasn’t clear on what their Jewish
practice actually entailed. My first time really encountering a Jewish practice
was at my friend Leah’s home during the summer break before my sophomore year. I
spent a beautiful Shabbat evening in Needham, Massachusetts with Leah and her
high school friends. I was touched by the idea of setting aside time for family
on the Sabbath; of enjoying fresh fruit and friendly conversation by
candlelight. When I put a quarter in the Steinberg’s tzedakah box—a small box kept in Jewish homes to collect money for
charity—I felt like family. Some of Leah’s friends didn’t drive on the Sabbath.
They each seemed to observe varying levels of kashrut [translation[BL1] ]. But the community feel wasn’t
diminished in the slightest by variations in practice. I was really touched. As
beautiful as that visit was, it wasn’t the one thing that made me want to be
Jewish.
My favorite
professor in law school happened to be an Orthodox Jew. She was a gentle but
fiercely brilliant woman who devoted her career to helping struggling families
in Michigan access safe housing and adequate medical care for their children.
She was a committed feminist and a damn good lawyer. I knew she kept a kosher
home and was religious. I was intrigued by her faith, but I never directly
asked her about it. I had plenty of smart, inspiring professors who were
Jewish, but [BL2]
I did not need to convert in order to admire them.
I can’t even say
that I [BL3] a
beautiful Jewish funeral or wedding or bris[BL4] inspired
me, because I’d never been to
any of those celebrations at the time of my conversion. (At least not a real
one. Our conversion course involved a very educational bris of a stuffed animal). I heard about my friends’ bar mitzvah and
bat mitzvah celebrations, but no one in my hometown had celebrated one. No one
had ever invited me to a Jewish summer camp or even an interfaith wedding.
It would be
accurate to say that a combination of these experiences added up to the idea
that I should convert. It’s hard to say. In truth, I wanted to be Jewish
because the idea came to me and refused to leave. Every time I tried to add
more color to the explanation than that, I gave a markedly different answer
than the last time I’d answered the question.
When I met with
the kind, soft-spoken cantor who ran the local conversion course, I told her
that I wanted to be Jewish because it was, to me, a more breathable form of
monotheism. And that reason was true. Spiritual, but not necessarily rigid;
reverent, but not without humor; intellectual, but not without meaning. I told
my friend Alana that the Jewish community was small but remarkably cohesive and
that I felt inexplicably drawn to their peoplehood.That was also true. I told
my beit din, the three rabbis who
oversaw my conversion, that I wanted to be Jewish because the rituals of Jewish
life, the daily mitzvot[BL5] , and the rhythm of the Hebrew calendar[BL6] ,
helped me turn the mundane into something reflective and powerful. And that was
definitely true. Those are all good reasons, and they are all true. But none of
them are the sole reason that I
became Jewish.
My last-ditch
effort is to blame it on divine intervention, destiny, whatever you want to
call it. There is an idea in Judaism that converts’ souls were at Sinai with
our Jewish ancestors. Our souls were destined for the Torah. So, even though we
aren’t born into halachically[BL7]
Jewish bodies, our souls find their way back to the community through
conversion. It has remained the explanation that comes closest to getting at
the truth about Jewish conversion from my perspective: the decision to convert
is born in one’s heart and soul rather than one’s head. Conversion feels like
an innate idea that, once awakened, refuses to go away. That you should become
Jewish starts to feel as obvious as the fact you love your favorite food or
feel attracted to your partner(s). Most early converts don’t stop thinking
about conversion until they finally work up the courage to email a rabbi and
begin the process in earnest. The idea was there all along; I just needed to
identify it and act on it at the right time. Or, of course, conversion might
not enter your mind until your spouse slaps you in the face with the idea of
becoming Jewish on the eve of your favorite Christian holiday.
In the safe cocoon
of our Impala, I was still making my case to Travis.
“I’ve tried other
churches,” I told him, “You know I have. I feel like Judaism is my home, and I
can’t make myself stop thinking that.”
“We went to Mass a
week ago!” Travis sighed. “And now you’d like to stop going?”
