Religious and Secular -- These, they are Myths in Torah.

I just posted this over at Jewsbychoice.org, but wanted to post it here as well. I think it has some morsels of wisdom for anyone -- Jew, Christian, Muslim, Spaghetti-monster adherent, etc. Just remember, everything we do has the potential to be holy, and to you, whoever you are, holy can mean more than what it means to the religious. Holy can relate to good works, in that, everything we do has the potential to heal, change, better, and revolutionize the world we live in and the people we touch.

It was two years ago, nearly to the day, that I became Chaviva bat Avraham v'Sarah. I say became, but it's true that I didn't really become anything other than the person I was meant to be and had always been, the person hidden and seeking, finally come home to Torah and her people Israel. So on the occasion of the blessed anniversary, I thought I'd share this little morsel of a recent experience, interwoven with this past week's parshah, K'doshim. It's a d'var Torah, I suppose, and I think it has some good and worthy wisdom for the convert and the ba'al teshuvah. Kul tov, friends!

Setting the Scene: I'm walking down Touhy Avenue in the heart of West Rogers Park in Chicago, Illinois, on the first day of Pesach around 4 in the afternoon. I've just left a park where I was with a friend and her children and husband, and I am walking down the street to the far edge of the neighborhood to catch a bus to go to a seder in a far-away suburb with not-that-observant friends, but still I am within the eruv and in Orthodox territory catching a bus on a holiday. I'm wearing a skirt that hits just below the knees, a jacket, and am carrying my bag. I'm completely cognizant of my surroundings -- in fact, I'm almost overly aware when I'm in this neighborhood because I want to seamlessly blend in. Not for others, but for me, and this might be lost to some who know me. But most of the time, it isn't really about them, it's about me. (I want to feel like I'm a part of this observant community, because it's a chance to experience who I might someday be. I envy their community, the closeness of shops and shuls, the living and breathing organism of a self-sustained and thriving Jewish peoplehood. It's a microcosm of what it must once have felt like to be surrounded by people you know and trust and who see the world through nearly the same prescription glasses as you.) I'm passing stores, closed with signs that announce they'll reopen after the two festival days of Pesach -- I don't see this anywhere I typically travel in Chicago. You see, the first two days of Pesach are like the Sabbath, they are without many of the mundane things we absorb the rest of the week and the commerce of the community is still. At least, I imagine it as such.

The incident: I'm crossing a street, and glance over to the North where there is a sports bar. A man is sitting on a bench on the east side of the storefront, and standing behind him and staring in through the bar's windows at a gigantic television displaying baseball is a teenage boy -- kippah, tzitzit, black pants, white shirt, an observant Jew. I smiled in amusement, and at that moment he turned and looked at me. We locked eyes for a few minutes, and then I crossed the street, looking back every now and again, and there he was, still there, peering desperately into the window. It would have been perfect for a picture -- I would have captioned it "Pesach Paradox" -- but it was, well, Pesach. I smiled and laughed quietly to myself.

The point: After my "How do I carry things when I go to Orthodox shul for the first time?" crisis last week, I've been thinking more about the issues of "how observant are you" and "what makes a Jew observant" and "I'll out-frum you!" and "why do you do x and y but not z?." I have realized that, despite what some may think or say or preach, no one is perfect. Not even the most pious Jew is truly the most pious Jew. There is no perfection in Judaism, and this is why we're here: to perfect the world, to better the world, to try as hard as we can to reach the perfection in which G-d created the world. And of this, this is what we must remind ourselves constantly, every day, with each moment we breathe -- we seek perfection, we do not embody it.

I was reading the parshah for this past week, Kedoshim, and it's one of the prolific parashot of Torah. G-d speaks to Moses saying, "You shall be holy, since I the Lord your G-d am holy." And reflecting on my week and the incident with the boy in the window, I think this is brilliantly connected. Rabbi Louis Finkelstein has said that Judaism is a way of life that seeks to transform every human action into a means of communing with G-d, and Martin Buber wrote that Judaism does not divide life into the sacred and profane, but into the holy and not-yet-holy. Thus, how can we even criticize our actions to the most minute points if each action is either holy or not-yet-holy; there's a spark in there somewhere that shows we are trying to connect, even if we may not recognize it as so. Etz Chayim's commentary states that "Everything we do has the potential of being holy," (p. 693) and "We can be as holy as we allow ourselves to be."

