Church diaries
You've all heard the rumor: Church is more fun than synagogue. But is it really true? Well, we figured there was only one way to find out. Over the course of this summer, our intrepid pilgrim went on a religious road trip to four local churches of different varieties: Catholic, Episcopal, Evangelical, and even a big African American Baptist Mega Church. A crisis of faith and more than 15,000 Christians later, he came back with one long diary.

by Benyamin Cohen / Photography by Fernando Decillis


he noise was thundering. The floor was shaking. My ears were pounding. It felt like God giving the commandments atop Sinai. Yet, I couldn’t have been further away from that holy mountain if I tried.

“Give me a ‘Praise Jesus!” the bishop screams into the mike.

“Praise Jesus,” the crowd shouts back in unison as they rise to their feet. The woman next to me, swaying to the blaring music, is smashing her hand against a tambourine she brought from home. The guy in front of me, I’m not quite sure why, is moaning, wildly flailing his arms in the air. It was like being at a rowdy rock concert … except for the undeniable fact that it was morning, the opening act was a heavyset Black woman belting out Baptist hymnals, and the main attraction was the Lord Almighty.

Here I was, a short 5’2” bespectacled Jewish kid, in a mosh pit of faith amidst a sea of 15,000 rousing African Americans at the New Birth mega church in Lithonia, Georgia. It’s Sunday, prime time for prayer, and I was just trying to blend in, hoping I wouldn’t stand out too much.

Just as such hopeful — and, unfortunately, fleeting — thoughts were swirling through my mind, one of a dozen camera operators focused in on me. And before I knew it, there I was, my face 20 feet tall on the two screens hoisted from the ceiling in front of the auditorium. My shayna punim on Jesus’ jumbotron for all to see.

Oh, God, forgive me.

***
Allow me to explain. Please. I grew up the son of an Orthodox rabbi. My many siblings have all gone into the family business, either becoming rabbis or marrying them. I grew up around synagogues and, for a period of time, we even had one in our home as part of an addition built in the late 1980s.

And while a synagogue life was quite a familiar environ for me, one in which I felt completely at home (literally), I had no clue what happened behind the closed doors of a church. Don’t get me wrong. I wanted to know. I was tempted everyday as my bedroom window opened right up to the driveway of the church across the street. Indeed, my entire street was Jewish except for the church’s minister, our very own Shabbos Goy, who was my sole entrance point into the mysterious world of Christianity.

That church across from my childhood home was — for my youthful psyche — my snake, apple, and Garden of Eden all rolled into one. I watched, often longingly, each Sunday morning as the khaki-clad parishioners and their always smiling progeny walked out of their shiny minivans and into the sun-dappled stained-glass sanctuary.

And don’t get me started on the holidays. The day after Thanksgiving, like clockwork, I would watch the church’s janitor climb a ladder and place beautiful wreaths in each window. In the church’s front yard, a serene acre of the greenest grass my adolescent eyes had ever seen, more than a hundred Christmas trees were erected and put up for sale. I saw happiness being bought in the form of a pine fir. I considered, on more than one occasion, sneaking out of the house when no one was looking to pretend to be a patron. For just one moment, I wanted to be part of what I thought was a wholesome holiday tradition.

Too scared, or perhaps too guilt ridden, I never ventured across the street. Instead, I stayed home and flicked on the TV, only to be bombarded with messages of Yuletide cheer (A Charlie Brown Christmas comes immediately to mind) and commercials for Christmas CDs which featured happy families sitting by a piano or fireplace (or sometimes — heavens to Betsy — both) drinking eggnog and wearing tacky, yet comfortable, sweaters.

So it came as no surprise when I first heard the rumor: Church is more fun than synagogue. C’mon, fess up. You know you’ve heard it too.

It’s got to be. While most synagogues only fill to capacity twice a year, it seems church parking lots are full each week. Indeed, in America more people attend church on Sunday than all the weekend sporting events combined. And here in the Bible Belt nearly half of all Christians attend services weekly.

With those numbers, I figured, they’ve got to be doing something special, something so awe-inspiring that it was bringing people back in droves on a consistent basis.

