Readers respond to that question with a variety of personal stories and reflections. (For related essays, see our special project Choosing My Religion.) To share the most important religious decision of your life, or remark on one of the accounts below, please drop us a note at email@example.com.
Dylan, a young Millennial reader, revives a really interesting subthread on Jewish identity (starting here, here, here, then here) within our overall discussion on religious choice:
I was amazed to read Lekha’s struggle with her Jewish identity because I am in almost exactly the same situation: Both of my parents are Jewish, but my mother is a convert, originally from India (like Lekha’s mother). I grew up in New York and was raised Jewish. I went to Hebrew School, had a Bar Mitzvah, and had Jewish friends. For the most part no one questioned my Jewish identity until I was in my teens.
It’s not easy convincing people you’re Jewish when you look more like one would expect a Muslim to look like. It’s an ongoing battle within myself.
I also don’t agree with your Orthodox Jewish reader, Esther, when she said that someone who converts to Judaism but doesn’t follow Jewish practices will “naturally” be viewed as an “outsider.” I know plenty of Jews who don’t practice the religion or even believe in any of its tenets but who consider themselves and (more importantly) are considered by other Jews to be Jewish.
This standard doesn’t seem to apply to me because of my mixed ethnic background. When talking to other Jewish people, I’m often forced to explain that, yes, my mother converted before marrying my father. Although even this isn’t enough for some people; my grandmother still didn’t want my father to marry my mother because even they she had converted she would “never really be Jewish.”
Here’s an older reader, Irene, who talks about the tension she experienced growing up with Jewish identity in the 1950s:
If there was one subject I thought I wouldn’t have much to add to, it’s religion. But when the subject took a whole different turn, to “who is a Jew and who decides?,” I knew I could relate.
My dad was Jewish; my mom was Christian. They met in Nazi Germany and fell in love there. My dad and his siblings and parents escaped to Britain and the U.S.; my mom survived the war in Germany.
My parents reunited after the war when he came back as an American soldier and joined his family in the U.S. once he was allowed to marry an enemy. During my young childhood, I was immersed in my dad’s family, but his parents had both died by the time I was six and we moved away from the extended family.
Although my mom half-heartedly tried to interest me in religion (mostly because other families sent their kids to Sunday school in the 1950s), it didn’t take for very long. By the time I was 13, I had learned what all the whispering among adults had been during my childhood: the Holocaust—who died, who escaped, their lives before and after. It impacted me very hard.
As I got older and started to date, religion took on a new importance. Jews were concerned that I wasn’t Jewish enough but generally accepted me; Christians considered me a Jew. Culturally I was drawn to Jews, and most of the guys I dated were Jewish. The one Christian I dated seriously dumped me the moment he found out my dad was Jewish. I saw it in his eyes immediately. He just couldn’t tell his family (his dad was an Episcopal priest) that he was dating me. I never dated a Christian again.
I went on to marry a Jewish man whose family was as unreligious as my own. When our children were young I thought about converting for their sake, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it and my husband had zero interest in pushing them toward any religion. I had grown up in a cultural world that was heavily Jewish but religiously pretty agnostic. Those were my own tendencies and still are. It’s just not possible for me to pretend to believe what I don’t believe.
I also am repulsed by the people who believe that there is only one way to be Jewish and that is to be an ultra orthodox Jew. They remind me of those Christians for whom Christianity is limited to the most conservative fundamentalist sects and who want to limit the entire realm of Christianity to their own narrow beliefs. So I’ll stay agnostic and remember the culture of both of my parents fondly even if I do see myself as more culturally and ethnically Jewish than Christian. Theirs was a very special union and reminds me that love can conquer—if not everything, an awful lot.
Here’s another Boomer reader, Mike, who, like darker-skinned Dylan, doesn’t look like most Jewish people—but in the opposite way:
I was born a Protestant and then my father died of polio. My mother re-married to a Jew and so at the age of 2, I became a Jew too. I got a Jewish-sounding last name. I lived in an increasingly Jewish neighbourhood, so the majority of my friends were Jewish and so I just went along as one. Not to be racist, but I did notice I didn’t seem to have the appearance of a Jew (blonde hair, blue eyes).
I never really did feel 100% acceptance, but I went along playing the role expected of me. I was even Bar Mitzvah’d, and this made my step-dad happy, as he fit in properly with the rest of his chosen Jewish community. My mother went along acting her part, which helped me do the same.
My upbringing always had me question this religious thing, being born into one ideology and then converting to another but never feeling accepted, feeling like an outsider. But I went along and felt I could continue to pull this charade off until one time at Synagogue during Yom Kippur time during yet another Israeli conflict. This rabbi, who was very accepted by the congregation, started talking about how the congregation should come together to support Israel in wartime and they passed the hat around to “buy weapons to kill Syrians.”
