Finding my religion with a sesame bagel

How a walk around the neighborhood with a bagel helped me understand how I see the world.

Welcome to It’s A Shanda, one Northeastern Jew’s quest to find a decent bagel in Seattle (and beyond). Along with free bagel reviews every Sunday, we also offer bonus posts (like this one) each week. If you’re already subscribed, I hope you’ll consider upgrading to a paid subscription! Thank you for reading.

Credit: Brian Boucheron/Flickr

Before we dig into this week’s post, I wanted to share that a short play I wrote called “Crucifixin’s” is getting a staged reading as part of the We Need New Plays Festival on August 2 in the Bullitt Cabaret at ACT Theatre. I’m very excited to see the talented actors and crew bring it to life and if you’re up for a night of supporting new works by local artists, I hope you’ll consider checking it out. The play is a rumination about the nature of belief and how we perceive one another based on those beliefs (with plenty of commentary about being Jewish). Tickets are pay-what-you-can and if you do come, please say hi. I’ll be the one nervously sweating during the performance…

I recently found religion while eating a bagel in Madison Valley.

Let’s back up for a second.

I’m not a religious person. In fact, I think it would be fair to say I have an inordinate amount of issues with organized religion and its impact on the world, let alone my life. I’m more apt to describe myself as having been raised Jewish than to say that I AM Jewish. I don’t feel like I meet the criteria, despite the whole “if your mother’s Jewish, you’re Jewish” thing. I’m not an atheist but I wouldn’t describe myself as agnostic either. The belief system I’ve often felt the most at home with is optimistic nihilism.

All of that said, I have always felt deeply defensive and protective about my Jewishness. This is a conundrum I think a lot of American Jews of my generation grapple with. To be proud of my Jewishness without doing the things that make one Jewish and wondering what gives me the right to be like this?

I never stopped trying to understand this internal dilemma. In fact, I think it would be fair to say that I have been obsessed with religious belief my entire life even while rejecting it. On road trips, I would often listen to Christian talk radio for long stretches to try and understand why they believed what they believed. I devoured films, documentaries, and books about organized religions, their beliefs, and the uncomfortable truths behind those beliefs.

There’s nowhere this obsession has come through more than in my writing.

In a college rhetoric class, I wrote a paper on how saying the word “Jew” could create vastly different reactions in different people. The first screenplay I ever wrote was also called “Jew,” and followed a 20-something Jewish guy trying to make sense of why he was so proud of his Jewishness despite not being religious (it was a real stretch). I also wrote several screenplays about religion in general. One where every organized religion shared a suburban office complex in heaven (“God Complex”) and another about a Jewish and Muslim duo who survived the Rapture and took a road trip (“Ari and Omar Survive the Apocalypse”). When I shifted to stageplays, my obsession came with me. The aforementioned “Crucifixin’s” takes place in the Creation Museum food court and involves a Jewish person and vegetarian arguing over the nature of belief.

And then I started a Substack newsletter about bagels, not realizing that I was once again diving into the deep abyss within me to explore my identity, this time through bread products.

I love walking through neighborhoods. I also enjoy hiking through a forest and long walks along the beach, but casually strolling through a residential neighborhood is one of my favorite things to do. The denser the neighborhood, the better. If I can walk unabated for an hour or two through a stretch of residential streets, it’s the best.

Watching the architecture evolve and how each block differs from the one before it. Noting the differences in how everyone lives. Experiencing the gardens, floral displays, and mini-habitats that people create for themselves. Seeing the ways that birds and wildlife carve out a life of their own in the spaces between. Sensing the calm serenity of a quiet residential street. It’s a real joy and I try to do it as much as possible.

I’ve recently taken to walking the large neighborhood east of 23rd and 24th Avenues East, stretching from the Arboretum to Madrona Park. I don’t know what you call it but it essentially combines Montlake, Stevens, Madison Valley, Denny-Blaine, Madrona, and Central District. It’s incredibly hilly, goes for miles, and can loop back on itself block-by-block. Perfect for an ambler like myself.