So, in an effort to find out what they were doing right (and perhaps discover what we were doing wrong), I decided it was high time I found out for myself if church was indeed more fun than synagogue. In the course of a month this summer, your intrepid pilgrim went to four churches of different denominations: Catholic, Episcopalian, Evangelical, and a Baptist mega church.

I went out on a quest to test the waters of religious beliefs. Like the wide-eyed Don Quixote on one of his adventures, I journeyed out into uncharted territory to places I had, until this point, never been privy to.

These are my diaries.

***
First Sunday, New Birth, African American Baptist Mega Church

Flash back, if you will, to the rollicking surroundings and my face on the jumbotron.

“Let’s give a big New Birth welcome to Benyamin Cohen from Atlanta Jewish Life,” the bishop yells to the crowd. While I’m trying to keep a low profile, a friend of mine who attends this congregation had given the church a heads up about the Jewish journeyman who would be joining them today. (For the record, I was sans yarmulke. But I guess as a dorky white boy it wasn’t a challenge to draw some attention to myself.)

Not quite sure what to do, I smile sheepishly and wave my hand to the crowd. Before I know it, I have a dozen people hugging me. “Bless you, bless you,” they say as they bridge the gap (a little too close and a little too tight) between two disparate religions.

My appearance apparently ignites another frenzy as the music suddenly goes into overdrive. Two women perform an African dance in front of the 100 person choir. The Hebrew words “Bruchim Habaim — Blessed are those that visit” flash on the big screens. I’m a celebrity. Me and the Big Man.

Not whooping and hollering like those around me, I seem to be the only one among the 15,000 faithful not breaking a sweat. People are literally jumping out of their seats somehow infused with divine spasms. Blue spotlights dance around the room like at a rock concert. I half expect to see people holding up lighters.

A dozen uniform clad members of the film crew, one of which was atop a crane shooting sweeping vista angles, are zooming in on praiseful congregants to display on the large screens. It’s not hard to find them. I sneak out to use the restroom and don’t miss out on the action; they have the audio of the service being pumped in through overhead bathroom speakers. Jesus in the John. Just what I need.

This place is like a military industrial complex. The parking lot alone is the size of several football fields. That’s in addition to the actual football field next to the parking lot. People are being bussed in. Those that drive their own cars have New Birth flags hanging from their antennas.

Inside, like a large convention center, an information kiosk greets visitors in the front lobby. The gift shop is packed with patrons buying Bibles, DVDs, and New Birth bling. (New Birth paraphernalia is so popular they even have an off-campus gift shop in nearby Stonecrest Mall.) A visiting clergy, who traveled from Colorado just to be here this morning, buys a gift basket and other goodies to bring back home. As a first-timer, I’m given a complimentary “Welcome CD” in slick packaging.

Can you imagine a goody bag of multimedia swag to take home with you on the way out of synagogue? Hands down, Christians do a bang up job at branding their religion, but we Jews — well, not so much. Supposedly we run the media and yet we can’t cough up a gift basket and a take-home CD? And the common excuse we give — well, they have more financial resources — simply doesn’t fly. We Jews, per capita, are one of the wealthiest populations in this country. Last I checked, the Rockefellers were all circumcised.

Last summer I went to a Christian book conference at the Georgia World Congress Center with a group of Jewish publishers who, and I’ve got to pat them on the back for this, were looking for creative ideas from the phenomenally popular Christian book market. Last month, a group calling themselves the Christian Game Developers held a conference in Portland to come up with new ideas for Jesus-themed video games for kids. C’mon people, where’s our Son Slayer II: Egyptian Rampage?

There is much we can learn from our Christian brethren about mass marketing our message. They are masters of outreach. Yeah, I know, we’re not a proselytizing faith, but we do need to minister to those in our flock who have long left a spiritual path. Judaism, at its finest, is a bountiful and vibrant religion. Yet, most Jewish Americans opt for the path of least resistance: A Friday night bacon cheeseburger with their non-Jewish live-in girlfriend Christina Mary.