This is when I took pause to consider this whole religion thing. Something yet again just didn’t add up for me.
My last confirmation that these feelings of conflict and confusion were confirmed to me when the very Jewish high school and graduating class decided to have a reunion. I will never forget that when I received a letter from an old friend requesting “that we get together for lunch and that he would even call some OUR NON Jewish friends”!
I declined the invitation, and I went back to living a peaceful and fulfilling life in the community of the world around me. I was astounded yet amazingly relieved that I had escaped that world. To this day when I hear John Lennon’s “Imagine,” I still smile, knowing that we can independently find that world.
If you’re interested in more reading on the subject of Jewish identity, Abigail has you covered:
I don’t actually have a very good personal story for you. My own story involves giving up the Reform Judaism in which I was raised and pursuing an orthodox Jewish conversion. (My father is Jewish, not my mother, so only Reform Judaism considers me a Jew.) Dramatic though that choice has felt at times, it has come on so gradually that I cannot place a finger on the beginning or any particular turning point.
What I did want to tell you, though, is Rolling Stone magazine published a really thorough and incredible article by Ellen Willis in April 1977 which talks about this phenomenon of liberal Jews turning orthodox (“Next Year in Jerusalem”). Maybe you already know about it, or maybe it is of no use to you, and at any rate it is a bit dated now, but I just wanted to note it because a lot of what it talks about is still happening among American millennials.
Update from an old compatriot of mine, Max:
Hey Chris, long-time reader from back in the Dish days. I swear this isn’t intended as self-promotion (not least because I didn’t write anything I’m about to link to), but seeing all of the stories from Jews of mixed ethnic background made me feel like I needed to share.
I work for an organization that has been providing material assistance to Jews of Color (“JOCs” in our parlance) who are organizing themselves for greater recognition and leadership in American Jewish communities. They’re also pushing those majority-white communities to invest more heavily in confronting racism against people of color generally.
Last month, a lot of leaders in this growing movement held a national convening in New York. I thought some of your readers might be interested in seeing some of the output from that convening, which was covered in several Jewish media outlets, most thoroughly Jewschool.
I’m an Ashkenazi Jew, although as the son of a convert of German descent, my blond appearance also results in frequent, irritating comments on how I don’t “look” Jewish. (A tip for readers: just never, ever say that. Just don’t.) But although it’s outside my realm of personal experience, forming relationships with Jews of many ethnicities has been eye-opening and drives home for me how much work our communities have if we are going to be welcoming places for everyone who identifies as Jewish. I hope readers who are struggling with this will connect to Jewish Multiracial Network and the other organizations that hosted the national convening.
And if you’d like to connect with Notes to share your own personal struggle, the door is always open.
A reader, Elizabeth Martin, recounts her uneven journey of “losing my religion”:
I was raised to be a lifelong devout Christian, a member of the Southern Baptist church from the time I was in diapers up until I was 18 or 19 years old. I went to church Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, and Wednesday nights. I went to camp during the summer, and retreats during the fall and spring. I roofed and painted houses each summer on mission trips. I promised to wait until I was married to have sex. I learned the books of the Bible and can recite them from Genesis to Revelation even to this day. I memorized a litany of scriptures. Conservative politics were espoused from the pulpit on a regular basis, and I learned to respond in typical fashion to any discussion on homosexuality or abortion—the two big no-nos according to Evangelicalism.
Despite this absolute immersion into the Evangelical culture, it did not stick.
I found myself habitually disillusioned and turned off by certain aspects of the faith, and I had a prescient sense that somehow, someway, this lifestyle would not extend much further than my adolescence. I didn’t quite have the knowledge or guts at the time to admit that I would reject the religion of my childhood—I thought it would be malleable enough to change with me—but I knew that it was unsustainable in its current state.
Dogma would rub me the wrong way. I doubted. I resented the treatment of women. (At a young age I once asked my mom why women couldn’t be deacons. She was blindsided by the question.) I was highly judgmental of the lack of critical thought and inquiry. I didn’t want to be associated with something so unabashedly anti-intellectual.
The final blow that led to my leaving organized religion behind came when I was about 17 years old. It was Sunday night and the church was voting on the budget for the upcoming year. The money that filtered into that atypically large church astounded me. The salaries! The power bill! The juice and animal crackers for children’s church!
As I scanned each line item I came to “landscaping” and nearly gasped when I saw the amount of money we spent on weeding flower beds and pruning shrubbery. I compared this to the category marked “benevolence,” which included services such as a food pantry for needy families, and noted that we allocated not even half the resources for benevolence as we did for landscaping.
This church was, to borrow a tired metaphor, nothing more than a social club. It left a sour taste in my mouth that lingers to this day.
