Why People Convert to Judaism: Three Very Different Stories (Among Many)

I’m an atheist who converted to Judaism.

That sentence tends to confuse people. When most people hear the words “Jewish conversion,” they imagine a moment of revelation, dramatic circumstances, or at least a sudden “aha!” when everything finally clicks.

But the more conversion stories you hear, the clearer it becomes: conversion is far more fluid than that.

Recently, I came across a newly published memoir about a Jewish conversion. Soon after, my friend Arnold randomly asked if I had heard about another one he’d seen mentioned—and immediately thought of my own memoir. That’s what friends are for! (Merci, Arnold!)

Those two recent memoirs illustrate just how different these journeys can be.

1. The Spiritual Shift: Choosing to Be Chosen by Kylie Ora Lobell

Kylie, an American journalist, ditched Catholicism for atheism at twelve. But after falling in love with a Jewish boyfriend and discovering Shabbat dinners, she had a spiritual awakening. She transformed from a convinced atheist into a devoted Orthodox Jew.

This is the story most people expect: love leads to Judaism, and Judaism leads to God.

It is certainly the assumption people jumped to the moment they found out I converted—even though I wasn’t religious then, and I’m still not.

2. The Legal Recognition Challenge: Making the Cut by Max Olesker

Max, a British comedian, grew up believing he was already Jewish; his mother had converted through Reform Judaism years earlier. But when he wanted a traditional religious wedding, Orthodox authorities ruled that his status wasn’t “official” enough.

To be recognized, Max underwent an eight-month Orthodox conversion.

For him, the process wasn’t about a spiritual epiphany. It was about legal recognition, proving he belonged to a group he already culturally identified with. (Also—side note—I find the title Making the Cut brilliant.)

3. My Story: The Pragmatic Conversion

And then there’s me.

Like Kylie, I started as an atheist. Like Max, I converted for love and family. But unlike Kylie, I didn’t find God. And unlike Max, I wasn’t already half-in.

My in-laws knew perfectly well that I was an atheist. Belief wasn’t the issue for them. What mattered was that, if I wanted to be fully accepted into the family, I would become part of the same community.

The decision to convert came quickly once I realised I had little to lose and a great deal to gain. This family wanted me in a way my own family often hadn’t.

Yes, I had to play the role of a religious student during the process. But I genuinely enjoyed the learning—less so the occasional bending of the truth. Still, it felt like un mal pour un bien—a small wrong for a greater good.

I approached conversion with the curiosity of an anthropologist, the determination of an undercover agent, and the drive of a straight-A student. I treated it like a master’s program—except the class size was one and I had no intention of accidentally “failing” Judaism.

My professors were a rabbi, his wife the rabbanit, and one very enthusiastic religious teenager who kindly took me under her wing. The final exam: three interviews with the Beit Din, a rabbinical court, followed by the mikveh, the ritual bath that finalizes the conversion.

During the interviews, I felt surprisingly calm. Not because I felt confident in my knowledge, but because the situation was so surreal: standing in front of three religious judges seated on a raised platform in Jerusalem was simply not something I had ever imagined doing in my life.

When it was finally time for the mikveh, I half-expected some kind of cosmic sign—the water suddenly bubbling, the ground opening beneath me, or perhaps a mystical feeling of floating enlightenment.

None of that happened.

Claire the atheist stepped into the water, and Avigail—my Hebrew name—stepped out. Still an atheist, but now officially part of a community I had learned to care deeply about. The women present burst into celebration, letting out joyful ululations—the festive ululu common among Sephardi Jews—with my mother-in-law leading the group.

Judaism is often described as an ethnoreligion—part faith, part culture, part peoplehood. For me, joining wasn’t about belief so much as the people, and the simple desire to belong. And so I joined the roughly 20% of Israeli Jews who identify as atheist. In fact, nearly half of Israeli Jews consider themselves secular or not religious, so being a non-believing Jew is far from unusual.

Yes—you can be an atheist Jew.

Despite our different journeys—Kylie finding God, Max gaining recognition, and me discovering belonging—we all started from the same place: a desire to be accepted by a partner, a family, or a community.

Conversion isn’t one-size-fits-all.

Sometimes it’s spiritual.

Sometimes it’s legal.

Sometimes it’s cultural.

If you’re curious about how a straight-A atheist faced a rabbinical court—or how to play undercover agent even though my cover was blown almost immediately (despite my in-laws politely playing along)—I’ve written the full story.

My memoir is finished and currently looking for its publishing home.

Three journeys, three covers—and I couldn’t resist imagining not one, but two for mine!

Which concept do you prefer?

Until then, I’d love to hear from you:

Have you encountered a conversion story—your own or someone else’s—that surprised you, made you laugh, or left you scratching your head?

Let’s talk in the comments.

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You may also enjoy:

- Why I Wrote This Memoir 

- Searching for the Perfect Title for my Jewish Conversion Memoir

- Why I Converted to Judaism as an Atheist: It’s Not About Religion