And we only have ourselves to blame. Their sole exposure to Judaism, confined to the walls of the synagogue Sunday School, only bothered to give them the guilt without the joy. It’s a watered down version of a millennia old tradition that boils down to some random amalgam of Jackie Mason, Havdalah, and rye bread.

At New Birth, on the other hand, the Lord’s spirit (both in the gift shop and the sanctuary) practically hypnotizes the audience into rapture.

Yes, New Birth is not all fun and light shows. There are dozens of kids running the halls, congregants coming late and, I’m sure, plenty of participants who are merely going through the motions. And, to be perfectly honest, my idea of connecting with God bears little resemblance to tambourines and television screens. But they are doing something, at least I can say that much.

One church down, and already a lesson learned.

***
Second Sunday, Landmark Church, Evangelical

Of all the denominations I know, Evangelical churches seem to be the most exciting, the most fantastical, and the most entertaining. I wholly admit, this notion is based on nothing more than multiple viewings of the 1992 Steve Martin comedy Leap of Faith about a crooked preacher who inspires the downtrodden at elaborate tent revival services.

As I drive to the Norcross church, my imagination goes wild with visions of grandmothers in wheelchairs miraculously being able to leap from their confinement and dance the Macarena. The preacher, a slick showman, would make an ear of corn come out of nowhere to show Farmer John, whose drought-stricken crops were suffering, that God would provide.

But, alas, we live in a metropolis and there are no Farmer Johns in sight as I pull into the large parking lot aside the two adjoining buildings that make up this suburban church.

Not really sure what the proper etiquette is, I arrive about a half hour early. Just in time for church sponsored breakfast before services. Since I keep kosher (and, for that matter shouldn’t really be enjoying eggs benedict and oatmeal at Jesus’ house), I steer clear of the cafeteria line and just plop down in a folding chair directly underneath a display of world flags on the wall. Israel is up there. I’m hoping people don’t put two and two together.

The scene reminds me a bit of Saturday morning kiddush at synagogue. The kids are running wild like I’m used to, the old men are cantankering together at one table, and there is a clack of women gossiping in the corner. The only difference here is that they are doing it before services.

Hoping to get a good seat in the sanctuary (and, at this point, feeling a tad nauseous from the overpowering stench of bacon) I walk next door to the other building. No sooner had I opened the door than a librarian looking woman in a jean jumper and shoulder pads unexpectedly leans in and kisses me on the cheek.

“Welcome to Landmark!” she says a tad too cheerily.

This seems a little weird to me, an invasion of my private space — something I would learn is violated in almost all the churches I attended. It also came across as a bit of déjà vu. Allow me a small aside ...

A blind date had once dragged me as her guest to a seminar by a company also called Landmark (no relation to this church), a sort of pyramid-scheme self-help group and I was treated almost the same way. Kiss as I walked in, overly eager ushers, and an unsettling feeling that I soon was going to be stripped of all the cash in my pocket in exchange for some audio cassette tapes that would supposedly make me a better person. But, really, that’s a story for another time ...

The sanctuary has kind of a rustic feel to it, like a really large lodge living room. There are enough seats for about 300 people and by the end of the service, they are all filled with blue collar types. The menorah on the wall, an absurdly placed Judaic symbol, scares the bejeezus out of me.

On the stage, erected in front of a huge fireplace, a band is setting up its equipment. The church, which encourages early comers, is showing a Christian music video on two flat panel televisions. Two dozen people, who look like normal folk you and I would do business with, are swaying to the music hands raised to the heavens.

As for me, people keep coming up like I’m running for office. Within a few minutes, I count six people (including the senior pastor) who shake my hand, pat me on the back, and welcome me to church. All I need is a baby and a photographer and my poll numbers would spike 10 points.

The services get underway with a few songs by the house band. The crowd, diverse with all ages, is boogying to the music. Even the 10-year-old next to me is high with the spirit and, like most everyone, sporting a disturbingly wide cult-like smile. There’s a real palpable lack of cynicism here that, as a regular synagogue goer, is new to me. I’m used to making fun of the choir, not getting jiggy with it.