I bee-bopped through my twenties largely indifferent to organized religion, much to my parents’ disappointment and pain. To paraphrase Amy Poehler: “Good for them! Not for me.” I thought that I was over it, that I had long ago reckoned with piety and found it wanting.
Imagine my surprise when, at the age of 26 and desperate to end my unhappy marriage, I found myself regurgitating the teachings of the church. Though I had moved away from religion having any major role in my life, I hadn’t quite let go of the teachings that had been ingrained in me from a young age. While I was miserable in my marriage to the point of suicidal depression, I thought it was wrong to end one’s marriage based on happiness alone, for this was the message sent to all members of the congregation: Your happiness is irrelevant in all walks of life, most especially your marriage. It had been years since I heard it last, but it had left a lasting mark.
My parents were in between a rock and a hard place, as it were. They bore witness to my slow fade, the ways in which I was deteriorating before their very eyes in both body and spirit. But to reject the teachings of their faith in order to support their daughter in this most obvious choice she needed to make proved to be a great challenge for them and therefore a great burden for me. I desperately wanted their permission and blessing to leave my husband. I wanted some sort of an acknowledgement that not only was leaving an okay thing to do, but it was the right thing to do.
While I did eventually garner enough of their support to feel buoyed throughout the separation and divorce, I never quite got them to the point of seeing that it was right.
My divorce presented me with some uncomfortable truths regarding my relationship to religion. The first was that I wasn’t as liberated as I once thought myself. While on the surface I was going about my life in a secular fashion, the old-time religion was still deep down there, resting peacefully until the time came for it to pop back up and remind me of the stronghold it still enjoyed over me. Ties that bind, indeed. I was to have my work cut out for me.
The second uncomfortable truth I came to acknowledge was that religion is not innocuous—indeed it’s often, if not always, the exact opposite. The things I was taught as a child did great damage to me and hindered my development as a self-actualized human being. I’d thought that the Evangelical doctrines were innocent enough from an individual perspective. I was wrong.
These two realizations pushed me off the fence I’d been perched on for almost a decade. I weighed my own experiences and the things that I had read and learned throughout my twenties regarding religion and decided that it is not innocent, it is not blameless, it does not have a monopoly on morality and ethics, and perhaps, just maybe, we would all be better off without it.
I have quite an interesting (at least to me) journey that is ongoing when it comes to religion/spirituality. I was raised in a non-denominational Christian church and always had a million questions. When I was a college student in my 20s, I ended up meeting an older guy who I enjoyed having philosophical and political discussions with, and he ended up introducing me to Kabbalah.
It was interesting because I had already been studying various religious ideas ranging from Eastern philosophy (Bhagavad Gita, Tao te ching, Buddhism) to the autobiography of Malcolm X and even took a course called “Catholics, Jews, and Buddhists” (which interestingly enough focused on the Beatniks; we read On the Road and Dharma Bums). I was always searching, and when he gave me a book called The Thirteen Petalled Rose, it opened me up to the world of Kabbalah.
I was fascinated by the depth and breadth of philosophy and esoteric teaching in the Kabbalistic universe. Mostly I was listening to audio teaching and reading books from the Chabad Chassidic world. I have now been studying Kabbalah for 11 years and considered converting to Judaism, but I’ve never done so, nor do I feel that I need to at this point.
I have recently been reading about Zoroastrianism and other lesser-known ancient religions of the Middle East and I am realizing that there is so much beauty and knowledge out there that I don’t ever want to limit myself to any one “Way.” I have gathered that the one takeaway from all that I have learned is that every person matters and we all have a role to play in the ultimate outcome of a utopian future that we create every day when we choose to love others and ourselves and look to bring beauty into the world through acts of lovingkindness (in Kabbalah called Tikkun Olam).
I really hate to see so much division and hatred that has happened throughout history done in the name of religious zeal, whether it was the Crusades or modern-day ISIS. I am now and plan to continue to always search and learn more about what makes us similar and brings us together as human beings rather than what divides us.
If you also have a relationship with Kabbalah that you’d like to talk about, please let us know.
Last night I was at the grief support group meeting I attend every month for people whose spouses have died suddenly. Today I read the note by Angelle, the Millennial reader who said “God meets us where logic ends.” What bothered me about Angelle’s testimony is that her faith became secure through experiences she credits to god. My life events have not been so fortunate, and the sudden death of my husband from a previously undiagnosed cancer was not a miracle; it was a blow, both to my life and to my Methodist-tinged-with-Anabaptist beliefs. It wasn’t logical to me that my husband had died so suddenly, and it didn’t seem like a lesson in faith, either.
My support group has had numerous members who were faithful and caring Christians who experienced tragedies. Where would Angelle’s faith have been had her father died of cancer and the scholarships not appeared?