I feel better about where I'm going, and with the constant reminder that I'm not into labels and denominationalism, I am allowing myself to be as holy as I can in my current incarnation. And despite the guilt that arises when I'm on the bus on a Saturday afternoon, watching kippah-toting Jews and skirt-donning women walk their strollers to shul in the eruv nearby, or the twinge of regret I feel when I eat out, I know that the person I am is moving along a path where things that once were not yet holy are now holy and other things are finding their way into the holy. On Shabbat, I now disconnect from the electronic world as much as I can, I avoid writing to the best of my ability, and I go to shul, and this is how I edge into holiness.

And as a result, over the past two years, everything I do is coupled with a consciousness that I had never experienced before. Being a Jew means being 110 percent aware of everything -- the food you eat, the places you go, the people you see, the company with which you surround yourself, the person you want to become. Not because it's a competition, but because it's a process, though sometimes I think we lose ourselves and forget what this consciousness is really saying and doing for us.

This is what is often called Jewish guilt. It's that knowledge that everything has the potential to be holy, but knowing that we can only be as holy as we allow ourselves to be. The secular Jew, the religious Jew, the lost Jew -- we all experience it. It's an inescapable glue that binds me to you, Diaspora to Israel, past to present.

So, it is with all of this in mind, mentally in tow, that I shall be holy -- as everything I do has the potential to be holy -- for the Lord our G-d, my G-d, is holy.

A potpourri of thoughts and things.

This is going to be a really schizophrenic post, as I have about a million things on my mind that I want to blog about, but my thoughts are pretty muddled right now. So I'm going to do as best I can to make each point quick, bulleted in a way (but not literally) so you, the reader, don't hate me later.

+ Yesterday on the bus I drove by a house with plastic Easter eggs dangling from each branch in bright colors. It automatically flashed me back -- in that crazy movie effects kind of way -- to my childhood in Joplin, Mo., when we used to do the same thing. It was *our* tradition. We stopped when we moved to Nebraska because we didn't have a tree. But in my mind Easter was always those eggs, dangling, and chocolate eggs filled with marshmallow. There was no religion, no Jesus, nothing. Just dangling plastic neon eggs.

+ My grandfather's yarzheit is Sunday. He died one year ago, and some of you may remember that I couldn't attend his funeral for lack of funds and timing. It still hurts me that I couldn't make it, and it's so strange to think it's been a whole year. It seems that I'm on a cycle of change every year, and this past year is no different -- everything, EVERYTHING, is different than it was a simple 12 months ago.

+ It turns out that the World Evangelical Association posted a full page ad in the New York Times stressing how much the Christian world loves Jews and apologizes for not doing enough in the past. It then goes on to talk about converting them all, or else, you know, the entire world will suffer hell and damnation. This whole "we love you, now convert or you're damning us all" thing is getting old. It's the world's oldest guilt trip and has resulted in the mass murder of Jews on dozens of occasions. If you tell the world that Jews are awesome, but they need to convert and they just won't, what's the logical answer? Well, if there are no Jews to convert, then the world is a better place. I mean,

We believe that it is only through Jesus that all people can receive eternal life. If Jesus is not the Messiah of the Jewish people, He cannot be the Savior of theWorld (Acts 4:12).

... believe away. Please, do. But your precursing this with an apology for the destruction of my people throughout millenia doesn't make this any more light hearted. I just. I guess I don't know how these two worlds are supposed to not collide. I know plenty of Christians (some who are my closest friends) who are perfectly happy and well-adjusted as Christians and have never, not once, "preached the Good Word" to me. Why can't *all* Christians be this way? Feel free to chime in, oh Christian readers. There's also a great blog post by Yair over at the JBC about his response to this statement by the WEA.

+ I realize that I haven't really given much of an update on life other than grad school stuff. So what can I say? There's a lot going on. Monday of this week was great and I felt wanted by everyone I wanted to feel wanted by. Then Tuesday cloud 9 started to slip out from under me and from then on it's just been frustrating. It took all I had to not call in sick today. I just wanted to sleep. I get this from my mother -- if you sleep, the depression and anxiety fade away, right? But I knew that wasn't my answer. There's issues with my parents and that ever-irritating car that is in my name (as are the loans) but that they have ownership of (and are making payments on). It's a crappy situation, and I want to be out of it. There's the grad school decision (that is almost fully decided) and other things like stupid crushes. There's also budding friendships and poetry writing, but it's all so benign and unnecessary for the rest of the world to know about, that it just isn't worth the hassle of writing about.

