How a Progressive Orthodox Rabbi Welcomed My Conversion (Part 2)

👉 Read Part 1 here: Part 1 The Rabbi Who Changed My Israeli Life

After my in-laws finished explaining the situation, the rabbi turned to me with a discreet and gentle smile.

“Is it true?” he asked. “Everything they’ve just said — is it correct? Do you truly want to convert?”

I nodded yes.

He did not ask why.

Instead, he moved on to more casual questions. He asked where I was from, whether this was my first time in Israel, where I was studying the language, and how I had met my husband. Finally, he asked if I wanted to have children.

After he was gone, it struck me that he hadn’t asked a single question about my religious beliefs.

Surprisingly, I felt entirely calm, and my Hebrew did not fail me. The only pressure came from within myself: Yes, I wanted this. I wanted to be like everyone else; I wanted to belong.

Being French was fine, it was not a problem.

But to build a life in Israel, well, I felt I had to become Jewish.

Overall, I loved my new life—my new city, my new family, and the gorgeous Mediterranean weather. I loved the outgoing energy of the people. But there was still that little stone in my shoe — the same one Julia described in her journey toward becoming a “Jew for Jesus,” though my goal was entirely different.

For me, it was simply about becoming Jewish. Once I understood that it was the only way to truly belong to my new family, it became my only goal in Israel. I wanted it.

As Rabbi F. listened to my replies and nodded occasionally, I couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking

Finally, he spoke.

"There is much to learn, and no time to waste," he said. "Come see my wife, the rabbanit, after your ulpan classes tomorrow."

He turned back toward my husband and in-laws and, with a brief wave of the hand, added: “And, of course, we will meet at services on Friday night and Saturday morning.”

My parents-in-law looked delighted. They quickly stepped aside to let him pass as he headed toward the door, followed by a chorus of “Toda! Toda raba!”, "Thank You, Thank you very much!"

The door closed.

For a few moments, there was silence.

My mother-in-law declared that it had gone well and immediately picked up the phone to call her brother, who had arranged the meeting. My father-in-law was smiling and announced he was hungry. My husband, however, just sighed and removed his kippah. We looked at each other and said nothing.

The die was cast. We were going through with it. I was going through with it.

The very next day, I found myself standing outside the Rabbi's building, reaching out to ring the doorbell.

I’ve often wondered, over the years, why Rabbi F. was so quick to take a chance on me. He was no fool. He had met me only once. I may have been dressed modestly, but I hadn't even mentioned the word "God."

I’m just guessing, really. But I think he realized something others didn't: that it’s better to give the "outsider" in a Jewish family a way in, rather than closing the door and leaving them with nothing at all. He probably just hoped some of the culture and traditions would stick—even if we weren't exactly "religious" about it.

In 1991, that open attitude was relatively uncommon. Today, there is a philosophy known as "The Torah of Inclusion"—a framework pioneered by Judaism Your Way to honour "the increasingly complex and fluid identities of people today".

Long before it had a name, I believe Rabbi F. was already practicing it.

He and his wife chose to put their faith in me, and I was determined not to disappoint them. They might have hoped for a religious breakthrough down the line, but it never really happened. What they did succeed in doing, however, was keeping me in Israel that year.

They gave me the opportunity to study, which didn't just satisfy my curiosity, but helped me build a lasting connection with the country, its people, and its traditions.

And, in the process, they made things a whole lot easier for my in-laws, too.

Listening intently to the words during the ceremony as Rabbi F. speaks.

Tel Aviv 1992

This post is inspired by my memoir, which is currently seeking publication. Thank you for reading—feel free to share and explore more posts! P.S. While I’m sharing these memories of my past, my present is in motion! On July 3rd, I’ll begin my 10th international relocation.

Farewell, London.

Every move brings a mix of excitement, uncertainty, and possibility. The next time we meet here, I’ll be writing from a new place—and sharing more.

“Toopse do,” as I read on a sign last weekend while leaving a place in the countryside. To me, it feels like the most British farewell—light, funny, and just quirky enough to make you smile, not cry.

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You may also enjoy:

- Why I Wrote This Memoir 

- Where I Come From: A Story of Family & Estrangement

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