After years of reflection, I’ve concluded that I will never stop wanting to believe in god, and that Jesus is the expression of god I choose to take seriously. However, I’m still in conflict with the institutional church (or the many institutions Christianity has begotten), because I haven’t found a congregation where I’m comfortable with the spirit and amount of doing-unto-others-as-you-would-have-them-do-unto-you that’s going on, in addition to the common preoccupations of established Christian congregations. Reading Rachel Held Evans has provided me with a lot of perspective during the course of my searching. Nevertheless, I lack a Christian community, and I know it impoverishes my faith.
I also think there’s a human tendency to want to believe in some deity and to want to belong to at least one group. I think the greatest gift of Christianity can be the offer of membership in a tribe that is unselfish and welcomes any and all. It disturbs me when a Christian group is exclusive and excluding. I have found a renewed faith in believing that all should be welcomed by Christianity rather than believing that god will do good things for me. I hope the atheists and agnostics out there are finding communities where they are loved and accepted, too, and are welcoming to others.
Update from another reader, Ted:
Human beings are intelligent. They can’t help endlessly wondering about everything that surrounds them. My religious choice ended up between the comfort of faith or the reality of science. In truth this problem never goes away. Does the end of physical life mean the end of my existence and awareness of life? Does faith give me a way out of this problem? Yup, it does. So being confronted by this problem I will look for an alternative form of experience that transcends the problem.
Enjoy life everyday you have it, practice self respect, listen more, talk less, care for others, stop complaining. See you in heaven ... maybe not.
That’s the path Fred followed when his life was hitting rock bottom:
I read a few of the reader stories in your religious choice series and, to me, it looks like a lot of empty hearts trying to find a way to fill the emptiness. And in some cases, some hearts don’t even know or admit they are looking for a fill. It’s all about happiness and unsureness.
I was brought up in a Catholic household, although now that I look in hindsight, my parents weren’t too much of an example of practicing Catholics. We all have our stories. When I was 12, my mother told me that my dad was not my real dad.
I was so lost when she told me that. I remember going for a walk, with many thoughts, not knowing what to do or what to think about. I was broken.
I went through a lot over the years. I didn’t trust anyone, I protected my heart from ever getting hurt, and when I did let someone in, my heart got broken. For the next 23 years, my life was still the same: broken. I got married, had kids, financial problems, numerous fights with my wife—to the point where she wanted a divorce. I didn’t want to lose her and the kids, but most importantly, I was tired of the person I was. I was tired of carrying my past on my back, and I was tired of trying to fix everything.
Then I went for a walk and, not knowing what to do next, got on my knees and started talking to Jesus. I told Him I was tired of my life and my past, tired of trying to fix everything in life. I told Him, “I’m tired and I give You my troubles, I give you my life, forgive me, I give you my heart,” with tears pouring out of my eyes.
Something happened that day... I asked my wife for forgiveness, I forgave my past, and I became a Christian. It wasn’t a choice of what religion to follow; it was a moment I had with Jesus that changed my life. He gave me a new life and filled my heart with His love that no religion can fill. He doesn’t want religion; He wants our heart. God wants a RELATIONSHIP.
I now know my purpose in this world, and I know where I’m going. My heart is at peace. Not because of what I did but because of what He did (on the cross). I now encourage anyone, no matter what you are going through in your life, to go for a walk and turn to Jesus, not religion.
That’s a perspective we haven’t heard from yet. Here’s Lily:
I’ve been really enjoying your reader series on Millennials and religious choice. I suspect a lot of us—alienated economically and politically as well as from dominant forms of religion—are starting to engage with these questions in a more existential way.
I’m a 26-year-old lesbian trans woman. I was raised in a right-wing corner of Texas Episcopalianism just around the time that church was facing schism over the openly gay Gene Robinson’s consecration as a bishop. [CB note: Robinson is profiled in the above video, featured by our video team earlier this year.] I grew up imbued with a worldview full of moral absolutes, with little middle ground between good and evil.
My biggest religious choice involved letting go the notion of all-or-nothing universal standards and instead embrace the value of relationship and community. I left Christianity as a teenager due to my parish’s anti-LGBT teachings and family’s intolerance. However, I kept the absolutist sensibility, becoming a hardline, Dawkins-quoting atheist. Even with different ideological content, anything short of unchanging and uncompromised beliefs still felt like “selling out.”
A series of intense mystical experiences forced me to reconsider. Not everyone had those types of encounters, or perceived the world in the same way—and that was OK. I embraced Hellenismos, a polytheist religion centered around the pantheon of ancient Greece. Modern Hellenismos has no creed. Instead of orthodoxy (right belief), it emphasizes orthopraxy (right practice) through reciprocal relationships with both Gods and other people.