The music ends and four pre-school aged children line up next to a small pool of water. It’s their big day. They’re being Baptized. Before dunking, they all “accept Jesus” to the cheers of everyone present. It’s a strange sight, for sure, but what’s more strange to me is that these young kids are making such a lifelong choice. In Judaism, a bar mitzvah takes place at 13. For a kid who wants to convert, most rabbis will have them see a shrink first (seriously). And then, if the kid still wants to be discriminated against for the rest of his life, the rabbi will usually ask him to wait until he’s at least 18 so he can be old enough to make such an important decision.

Just as I start to mentally compare the ritual waters of the mikvah to the Baptismal bath, a 50-year-old construction worker type from the audience walks up to the front and gives what he calls a “praise update.” He’d been in an accident five months ago and wants to say he’s doing better now thanks to the prayers of the congregation and the good grace of God. A few “Hallelujahs” fly out from the row behind me and linger in the air for a while.

The lead singer in the band, a 17-year-old girl, introduces the next song. She says she chose this verse because it spoke to her. At synagogue if a verse starts speaking to someone, we kindly escort them to Dr. Steinberg, the resident shul psychologist.

It’s a bit odd to see the church’s prayer choices being dictated by a girl who’s not even legally able to vote. Our prayers were instituted centuries ago and haven’t changed much at all over the years. To each his own, I suppose. Preach on, sister.

Congregants are invited to the altar where 100 people get on bended knee for personal prayer requests. I consider praying for something — perhaps asking if I could take that creepy menorah off the wall — but thought better of it. “Team leaders” help the people who are crying by offering hugs. When the tears subside, and people can now see clearly into their wallets, the collection basket is passed around which is followed by a tiny shot of wine and bread. The litany of activities is jarring to me, a veritable cacophony of spiritual spin the bottle.

As I take the bread and pretend to eat it, an African American woman makes her way to the stage. “The doctor told me I only had 15% of my heart left,” she says, clearly revealing more about her bionic medical history than I care to know. “Isn’t it marvelous how they don’t know anything? But God is gooooood. God knows everything.” And then, totally unexpectedly, she breaks into an operatic song. “I’m going to let God take control,” she belts out. Holy cow. In the last few minutes, we’ve somehow spiraled from Holy Communion to an American Idol audition.

“Is this a great place or what?” the pastor asks as he dives into his sermon. “You ain’t seen nothing yet. Amen?”

“Amen,” the crowd roars back.

He speaks about Exodus 3:7, the verse where God speaks to Moses from the burning bush, and somehow makes a transatlantic leap comparing it to how God talks to everyone, especially children. Moses, Shmoses.

This was something from my Torah, and here he is skewing the interpretation to fit his religion’s beliefs. The sermon pokes at me, at a part of my soul that I didn’t realize cared about such things. Hey, pastor, I don’t go near your Testament. Stay away from mine.

“Oh, praise God!” a woman yells from the audience.

That’s enough. I can take the chaotic potpourri of prayer, Baptisms, and musical hijinx. But the Biblical bastardization is just too much for me to handle. Feeling uncomfortable, I quietly leave the sanctuary. I notice a sign above the exit: “You are now entering the mission field.” For me, my mind numbed by the whirlwind service I just witnessed, my mission is unclear.

***
Third Sunday, The Cathedral of Christ the King, Catholic

The section of Peachtree Road just north of Lindbergh Drive is lovingly known to Atlanta Christians as Jesus Junction. Its plethora of churches (particularly Catholic) make it a traffic hazard on Sunday mornings.

I’m especially jazzed about attending Christ the King, a 69-year-old beautiful edifice in Buckhead, because to me it represents the epitome of Christian observance. It’s the prime rib of denominations.

While my fellow Biblical brothers are enjoying a Sunday brunch of bagels and lox, I’m driving to church listening on the car radio to Bob Dylan’s “Shelter from the Storm.” Which is a tad ironic since Dylan, a Jew, converted to Christianity when he wrote this song. And here I am on my way to church ... am I following his winding path of faith?

As I expected, the sanctuary is architecturally stunning. Tall arched ceilings, stained-glass windows, oil paintings of the Virgin Mary, and intricate etchings of Jesus on the stone wall. A Charlie Brown Christmas, here I come.