I was doing that walk on a weekday morning not too long ago when it occurred to me that I was mere blocks from Mt. Bagel (we need more bagel places tucked in neighborhoods!). I figured there wouldn’t be much of a line so I stopped by. Sure enough, I only waited a few minutes before walking out with a piping hot sesame bagel and a cold beverage.

My propensity for taking long residential walks is matched only by my enjoyment of listening to podcasts. That morning, I happened to be listening to an episode of Search Engine, a podcast that attempts to answer a burning question the same way you might type that question into Google to find an answer. Some of my favorite episodes include “Do political yard signs actually do anything?” and “Where did all the roaches go?”

On this day, I was listening to an episode titled, “What does it feel like to believe in God?” Host P.J. Vogt explained how he came to lose his own faith in the notion of god before speaking with Zvika Krieger, a rabbi from Chochmat HaLev, a Jewish Renewal synagogue that combines teachings from the Torah, Kabbalah, Buddism, and contemporary commentaries. Krieger was there to talk about how after being raised as an Orthodox Jew, he eschewed the religion before eventually finding god on his own terms later in life.

If you were trying to engineer a podcast episode specifically geared towards my interests, this was it.

While leisurely enjoying that bagel and the texture of its toasty sesame seeds, I listened to Krieger explain his life story. While his story is extremely different from mine, especially the details of his Orthodox upbringing, I resonated with his explanation of how he went through the motions of growing up Jewish but found “zero spiritual fulfillment” in what it offered. He mentions French philosopher Paul Ricœur’s notion of the “Second Naiveté,” when a person’s faith is reconstituted following a period of criticism, as something he resonated with as he grew up. While Judaism “never left” him, he got into meditation and mindfulness as a way to make sense of the world. He also found joy in dancing and the way that helped him connect to the people around him (“The place where I most encounter god is on the dance floor”).

Ultimately, he went to rabbinical school and eventually took on the job he has now at Chochmat HaLev, finding his way back to faith on his own terms while validating the idea that it’s okay not to know the answers to the universe’s questions.

I liked what he said about the contradictions and paradoxes that exist in Jewish texts and practices. I agreed with his interpretation of god and the way to tap into what that means (“How can I plug into that awareness that everything is one?”).

As I cherished the final bites of this chewy bagel, I thought about Krieger’s journey and wondered if I was on that same road. If I were writing a screenplay about my life, perhaps this was the 2nd act turning point that caused me to finally embark on a similar journey to find faith through my own Second Naiveté.

While I appreciated Krieger’s story and his reasons for finding his way back, it soon felt clear in my mind that his path was not mine. Never say never, but no matter how much I try to, that connection never clicks.

It might seem odd then that I spend so much time writing about religion and belief and god if I don’t feel a connection to any of it. But as I tapped into why I wasn’t resonating completely with Krieger, I thought about how there was one unifying aspect to my journey.

Writing.

The joke I had for myself when I was younger was that writing “allows me to be the jerk I always wanted to be.” While I always found it hard to express myself in person, I could transfer those strong feelings and honest opinions to the page. I could wrap characters around them and create just enough separation to justify expressing my truth.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve come to realize I don’t have to do that. It’s taken a while but I understand now I can be the real me and be appreciated for it. But it was in writing that I truly discovered who I am.

It was the only place I allowed myself to express what I was really thinking and feeling. It was where I could start writing a journey and find that I understood myself better only when I reached the conclusion. It gave me the chance to figure out what I really wanted to say and how I wanted to live in this world. It helped me to see beneath the metaphors and story arcs to find the moral and ethical codes I found most important.

I finished my bagel, finished the podcast, and eventually finished my walk. Afterward, I went to a local coffee shop, opened up my laptop, and started writing. Of course I did because that’s what I do.

Writing is my day job. Writing is my hobby. Writing is my creative outlet. Writing is my passion. Writing is how I see the world. Writing is how I plug into the awareness that everything is one.

Writing is my religion.

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