Letting go of the “one truth” idea has allowed me to become a more tolerant, community-focused, and socially-oriented person. Part of that involves the values of my chosen faith, but it also stems from rejecting the underlying attitude I imbibed as a child. That stuck with me long after leaving the church, but this is a world of relationships, not black-and-white dichotomies. Figuring that out has allowed me to become a more whole and authentic person.
One of the criticisms that neo-Pagans make about revived or reconstructed religions such as Hellenismos is that we live too much in the past and that our religion isn’t a living, evolving and relevant spirituality. That we are slaves to the past, treating our religion as a museum piece.
Frankly, sometimes this can be true. Sometimes we do spend too much time with books, losing ourselves in the minutia of the past. It can be difficult to see the relevancy of rituals and concepts from 1500 years ago as being valuable and vibrant in a much different time, place, and culture.
But this is how we see it—why reinvent the wheel when you can put some air in the one you’re given and get back on the spiritual path? There were reasons why our ancestors interacted with deities in the way that they did. Because it worked. It’s spiritually fulfilling. It makes sense. It allows for a deeper connection with deities and the world around you. It has meaning and depth and beauty. It is timeless. It vibrates in our very souls.
But the key is to regularly engage in rituals, observances and practices. To adhere as close to what the ancients did, in order to learn from their wisdom and experience, and then to translate that into a slightly more modern form that is still ‘true’ to its origins.
Schulz points to this wedding ceremony as an example of one of those rituals:
An American veteran, Jon, describes his religious journey while deployed overseas:
I didn’t feel like I had a choice when it came to religion. Just as a child who has touched a hot stove knows what “hot” is, I knew three things about what just happened to me after I called out to God in one of the darkest moments of my life.
I knew he heard me.
I knew he knew me.
I knew he loved for me.
Out of the billions of people on the planet and the vastness of space, I knew the God of the cosmos had just taken a moment to step into my life in a tangible way. In that moment he revealed himself as a real, personal and loving God. That’s why I didn’t feel like I had a choice.
There was no going back. I fell to my knees and asked God to take over my life because I had made a hot mess of it.
I was a soldier (who had spent four years in the Marines) deployed overseas after 9/11. My responsibilities as a squad leader were to make sure my men were ready for their mission. I could teach them to shoot, get them in shape, and inspect them before every mission, but I couldn’t help them when their dark hours came.
On the day we deployed, one of my young, married soldiers who had a two-year-old “had his heart ripped out” when his wife said she was leaving him and taking the kid. He was destroyed and depressed, and I didn’t know how to fix him.
About halfway through the deployment, one of my soldiers had a nervous breakdown on patrol. He threw his loaded weapon down and refused to be a soldier anymore. I later found out that his wife and six kids were struggling at home. I reacted the wrong way and missed the opportunity to help. I had nothing inside to give him.
And then tragedy hit. One of my older soldiers had three sons at home, and the oldest died due to swallowing his tongue during a seizure. The captain of our unit and I had to bring this soldier in, sit him down and tell him that his son had died. He was absolutely devastated. We told him that he had 30 days to go home, bury his son, take care of his family and come back to the mission. I had no hope for him.
These situations led me to start reading a small pocket Bible my not-yet father-in-law had given me. I started in Ecclesiastes hearing how a great king had chased every frivolous pursuit and found nothing could satisfy him. It said, “everything is meaningless,” and “there is nothing new under the sun.” The king’s pursuits of wisdom, wine, women, wealth, work, and worth had left his soul empty. All of that resonated with me, so I kept reading.
When I got to the Gospels, the person of Jesus intrigued my mind and inspired me beyond anything I’d ever known. His insight into the condition of the human heart and his words stirred in me a desire for truth.
When I read Jesus’ response in John 14:6, “I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father but by me,” the exclusivity of his claim, power of his person and reality of my new relationship with him all came together. I believed he died and rose again, taking my sin with him, and I called him Lord.
The choice to follow Christ as Lord has made all the difference in my life.
In a previous reader note, a U.S. veteran lost his religion after seeing the horrors of Iraq while a fellow veteran stuck with his faith. Update from another reader, Dwight:
Coming to Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior, to be born again and to become a Christian, is NOT a religious choice. Christianity is not a religion, and if you think that’s all it is, then the chances of you being saved are slim and none.
Being a Christian, being saved, is all about having a personal RELATIONSHIP with the Creator of the universe, with the God who became human flesh at the same time as being God and came to earth to die for the sins of man and to reconcile man to God the Father. The Lord isn’t looking for religious people; He’s looking for people who will have a personal relationship with Him as Redeemer, Savior and Lord.
Being religious is of no value and is a man-made thing. God is much higher than religion. Religion is man looking for a higher authority, power or God; Christianity is about a relationship and it is God coming to man, not the other way around.