“Well, yeah,” I
explained, “We have to not be Catholic in order to be Jewish, but otherwise,
the good news is that there aren’t many ‘rules’ about how to be Jewish. That’s
the whole draw.”
“I don’t know if I
believe what Jews believe. I don’t know what Jews believe.”
“Do you believe
that Jesus is the son of God who died on a cross to absolve mankind of sin?” I
asked back.
“I don’t know,” he
said.
“Our priests would
be disheartened to hear that,” I replied. “It sounds like we need to start from
scratch and figure it out.”
“Theology aside, the Jewish people suffered a
Holocaust,” he explained, as if I hadn’t been standing in the ruins of
Auschwitz during my FASPE fellowship program. “They suffered centuries of
persecution before that. It’s more than a belief system. It’s a culture and a
history.”
“Half of the
conversion courses are spent addressing that,” I assured him.
“What will people
think of us? Of me? They’re going to think we’re flakey or disingenuous.”
“There’s nothing
more disingenuous than going to Mass every week when you no longer believe,” I
told him.
An uneasy silence
returned. I focused on the soft hum of our car’s heating system and the
snowflakes dancing around outside of the windshield. Travis chewed his lip
anxiously. The car’s digital clock showed that three minutes had passed since
either of us had last spoken. Three became five. Five became seven. Snowflakes
continued to fall and dissolve against our windshield.
I knew that I
needed to say something, but it’s
understandably hard to explain that you wish to overhaul your entire religious
belief system in ten minutes or less. I ran my finger across the cartoon
snowman on my cookie tin.
“I already emailed
the nice lady who runs the Jews-by-Choice program in Chicago,” I finally said
with an apologetic shrug, “So, I’m going to go check it out. You don’t have to
come with me, but I think it will be pretty low pressure either way. The Jews
aren’t known to evangelize.”
Travis sighed the
sigh of a man who knew that his wife’s mind had been made up. His hand hovered
over the radio dial. He was undoubtedly contemplating whether this was a bad
time to turn the Christmas music back on.
“We can go to the
class to explore the idea,” he said finally. “I’m not committing to actually
doing the conversion.”
“Of course,” I
said, unceremoniously dumping the Christmas cookie tin off of my lap. “You
absolutely don’t have to. It doesn’t have to be something we do as a family. I
need to do it for myself.”
“I love
Christmas,” Travis grumbled pathetically.
“I don’t think the
rabbis are going to pry the Starbucks eggnog latte out of your hypothetically
Jewish hands,” I promised. “Please give it a chance.”
“We’ll give it a
chance,” he confirmed as we climbed out of the car. “But I want you to know
that Christmas brings me a lot of joy. It’s my favorite time of year.”
“So you’ve said,”
I smirked, looping my arm through his and pulling him toward the hotel lobby.
With my secret out in the open, I felt that I could enjoy Christmas Eve, even if it was going to be my last as a non-Jew.
Raised in a heavily Catholic suburb of Detroit, Michigan, Shannon grew up focusing on two things: how to do enough good deeds to get into heaven and how to stay pure enough to escape hell. In college, she followed many of her peers into an Evangelical church known for guitars, drum, religious-based shame, and the idea that without Jesus she was nothing.
But when she encountered Judaism on that same campus, a spark ignited within her and refused to be put out. Judaism felt obvious, familiar. After a falling out with her biological mother and two miscarriages, she found the courage to send the most important email of her life: she asked the local Jews by Choice program to accept her as a student.
Honest and unflinching, Shannon's story of coming home to Judaism encourages everyone-- Christian, atheist, Jewish, and anything in between-- to search relentlessly for the place where they belong.
Keywords
Jewish conversion story, Judaism for converts, Leaving Evangelical Christianity, Faith journey memoir, Religious identity, Interfaith experiences, Deconstructing Christianity, Finding spiritual belonging, Miscarriage and faith, Healing from religious shame, Jews by Choice, Catholic upbringing. Spiritual transformation, Women and faith, Religious trauma recovery, Personal journey to Judaism., Faith after loss, Spiritual resilience, Deconstructing Evangelical beliefs, Rediscovering faith
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