Unlike the Evangelical church, this one is completely silent. People shuffle in early enjoying silent moments of personal prayer. There’s no hands in the air and no arbitrary shout outs to the Lord above. Yes, Jesus is in the building. Just please keep it quiet.

Although there are actually some attendees in shorts and a t-shirt, the dress code for men seems to be a knit Polo shirt (color of your choosing), standard issue khakis, and loafers. The women wear sundresses or cute knee length skirts. And, for the life of me, I can’t find an overweight person anywhere among the mostly white-bread crowd. It’s my synagogue’s bizarro universe: Old men with good genes are showing off their full lustrous heads of hair. And practically everyone is drop-dead gorgeous. Like most houses of worship, it seems like a great place for singles to meet.

As lapsed Catholics can attest to, the service itself is kind of dull. Lots of standing and sitting and responding in rote to passages recited by the leader. The sermon, something to do with soil and sins, is a bore. Even the way it’s delivered is bereft of any fire and brimstone. And the non-participatory style isn’t helping me keep my interest.

Unlike some of the other churches I went to (which were more lively in spirit), this is a church of the mind. Gorgeous exterior notwithstanding, these congregants’ expressions of faith seem firmly housed in their own psyches.

It is altogether a more somber experience. The songs seem sad. The prayers seem obsessed with Jesus’ death. No wonder the Passion of the Christ had a killer box office.

I’ll tell you this: My skewed view of a fun Catholic church is definitely off the mark. I had wrongly been comparing the warm feelings of the Christmas season to a church prayer service. The celebratory atmosphere of the Christmas tree lighting at Lenox Mall is a far cry from the mood in here. One has mass market appeal, the other can be a disheartening way for a Jew to spend a Sunday morning.

Don’t get me wrong. My synagogue isn’t all Hava Nagila all the time either. In fact, many Jews will agree that Yom Kippur services, for example, can be worse than a root canal. But that would only be looking skin deep.

My interactions with God, while I often see them as formulaic, always have underlying themes of hope and redemption. The desire for true repentance, an integral part of our religion, motivates my prayers. It’s a personal experience.

And, truth be told, it’s not the house of worship but the worship itself that brings people closer to God. No matter how mesmerizing a minister (or dull in this case), his minions move towards a more religious life because of their own faith, their own inner dialogue with God, in whatever shape that takes.

For proof, look no further than 1980s televangelist Jimmy Swaggart. Even with his odd penchant for prostitutes and plagiarism, he still managed to inspire millions through his ministry.

And now, Jay Bakker, the offspring of Jim and Tammy Faye (those other famous televangelists from the 80s), is leading the charge among alternative religious practices. His Christian ministry, aptly titled “Revolution”, is one of several thousand groups that have emerged in the last decade, meeting in warehouses, bars, skate parks, and punk clubs in a generational rumble to rebrand the church experience.

So, yeah, this architecturally beautiful church I was in wasn’t doing it for me. But I’m a 30-year-old son of a rabbi. What do I know about Catholic churches? It’s obviously working for these people. The place, along with its three-story parking garage, remains packed every Sunday.

Towards the end of the service, as everyone kneels down on the floor, I walk out of the sanctuary. Looking back in at the huddled masses, I realize I double parked. I also realize I don’t belong here. But these people certainly do.

God, and for that matter faith, can be found just about anywhere.

***
Fourth Sunday, St. Bartholemew's, Episcopal

It was the fourth and final Sunday I would be attending church. To shake things up a bit, I decide to attend an early service which has a start time of 8:00 AM and obviously brings out a more devout crowd. I find myself, like many a Shabbat morning, lazily dragging myself out of bed.

To be perfectly honest, I’m actually relieved that this is the last week. The journey, while certainly eye-opening, has been emotionally draining. I’m even starting to question my quest, wondering if I’m looking in the wrong places for cures to my own spiritual ailments. Was a glimpse behind the forbidden curtain of Christianity really necessary?