Our Choosing Your Religion special project has run its course, and we’ve already aired a ton of your personal stories and reflections centered on the question “What Was Your Biggest Religious Choice?,” but there are still many more excellent emails worth posting, so we’ll continue to do so every Sunday, indefinitely. This next one comes from Maria, who as a teenager chose secular works of art over her family’s stifling religion and grew to favor the lessons of a Swedish auteur over her father’s:
I’m so pleased with the “Choosing My Religion” series! Much like the reader who submitted “The Security Blanket of Christianity Was Actually Smothering Me” and the accompanied email from Libby Anne, my biggest religious choice stemmed from the non-choice I faced during my childhood/teen years: I grew up in a self-proclaimed “non denominational” Christian church, one that boasts a literal interpretation of the Bible—one that, after many deep-internet sessions, I’ve found to be a cult.
I have only truly felt “myself” for the past five years, and I’ve thrown myself into books, film, and the depths of Spotify to counter years of starvation in these areas. This year I received Bergman on Bergman as a Christmas gift and found that Ingmar Bergman grew up with a strict religious father, a parish minister prone to harsh physical and psychological punishments. In these interviews, Bergman explores the effect such an upbringing had on his psyche, noting Christianity’s penchant for shame:
If I’ve objected strongly to Christianity, it has been because Christianity is deeply branded by a very virulent humiliation motif. One of its main tenets is, ‘I, a miserable sinner, born in sin, who have sinned all my days, etc.’ Our way of living and behaving under this punishment is completely atavistic.
He expands upon his objection to Christianity and its effects, thinking of his idol, August Strindberg:
It was just that [Strindberg] expressed things which I’d experienced and which I couldn’t find words for. I was stuffed with inhibitions—that’s something we mustn’t forget in this connection. I had difficulty in speaking, sometimes I even stammered a little, as I still do at times to this day. I also found it hard to express myself in writing—a tremendous resistance. I couldn’t draw. I couldn’t sing. I played a little, but wasn’t much of a hand at any musical instrument, either—I found it hard to read the music. I couldn’t dance. I was shut in every way.
I identified strongly with these words, and became even more obsessed with my personal narrative, as well as the effects of mandatory religious devotion on children.
My dad and step-mom were “reached out” to in the park where I played as a first grader. Until this point, my father wasn’t religious at all. He wore his hair long, was a devout vegan, he self-published an autobiographical comic, and looked like an extra from Slacker.
At first, he was outraged and offended at the invite. His (then) girlfriend was more receptive and started going to their church. She was drawn in by their seeming niceness and well-behaved kids; these folks emitted undeniable confidence.
After attending many church functions and completing their set of Bible studies, she was “born again” and became a Christian / “Disciple.” She promptly moved out of our house with the new conviction that to live with a man before marriage (read: premarital sex) is a sin in need of repentance.
My dad was heartbroken, unfulfilled by his art, unresolved over his failed marriage to my mother, and was moved in observance of his ex’s extreme change. When it became clear that he would permanently lose her if he did not convert, my dad followed suit.
He was transformed into a completely different person. One of the core beliefs of the church is living for your “treasure in heaven,” taking pride in possessing a strict outsider attitude towards the temporal world. With his newfound doctrine, he passed judgments on his extended and immediate family. He burned many bridges, losing friends from within the art community.
I was denied access to anything deemed “impure,” anything declared ungodly or “worldly.” Any piece of media that I watched, read, listened to, looked at, etc. was to be screened. This meant censorship of movies, TV, music, books, internet, questionable company (anyone outside of the church), extracurricular activities, teachings on evolution, overnight field trips … anything that contradicted their beliefs was a crude waste of time.
When you have someone consistently telling you that the things that you enjoy are sinful, evil, superficial, unimportant, negative, you may start hearing and believing, as I did: you are sinful, you are evil, you are unimportant. I felt that I lost my father to Jesus Christ, and it was not safe to be myself.
I went along with everything, believing what I was taught. I think I wanted to “win” my dad back—his approval. I was baptized at 13. My dad was thrilled with the choice, which in retrospect was not a choice at all. After all, I was a kid only getting one side of the story, being told that this story was The story.
I tried very hard to be the best little Christian. I invited my schoolmates to church, reached out to strangers at the mall, read the Bible and prayed daily, attended summer camps, Friday “devotionals,” Tuesday bible discussion group, Wednesday “mid-week” church service, and regular Sunday service. I had a “discipler” with whom I was to check in, reporting any sin, sharing “good news” of successful outreaches and getting life advice (approval) regularly.
When I left these beliefs behind at 15, the majority of my knowledge base was nullified. Having been programmed to devalue the secular, I was left with crushing depression and anxiety. My reason for living was revealed to be false logically, scientifically, and so on.