So there we are. There are just a few of the things. Just some of them. I like to think that when I write things down, they'll be removed fully from my thoughts -- like a tumor being carefully removed by small incisions from caring, well-trained hands. But most of the time, writing things down just creates more thoughts and I'm left at this uncomfortable divide where I can't block things out, but I can't handle them anymore (and that's where the sleep comes in). But even now, I'm not sleeping well (do I ever?).

Anyhow, be well friends.

It's snowing, but I have news!

First thing's first: The University of Connecticut accepted me to their master's program in Judaic studies! SCORE! This is exciting, as it begins the process of waiting to hear from the other three schools to which I applied. I haven't heard about financial aid yet, but I'm just stoked. Those who know me well know that I've been waiting to get back to school since graduating with a degree and taking a job I wasn't really that "into" any longer. Of course, there's a good chance I could fail miserably at grad school, and I'll realize what I really want to be is a journalist. We're blessed with the option to flip and flop and choose our paths all we want. Give me a fork in the road, darn't. SO ... YAHHHH SCHOOL!

Secondly, here's a post I put up over on Jewsbychoice.org today. I guess I'm the Torah-girl in residence of sorts. Anyhow, give it a read, folks.

This week’s Torah portion is T’rumah, which means gift or offering. This is the portion of Exodus where the instructions are given for the Tabernacle (Mishkan) and all Israelites whose hearts so moved them are instructed to round up the supplies for the construction of the structure, a "sanctuary" for G-d. And within this Tabernacle, G-d will dwell among the Israelites.

I wanted to write, just briefly, to take note of that last sentence. The portion says that the purpose of the construction of the Mishkan is so that G-d may dwell among the Israelites, and of course my initial worry about this and the portion as it is composed, is the idea of idolatry. The purpose, perhaps, of the construction of this structure, to be with the Israelites, is so that the feeling of G-d at Sinai can be with the Jews always, as we know that moments and instances of intensity are fleeting. What if we forget that feeling? The Tabernacle, thus, is a physical site to "represent the presence of G-d" in the midst of the community. It is to become a "sacred space." (These quoted words come from my reading of Etz Chayim, the Conservative chumash w/commentary.) My concern, of course, comes from the idea that an object can represent G-d, or at least do so in the eyes of the community. How does a community draw lines? How does a community — a new community like the Israelites — define the sacred space without allowing the sacred space to become that which is worshiped?

We see in many religions that symbols become almost worshiped items — figures of saints or holy places. The cross itself has become a worshiped symbol among Christian believers. I know some might take offense to that idea, but that is my opinion of the object. Many have said to me that Jews wearing the magen David is quite the same thing, taking a symbol and placing it forth as an idol of sorts. Of course, for those who know the story of the star of David, the idea that it is symbolic as an idol is preposterous. It is by no means a necessarily "holy" symbol so much as it is a representative symbol — but most definitely not worshiped.

But for believers — of all faiths — the struggle with the unknown in a place where everything is physical, immediate, and evident is difficult. You can see the computer in front of you, and you know precisely what it is. But for the religious, you do not know of G-d or the afterlife or anything beyond the immediately physical realm. Creating idols and symbols to worship makes sense out of that which we do not understand.

But the sages have said that the importance of sacred space was to remind us that G-d does not exist exclusively in the heavens, "remote from humanity" — or rather, that G-d has not forsaken us. Exodus 25:8, which says the structure is that so G-d may "dwell among them," is meant to serve as this reminder. The Tabernacle as such is not per se a sacred space of G-d’s dwelling, but rather a physical reminder of a non-physical presence.

Of course, on a related note, we know that with the destruction of the temples came Rabbinic Judaism and the permeation of the synagogue as the house of meeting for Jews. The synagogue (or shul or temple) serves as the modern-day Tabernacle with some more social features, perhaps than the former. The synagogue has many holy objects that remind us of the presence of G-d, and perhaps it can be said that the synagogue serves so much as a physical reminder of G-d’s presence, dwelling among us in modern times.

So my question, amid this little Torah spiel, to you all is to express what purpose the synagogue serves for you. To you, is it a place for G-d to "dwell among" us? Is it a house of prayer? Is it merely a structure within which we meet friends and family to represent like ideals? Is it, indeed, a sacred space that exists as a reminder of those feelings from the foot of Sinai?

