I grew up in an increasingly observant Jewish home. As a child, I despised Judaism and saw the whole notion of God and religion as a pathetic placebo for the weak-minded who were too scared to face reality. My parents blame the influence of secular, anti-religious Israelis (we moved to Jerusalem when I was four). I suspect that their insistence that I sit still through hours of Saturday morning and holiday services had an effect as well.

After we moved back to the U.S., I attended Jewish elementary, junior high and high schools, which served to confirm my disgust. Morning "prayer" was mandatory. This was a competitive activity in which the participants won by finishing first. To this day I can whip through the Shacharit with the best of 'em, but though I speak Hebrew fluently I still don't know what many of the prayers mean, where they come from, why they were written or why we say them. When I do slow down and read for understanding (which, practically speaking, means getting left in the dust at almost every service I've attended), I find ninety percent of the content trivial if not offensive or condescending. There's a lot of pleading and begging for God's attention and for Him (God is consistently a male) to intervene in various ways in our lives. It bears no resemblance to the faith I've discovered in myself, a faith I link strongly with my Jewish heritage from Abraham to Martin Buber.

I discovered my faith in college. Two people had something to do with my change in attitude. My roommate, the son of a born-again Christian mother, was a believer. To this day (he's still my best friend) he doesn't do anything that I can detect that you could call religious, but his faith is very real nonetheless. He found my lack of belief just as strange as I found his belief. For the first time in my life I was confronted with a person I loved and trusted (outside of the emotional vortex of my family) whose understanding of the world ran counter to mine. I could no more talk him out of it than I could talk him out of being right-handed.

The second person was a non-Jewish literary critic and professor who took an interest in me and gave me various works of literary criticism to read. Hegel describes Abraham, and by his example every Jew, as "a stranger on earth" who "raises his thought to form a unity dominating an infinite and hostile world." Hegel meant it as an attack on the Jew who separates himself from the German nation, but his words had a different effect on me. I felt and feel like Abraham. The environment, the world I live in, does not reflect me or any order — good, bad or indifferent — that I can understand. Underneath all the chaos, however, I do sense a unity, "something outside of myself," beyond my comprehension, yet palpably present in me as well.

I realized that my experience was not unique. Most people who have faith seem to experience something fairly similar. My father's faith arises out of similar experiences, and throughout the four thousand-year history of Judaism, many of its movements and ideas have sprouted from this soil.

I have several annual rituals. During the days leading up to Yom Kippur, I reflect on the past year. I try to really take stock of myself and contact people with whom I need to make amends. My wife and I go to a service at the Jewish Theological Seminary, which I actually enjoy. We fast, and, on the day of Yom Kippur, I spend a good part of the day alone, preferably outdoors, writing in a special Yom Kippur journal.

Every winter, my wife and I have a winter solstice party on the shortest day of the year. We invite a group of close friends over to share something on the theme of darkness and light. People bring readings, music, stories, videotapes. I have an epic poem going, which we add to every year. Then, at midnight, we bring out a massive feast.

We also have begun having Passover seders. Each year, we make our own Haggadah (if you do the same thing every year with these events, I find they get stale and lifeless pretty fast). We read the biblical Exodus story and share our own stories of redemption from "slavery." We find cognates for the ten plagues in our lives and in the world. We eat all the ritual foods and then eat a really good meal. We stay up late talking about freedom and slavery in our lives. These events are real highlights of my year. They deepen my life and my connections to a community of friends and give shape to the seasons.

On a weekly basis, I observe the Sabbath by not working on Saturdays and trying instead to do things that restore my spirit. I'm a lot less successful at this than I am at the big events. It takes planning and vigilance, and sometimes the day just passes on me or the momentum of my daily life is too strong to interrupt. Still, keeping the Sabbath separate grows increasingly important to me.

Recently, I began meditating. I only do it for about 5 minutes each day, but it's an incredible relief from the stresses of daily life, connecting me to the divine and restoring perspective. I close my eyes, bring my focus to my breathing and simply notice and release all thoughts, impulses and distractions.

< Previous 1 2 Next >