I left home after a falling out at 19, as it became too hard to live in their household as a non-believer. Since then, I’ve been trying to understand myself (and them), trying to deprogram.
These years following my departure from the church have been tumultuous. I am now 25 and have moved eight times. I’ve broken up with a few boyfriends who really loved me. I have had nine different jobs. I have a good amount of credit card debt. You could say my personal life has been unstable, and that I struggle with impulse control.
This year, I’ve been trying a new form of therapy: DBT, or Dialectical Behavioral Therapy. In a recent session, my therapist wrote down two phrases and suggested that I look at them everyday until our next session, taking note of any feelings that arise:
1. I have to hide my interests and authentic self or else I’ll be rejected and unloved.
2. I have to prove my interests and authentic self or else I’ll be rejected and unloved.
She articulated the constant internal conflict that I feel which contributes to extreme self-hate, depression and anxiety. I am always seeking love and wanting to share myself and to be validated because I was not validated or loved in a healthy way in my childhood.
At the same time, I’m crippled by potential or perceived rejection: Anything not overtly positive is understood to be negative. I understand this now to be hyper-vigilance as a result of excessive criticism and control. My behaviors and symptoms are defense mechanisms, acting as a form of PTSD.
I was deprived of so many experiences and pieces of media, and I feel triggered when I don’t know or haven’t done something. I feel like a perpetual alien, always playing catch-up, feeling shame for not knowing the *thing* everyone else knew ages ago.
I’ll end with another Bergman quote, as there are no neat conclusions:
My basic view of things is—not to have any basic view of things. From having been exceedingly dogmatic, my views on life have gradually dissolved. They don’t exist any longer.
This story from reader Heather is short but powerful:
I left the Baha’i faith because they shunned a former member. The reason for the shunning was that she had lied when she was trying to leave an oppressive regime. She told the officer at the airport that she was Muslim like her eight-year-old son and husband. Baha’i leaders said she should have told the truth about being Baha’i, even though she would have become a martyr. Yes, she knew for sure that they would have killed her. She should have endured this for her faith. She should have left her son motherless in order to be an example to the world.
If you’re a follower of the Baha’i faith and would like to respond to this email or share your own experience, please let us know. For those who are unfamiliar with the small and relatively new religion, here’s a brief introduction from the Bahai National Center:
Update from a reader:
I grew up as a Baha’i, and in the late 1970s and early 1980s when the Khomeini regime was at its height, many Baha’is were being martyred on a regular basis in Iran. It was definitely something that was a sorrowful point of pride—horror and sadness that people were losing lives, strength and solidarity that people would not recant their religion. Many of us in the United States wrestled with these ideas to no solid conclusions, but I will say it still pisses me off when Christians in the U.S. claim to be oppressed when people around the world still are actually being martyred for their faith.
That said, no one, even at that time, would blame someone for escaping with their lives using any means possible. What Heather may be confusing this with is the treatment of a shadowy splinter group of (usually) ex Baha’is who—much like the Sunni/Shia schism—decide to disavow Baha’ullah in favor of the Bab. This would be like saying John the Baptist is the true lead figure of Christianity rather than Jesus Christ.
It wasn’t something that came up very much and I certainly never met one of these people. For me, the Faith was not a good fit—politically, personally, and theologically—but I still love and respect my former fellow believers very much!
That’s where Christopher Gerlica came across Taoism:
Hi there! I’m really fascinated by your reader series on religious choice. Some basic facts before I get into my little story: I’m 32 years old, I’m white, grew up outside of Detroit in a religiously diverse city/high school, and now I live in the most Catholic state in the union (Rhode Island). Oh and I’m gay and married to an atheist.
My biggest religious choice, hands down, is when I decided to convert to Daoism (please note the spelling, as there are some different opinions about that). My family is “Catholic”—by the quotes I mean I was never baptized, we never went to church, and I didn’t actually see a real live Bible until I was in college. Basically, we were very secular, but I think my parents felt they had to give me some religious upbringing and would ask me randomly if I believed in God (I said yes, because that was the socially acceptable answer). But that was it when it came to religion.
Around the time I was 16 and finally coming to terms with my sexuality and the fact that frankly all the branches of Christianity weren’t too hot about the gays in the early ‘00s, I turned to my family’s set of World Book Encyclopedias. At the time we didn’t have internet or a computer, so these were my only real outlet to explore what else was out there.
I started by looking up “religion” and found what the book classified as the eight main world religions at the time. I pretty much immediately counted out the monotheistic/Abrahamic religions for two reasons: 1. not gay friendly and 2. I have always struggled believing that if there is some higher power, it was just one being. The structure of a team of deities always made much more logical sense. After reading up on Hinduism and Buddhism, they got the cut once I realized that Brahma was kind of confusing at the time and I’m too materialistic, respectively.