Be well, friends. It’s time for me to go dig myself out of the snow!

Please read all instructions carefully.

Listen: I read all the books. I made sure to read and reread all of the chapters and digressions into the plight of not converting Super-Mega-Ultra-Orthodox. I checked the little box that said "You realize that a lot of Jews won't think you're Jewish, right?" I joked with my Reform rabbi and my Reform friends and even made sure to read all of my mom's nonchalant e-mails about how "You know, you'll never REALLY be Jewish, right? Just look at what's his face, you know, Sammy Davis Jr.!" But a lot of the time, it doesn't matter. About, oh, I'd say, maybe 36 percent I guess. But then there's wanting to marry the perfect Jewish mate (did he have to go through this? or was he lucky enough to be born into?), or have kids, or go to Israel, or interact with other, well, Jews. And most of the time, I don't really think about who thinks I am or am not a Jew. It's irrelevant, because I know that I am a Jew. Yes, I went through the process, I dipped, I was presented, I had the bet din, I did the whole shibang. But I did it Reform, and to a lot of Jews, that isn't good enough. It isn't enough because those three Reform rabbis aren't *really* rabbis and the ceremony wasn't *really* halakhic, and my process definitely wasn't *really* halakhic.

And then this guy today had me back to that square one point, where all Jews by Choice end up at least every now and again, when something happens or someone says something. That point where you think, "If I was meant to be a Jew, then why the heck wasn't I born that way?" It's not a statement of denial of the present person, but rather a struggle to figure out why it's so much easier for everyone else, why the trials and tribulations for me? And as I write this, I recognize that it's quintessentially Jewish to run into these hurdles, these questions, these insecurities -- but for these things to be brought on by another Jew? Albeit, a Jew who thinks ("knows") he or she is a *real* Jew?

Listen. I volunteered today at the local Jewish museum. It's Christmas, and for Jews that means we need something to do that doesn't remind us that, ya, the rest of the world is ignoring their credit card debt while opening shiny new toys and noshing on ham. So I volunteered to hang out for three hours and make sure little kids didn't shmear their chocolaty fingers all over the new exhibit on the top floor of the brand spanking new building. The day was going along absolutely perfectly. I was so stoked to see Orthodox and Reform and the random passersby join together for some Kosher baked goodies and a giant inflatable caterpillar. It was this Jewish utopia where all Jews are created equal. I even ran into a coworker who is as excited about Judaic studies as I am (she's the Orthodox gal I work with). I was on top of the world, I was hanging out in the upper echelon of Jew excitement and happiness, and it seemed like it was only getting better when this stout elderly man in a newsboy cap started talking to me.

His name was Wolf. He was carrying a bag of something and had his pants pulled up in that old man way where they sit far above the waistline, which disappeared years ago. His little cap made him look like an overgrown child and when he asked me where all the food was, I thought, this is someone's grandfather! someone's father! and here he is asking me where to get a nosh. I explained that the treats had been gone long ago, swept up by hungry munchkins. I then told him he could go down to the cafe for some food if he was interested. We walked for a little bit and he struck up a conversation with me, poking fun as to why I hadn't managed to save him a brownie. After nearly two hours of silence and wandering around, I was excited to be talking to this little old Jewish man.

Then came the questions.

Is the cafe kosher? he asked. Yes, I answered. Do you keep kosher? he asked. I grinned, knowing where it was going. I made a motion with my hand to sort of say "so so" and said, To some extent, yes. He responded with, You're a good Jewish girl, no? You should keep kosher! I laughed a little and explained that I was working toward it, feeling almost guilty that I didn't, in fact, keep fully kosher. Old people have this way of making you feel guilty, and this guy, without even trying, was laying it on thick. What's your name? he asked. Amanda, I replied. What's your last name? he asked. I hesitated. This is that point where that whole "What's in a name?" thing comes out. Um ... Edwards, I replied. The look on his face made me anxious and nervous, so I blurted out, Not very Jewish, eh? He got a very stern look on his face. You are Jewish, yes? he asked. I quickly responded, (realizing that if I was volunteering there on Christmas I had to be Jewish, right?) Oh yes, of course I'm Jewish. He cocked his head a little, still looking fairly serious, children were buzzing around us, strollers and people muddling about the lower gallery. So what are you then? he asked. A convert? I got excited suddenly, with this jolt of convert pride flew up out of me, forcing me to respond, Yes, I am a convert ... by my own accord, too. He then started asking me why I converted and what led me to where I was and I gave him the brief version of how I ended up where I did. I explained Nebraska wasn't filled with Jews and that I'd spent about three years on the process.