My wife doesn’t think so. A daughter of a minister and a convert to Judaism, she obviously brings an interesting dynamic to our relationship. While I often stumble on the path to complete and unwavering faith, it seems to come more naturally for her. As someone who actually chose to be Jewish, her relationship with God seems, to me at least, to be stronger than those of us who just happened to be born with the last name Cohen or Schwartz.

She disapproves of my quest and thinks my church-hopping adventure is not the way a committed Jew should reconnect with his own faith. And now, with three churches down and one to go, I’m beginning to think that maybe she’s right.

These thoughts swirl through my mind as I hop back into my Hyundai and drive to the final stop on my summer church tour.

St. Bart’s seems like a holy place. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it’s the ornate robes the reverends are wearing. Maybe it’s the bells ringing a call to prayer. Maybe it’s just the way the light shines through the sunroof and directly onto the altar like a ray from heaven. Or maybe it’s just my twisted sense of spirituality playing mind games with me.

As I find a seat, I notice the word “Shalom” on a sign. Great, even here, my Jewish heritage is sneaking in with me. It’s as if the Episcopals have been expecting me. “Quick, Peter, there’s a Jew coming. Put up that Hebrew sign we’ve been storing in the supply closet.”

The services start with a thundering organ, a nice touch actually. It sounds like a movie score (Run, Forrest, Run!) and adds to the drama of the moment.

Surprisingly, of all the churches I’ve gone to, this one feels the most comfortable to me. The service is very ritualistic. This is the first time in a month that I felt somewhat connected with what Christians were doing in church. Praise God, Glory Hallelujah, and all that jazz.

So much of what I had witnessed up to this point was completely foreign to me. The most prominent example of this was the prayers themselves. Instead of asking for specifics (sustenance, peace in Israel, Uncle Mort’s gallbladder surgery), it felt like the churches I had attended prayed for one thing and one thing only: to have a relationship with Jesus. Accept Jesus into your life and all will be ok. That’s all, folks.

But that didn’t quite make sense to me, someone who had been brought up shouldering the potential guilt of not adhering to 613 commandments. And to make matters worse, this “relationship” they spoke of was always talked about in such vague terminology.

At Christ the King, they uttered phrases like the “redemption of our bodies” and the “seed is the word of God.” What in the world does that mean? At the Evangelical church, I heard the phrase “streams of refreshing” and “the work of God does not come back void.” Huh? But at this Episcopal church, there was more action, more rituals were being performed.

In the philosophical conundrum of deed vs. creed, Judaism falls heavily on the side of deed. We’re not about accepting one mantra and moving on. In Judaism, God expects more from us. His Torah, albeit complex, is replete with lists of what God wants us to do.

This works out well for me because my brain works great with tangibles. But throw an abstract concept my way and things start to sputter. Judaism is good that way. You have the myriad mitzvot: Wear a yarmulke, eat this, eat that, and on the 17th day of the 4th month, don’t eat at all. These are some concepts I can wrap my head around.

Perhaps it’s my Jewish upbringing that’s shaped my psyche to work this way, but I need tangibles. None of this amorphous “streams of refreshing” psycho babble. Tell me exactly what to do and I feel right at home.

About five different church leaders are now on the stage, all in Crusade-era robes, acting out some elaborate wine pouring ceremony using shiny silver vessels over a large table. All of them are facing the middle one, a slight reference to the last supper I thought, in this moving religious ritual.

The services at St. Bart’s conclude as they had begun — on a dramatic note. With the music coming to a crescendo, the congregants file to the front for their wafer and blessing. Truth be told, it’s a real awe-inspiring way to start the week. If you’re Christian.

***
Epilogue

It’s the following Sunday and I’ve woken up early in a sweat induced state of spiritual confusion. Is today the Sabbath? And whose Sabbath would that be? I guess breaking my church habit, going cold turkey on Christ, wasn’t as easy as I thought.

With nothing on my schedule for a few hours, and my wife still asleep, I decide there’s time to make one more stop. I need another fix of faith for this spiritual odyssey to come full circle.

The church across the street from my childhood home looms over me like an evil spirit from my past. At times both tempting and repelling, I’ve nonetheless felt a strange connection to it my entire life. I couldn’t go blazing through Atlanta churches on an inspirational rampage without going back to where it all began.

