“But all of you who held fast to the LORD your God are still alive today.” – Deuteronomy 4:4

For one year and a half I have been the religion and spirituality columnist for the Wesleyan Blargus, recording my thoughts about these subjects in my usually weekly feature, “Deuteronomy 4:4.” I defended the possibility of God’s existence, especially when I was not bogged down by my thesis—in my writings as well as in conversation (and if in casual conversation, it did not remain casual for very long). I also believed that the many religions of humanity were blessings that were capable of uniting, and not a curse to fragment us. But in agreeing to take the role to defend my views, my beliefs were besieged by those that disagreed, and there were many of them. I had contracted an infection from that fatal moment two years ago in which a professor told me about the Five Books of Moses, “It’s an imagined history”. There were elements in the holy texts that I believed had a firm basis in truth, but to say that none of it was based on anything real was a dangerous step for my view of the world and of my faith

Only two months ago did a peer tell me “Jared, you’re a secular humanist.” By this time, the disease was so well-rooted that I said, “I absolutely agree with you.” (This was at the Jewish and Israel Studies luncheon, of all places.)

At this point perhaps you are wondering why I call this development a “disease” and not an epiphany or a transformation. Simply put, I could not function spiritually anymore. I saw religious teachers of all sorts and instead of seeing them as prophets or messengers, I saw them as professors and scholars. Academic circles—as well having a mind that thought more than a heart that felt—were responsible.

My entire religious world was demystified. The Bible, the Talmud, my other religious texts that I once deemed the most important in my entire life—they were just books that reflected the time from which they came, and nothing more. It was almost like falling out of love. That’s right, I put Judaism in the friend zone, along with Greek and Roman mythology and all other religions. I was something of a pantheist.

But there was one thing that managed to save my religious spirit from caving in completely. A lot of what I had been taught in religious school seemed like propaganda instead of meaningful spiritual or human insight. What saved me instead was holiday ritual.

The Passover Seder at Wesleyan, and the subsequent days of the holiday, made me remember my childhood days and how much I genuinely cared about my beliefs. Before that I had thoughts of taking liberty with dietary restrictions, and even considered dating non-Jews—an act which would have permanently severed ties with some of my communities—but I could not bring myself to distance myself from the holiday cultures. Passover was mine.

Alexander Portnoy, the protagonist of Philip Roth’s oddly entertaining “Portnoy’s Complaint,” said that to break Jewish law, all you had to do was…go ahead and break it! I internalized that phrase at points over the course of the year. I even cited it many times, and my housemates can tell you that. At times I wanted to drive my romantic relationship with Judaism so far into the ground that I could forever be a secular humanist without any inhibitions.

Only now do I realize exactly what was responsible for my crisis of faith. I had a lifelong love of my heritage and my religion, but my love for her was marred by others telling me that my beloved was ugly, flawed, and manipulative. Also equally problematic was the notion that others had taken what I loved, and turned it into something that I could not possibly love—the worship of dogmas, as opposed to serving humanity and God. But my heritage is mine, and I get to decide what that means. I could not break up with her. Portnoy, as far as I was concerned, was wrong.

The lesson I learned from this year: ultimately your stances towards your faith and those of others are indications of your own self, and do not indicate the truth or lack thereof in the religion itself.

As I write this, I consider myself a Jew, a secular humanist, and even a pantheist. I am not splitting my loyalty. I can be a new self tomorrow or even every changing minute if I want. But as long as I cling to the God within my soul—the one that speaks with honesty about what I want and what I wish to be—then I will remain truly alive, instead of a ghost that is living someone else’s vision about what I should be. In all religions, God speaks through truth. Be true to yourself, and you will be holy no matter who you are.