So what are your parents? he asked. Christians? Jews? What? I never know how to answer that question, because they're more or less agnostic, I guess, but they believe in Jesus, so they're sort of Christians, but completely non-practicing. I explained this to him and he said, So are you sure they're not Jews? Are they definitely Christians? I didn't get what he was implying, though now that I think about it perhaps he wanted to know if there was any Jewish lineage in my past. I responded, Nope, they're Christians all right. I'm the only Jew -- so far as I know -- in my family tree.

Just then a lady he knew walked by, and I felt absolutely relieved. He went back into jovial-old-man mode and started showing pictures from his recent trip to Israel. He had pictures of him playing the violin for the rebbe (or at least this is what he said, I'm not sure about the status of the rebbe, so I could have been misunderstanding) in Israel. He was so proud of the pictures, and kept saying, Now those! Those are some serious Jews! Eventually the woman walked away and the old man named Wolf picked back up his questioning. This is when the situation got truly uncomfortable, and at the end, I was left feeling emotionally drained and as if I'd let down the world. As if I wasn't good enough. As if I'd failed on my mission to become who I was meant to be (Lech L'kha).

So you converted? he said again. Yes, I replied, in April 2006. How did you convert? he asked. I stopped, dead in my tracks. It's times like this that I wish I could create lies on the spot, but I've never been good at that. I can't make up fake telephone numbers or random facts or anything. I'm just no good at lying, but I regret the truth so much because of how it made me feel, because of how it turned this nice little old man into the ultimate naysayer about who I really am. Well, I said with a slight tone of disappointment, I converted through the Reform movement.

He just stared at me. With these piercing eyes, like all of a sudden I was a stranger, I wasn't worth joking with and I wasn't really his kin, his anything. I laughed uncomfortably.

But, I said, you know, I have considered going through more serious (yes, I said serious, because I knew that was the right word for this man) conversion. I think about getting married or having kids, I said, and I wouldn't want them to be ... (I trailed off.). Then he finally spoke up. You know, he said, do you want to marry yourself a nice Jewish boy? I replied, Of course, of course. Then, he said, you know you're going to have to convert Orthodox, it's the only way, really. At this point I just listened. He started talking in this flurry of urgency that when I think about it almost sounds more like he was saying "You idiot, what were you thinking!? You have to be more serious! You have to go the whole nine yards! What a waste of time and flesh!"

But then came the real kicker.

You know, he said, I don't want to sound like I'm judging you, because I'm not, but you know, and I'm being serious here, that you're not really Jewish, right? You're not really Jewish Jewish. I felt like I was going to vomit.

It was those words "You're not really Jewish Jewish" that echoed in my head from the point he walked away until just now. And those words will continue to echo from this point forward. Before, I'd read those words, from my mother and friends and people who didn't really believe what I was doing. But I'd just read them. On paper or the erasable tablet of the Internet. No one had ever said them to my face in a way that was so cutting, so vile, so personal ... and even now, as I write this, those words and this story -- what should have been a pleasant story -- brings me to tears.

Our conversation deteriorated after that. He repeated the "I'm not judging you" line, and continuously encouraged me again and again to convert Orthodox. He wanted me to understand the "reality" of it. He then started talking about wanting to hit up Lake Geneva and then wished me a good day and walked away. I was absolutely devastated.

From that point on, I started noticing things. All the men with their yarmulkes and the Orthodox women with their caps and long skirts and the tzitzit and sidelocks and the quintessential "Jewish" nose. I went to the bathroom to escape it. I suddenly felt like I was on the outside looking in. I was outside the window, looking through the glass at this world that I so want to belong to, that at my very core I know I am a part of, yet at that moment I was so far away from it. I looked into the mirror, and thought to myself, At least you were born with hair as dark as night and skin as white as the snow. At least you look Eastern European, Amanda. At least you have something going for you.