And there it stands. Cokesbury Methodist. Just like I remembered it.

I park the car and walk towards the door. This time, nobody’s stopping me. I’m no longer a pre-pubescent prankster looking to purchase a Christmas tree. I’m here to do nothing less than slay my inner demons.

Ok, delusions of psychological grandeur aside, I just have to go in and see if it would actually live up to all the hype in my head.

From the get-go, I’m surprisingly non-plussed. Only about 30 people are at services today, held in a non-descript sanctuary that looks like a dozen synagogues I’ve seen. It’s all absurdly normal and pedantic. Had I finally rid myself of this Methodist madness? Would I finally stop asking myself rhetorical questions?

“… That church across from my childhood home was -- for my youthful psyche -- my snake, apple, and Garden of Eden all rolled into one ...”

A heavyset pastor hobbles to the pulpit with the help of a cane. He makes some reference to celebrating deodorant month (don’t ask) and some other random announcements. So this is what I had been looking for my whole childhood? Oddly placed religious Right Guard promos. This was not the fairy tale faith I was expecting.

Another church leader comes to the pulpit and delivers a lesson from the Old Testament about Laban, Jacob, and Rachel. Unlike my earlier experience with a church encroaching on my Torah, this time I feel numb. Maybe it’s because the five-pound bible resting on the pew fell on my hand several minutes ago and I never bothered to remove it. But maybe it’s also because my religious rage has been tempered. They’re doing their own thing and I’ll do mine.

The service doesn’t last too long and before I know it, it’s over. That’s it. Like the quick rip of a band-aid, thirty years of inner demons are slayed in under an hour. Sounds like a slogan for LensCrafters.

As we exit, I watch the congregants get in their cars. This time the SUVs don’t seem as shiny as they once did. They’re probably heading to the mall or Mickey D’s. It gives me pause. When we leave synagogue on Saturday there’s a different vibe. A feeling that it’s not really over. I usually go home to family and friends and partake in a Sabbath meal.

And right there, in the parking lot of Cokesbury Methodist, I have an epiphany. Not the praise Jesus kind (although if I did, I’d have other problems). This was more like a spiritual eureka moment.

All this time I had been comparing Yom Kippur services to a gospel choir when what I should have done is look beyond the synagogue’s walls. There’s more to being Jewish than what goes on in the confines of the sanctuary. Indeed, although prayers play an integral part, my Judaism is so much more than the sum of my synagogue attendance.

Judaism dictates my entire life. How I’m brought up, who I marry, how I raise my children, where I’m buried. It teaches me how to lead a moral life, how to build a sukkah, and even how to tie my shoes (it’s in the Talmud actually). It’s a lifecycle religion that encompasses more than I can ever fully fathom.

My Judaism, as I’m sure it is for many, is complex. And I guess that’s a good thing. Its multiple layers lure me back each week, each day, as there’s constantly more for me to discover. For all my religious road-tripping, the answers I had been seeking were right in front of me the whole time. Apparently, I just needed Jesus to show me the way back to my Judaism.

There are a myriad paths people take to find faith in God. The gestalt of religious practice in America simply boils down to this: Between the Buddhists and Baptists, the Muslims and Mormons, the Pagans and Pentecostals, I found more commonality than differences. Despite the fancy light shows and Evangelical opera singers, despite the Baptismal baths and jumbo screens, despite the wine, wafers, and kisses on the cheek, and even despite our philosophical differences, there is a deeper thread running throughout. There are many roads leading to spiritual maturity and God himself. Some of us just have different ways of getting there.

Judaism, I guess I’ve always known, is the true path for me. At the end of the day the grass is not always greener at the church across the street.

It took going out of my comfort zone, being a stranger in a strange land, to make me realize just how much I cherish my faith. I now have newfound appreciation for the prayers, the people, and the public displays of religiosity. It seems odd to say it, but I guess it’s true. Going to church has made me a better Jew.

Hallelujah. Praise the Lord. And Amen to that.


If you'd like to comment on this article, email us a Letter to the Editor.