I get that being Jewish isn't about looks or about perceptions. And 98 percent of the time I really get it. But this time, just this time, I stopped feeling Jewish and started feeling like someone who is trying so hard to be something that she wasn't born as. I looked at the kids and the teenagers and was reminded that I'll never go to Hebrew school or have the traditional bat mitzvah. I will never grow up learning the aleph-bet or see my little brother be circumcised in the tradition of our people that has survived thousands of years. I will never. And every time these thoughts crept back in, I reminded myself that when they came for the Jews, they didn't come for the Orthodox, they came for ALL Jews -- secular, converted, religious. They came for them all. And I hate that this is what it comes to, sometimes, when I'm reminded that I am not Jewish enough for the rest of the world.

I'm struggling right now to feel positive about where I am, and it's because of an old man named Wolf who just wanted a nosh, but the words from this old-school Jew who plays the violin and keeps kosher was enough to really tip me over and spin me around. I don't think my reaction to a similar conversation with a Jew my own age would have incited such panic and stress and emotion in me, but when an elderly Jew who has managed to retain the tradition his entirely life calls me out and questions my Jewish authority, I just feel the need to feel accepted. Maybe it's because I never connected with my own grandparents, or maybe it's because I admire the Jews of generations past who had to grow up with such different lifestyles than me, when assimilation and acculturation were so pressured upon new Jews in America. Now, I know I can't know where this Wolf comes from or how long he's lived here, but I do know that when he was a kid his family used to go to Lake Geneva. He had the slight hint of an accent, so maybe his parents were from the old country or maybe even he was born in the old country. Either way, I'm projecting this imagine of the traditional Jew who, despite all odds, managed to hold on to his tradition, his culture, his people-hood. And what am I to this old man?

A nothing. Schmutz. Someone who is trying, but hasn't tried hard enough, and who isn't Jewish Jewish. If you get my drift.

I'm not sure where to go from here. I have this mental image of what I want my life to be like, how observant I want to be, how observant I want my future husband to be, how I want to raise my children to be proud and involved in their Jewishness. And I know -- at this point I am completely conscious of this -- that my present state just isn't going to make those things happen. And then here comes Wolf, reminding me that I'm definitely not able to make those things happen, being Reform and all.

Listen. I'm happy with who I am, believe you me. I'm happy with my conversion, and it was right for me when it happened. I was my newly ordained rabbi's first convert, and for him and me that's something memorable. My conversion had a goof in it and caused me to dip in the mikvah twice. My rabbi took me for sushi afterwards and we talked about how I should enter the rabbinate (his idea, not mine). My conversion, the night of, that is, was the night of the final banquet for my college newspaper, and a few of my friends skipped the formal part to come watch my conversion ceremony at the temple. I then went to the party and got drunk, on what else, Manischewitz. The thing is, my conversion has a story, and there was a lot leading up to it that is emblazoned on my brain, and I wouldn't change any of it for the world. In 2006 when I converted, I truly became Chaviva bat Avraham v'Sarah.

But times like these, times like these I wonder if I shouldn't go further. If that Orthodox kid who I met at Starbucks in D.C. in summer 2006 -- ho said "So why are you Reform again?" when I explained my status, my beliefs, my observance -- had a point. I think, if anything, his point was more significant and dare I say it, thoughtful, than old man Wolf's thoughts on my situation. At any rate, if I convert more "seriously," it won't be because of Wolf or the Orthodox kid. It will be on my own terms, in my own time, and in my own efforts. And that will never change.

I just wish Wolf, and his posse of holier-than-thou Jews, would let me be, would let my mind be at ease, would allow me to be who I am, Jewish as I am. I get that I'm not Jewish enough for a lot of you, but I'm Jewish enough for me. I checked the little box, remember?

Change is a comin'!

So there is a lot I really should talk about, among them being the fact that I'm moving on Tuesday across town to a nice neighborhood called Buena Park. Also among them being that I spoke on the phone today with the head of a certain Judaic studies department in the Northeast about my possible future at their school. Things are changing, so quickly!

But I wanted to write a quick note to let everyone know that I'm part of this amazing project/website, JewsbyChoice.org, which is meant to be an ultimate resource for Jews in Training, Jews Returning and everyone in between. So please, PLEASE check it out. I just posted a piece over there about my name and how it affects me as a Jew. I've been wanting to blog about it for months now, but I was saving it for the JBC website. So please give it a read and comment away if your heart moves you to do so.

Look out for a full-fledged future talk, which should come soon friends. Stay tuned!