I can’t remember the other religions, but I really soaked up the belief system of Daoism. And when I say Daoism, I mean both the philosophical aspect of the Yin and Yang, as well as everything in the Dao De Jing (Tao Te Ching), and the religious side too, which admittedly is derived more from the Chinese folk religions than anything Lao Tzu said.
By the time I graduated high school and entered college, I was trying to read up on anything I could about Daoism and started wearing a sweet Yin and Yang necklace (did I mention this was the early ‘00s?). I went to undergrad in Michigan’s Bible belt—everyone basically seemed very religious, and specifically Protestant, so during that first year people would totally ask what kind of Christian I was, or where I went to church, etc, and being asked that a lot and not wanting to go into a whole “no being agnostic is not the same as atheist” I really did realize that I am a Daoist.
(Side note: I learned early on in college that even the most conservative religious person would never question or try to convert me, but respected me in a way I know they would not respect an atheist, because I had some type of faith. Maybe a bit of a religious privilege? Not sure, but that always fascinated me.)
It was an unplanned move to be vocal about this new religious choice I’d made. Since then, I’ve thought about if my heart was truly in my religion or if it was just some fad, like pooka shell necklaces. But I’m very happy to say that it’s not been some random choice, but really was the path that was meant for me.
A couple last things (I know this got long, sorry!) in reference to some of the themes I think this series is touching on: the ready availability of information today and how my age group views science, logic, etc versus religious dogma. To the former, I would not have originally discovered Daoism if not for my World Books, but my faith would not have grown without my ability to have the internet to research Daoism, its traditions, holidays, and deities. The internet has really enriched my religious experience, something that would have been prohibitively difficult if I had come of age at any time before I did.
As to the latter theme—how my age group views science versus dogma—I’m a lawyer, so I think in terms of facts and logic all the time and I don’t question evolution or any scientific theory, whether or not it puts into question some myth within Daoism. I think the tricky part that those of us who are religious in this day and age have to do is re-think our beliefs to see if they are congruent with scientific reality. I’m just very lucky that Daoism is actually quite a free-wheeling and poorly defined religion in comparison to, say, Christianity or Islam.
The formative experience of my religious life took place in Sunday School when I was about six. The local Presbyterian church was down the street and down the hill from our house, and somehow Mom let me “drive" my “car” (a small black toy car with little pedals that would turn the front wheels) down the hill and leave it in one of the parking spots during the service, much to the amusement of the congregation. Sunday School typically consisted of reading a children’s version of a story from the Bible, discussing the various themes, and having a snack.
This all went off without a hitch, until we came to Genesis.
At the age of six, I was obsessed with dinosaurs. My favorite toys were dinosaurs. My favorite movie was about dinosaurs. My favorite TV show was Paleo-World, which my parents would let me stay up an extra half-hour on Monday nights to watch. From this “research” I knew that the dinosaurs had died out 365 million years ago, which I understood to mean “a really long time before people existed.”
Now back to Sunday School. When they introduced the story of Genesis, they said it was about how the world was made and how we came to be. I was extremely excited, because I knew that somewhere in between the creation of the world and the creation of man, there were dinosaurs. I was about to hear a story about dinosaurs. I couldn’t wait.
But then a funny thing happened: God made the world, and then God made man. No dinosaurs.
I asked our teacher where the dinosaurs were in the story, and while I don’t remember what the answer was, my little mind didn’t find it particularly satisfying. It was clear to me that dinosaurs were real, and if this explanation of world history did not include them, then it must be wrong.
At that moment, I ceased to believe anything they said in church. I came to view them as liars. This germ of skepticism has stayed with me my entire life. Everything I have since learned about history, archaeology, physics, cosmology, biology, and religion has been in some sense aimed at trying to answer the question, “Why aren’t there dinosaurs in Genesis?” On this matter, my 30-year-old self and six-year-old self are in perfect agreement, because Genesis is wrong.
That question is addressed in the following video alongside the question, “What makes someone Black?”—and it’s a really great complement to our reader thread:
Here’s an overview of that documentary, Little White Lie, which our video team featured last summer:
Lacey Schwartz was raised in a typical upper-middle-class Jewish household in Woodstock, New York, with loving parents and a strong sense of her Jewish identity. Others often remarked on her dark skin, but her family always said that her looks were inherited from her Sicilian grandfather. “I would tell myself, my dad gets really tan in the summertime or my mom’s hair is really curly just like mine,” Schwartz says in this excerpt [embedded above] from her documentary Little White Lie. It wasn’t until Georgetown University admitted her as a black student—based off a picture—that Schwartz started to question the identity that her parents gave her.
The nine-minute video ends on a big cliffhanger, and you can buy the full documentary on iTunes or Amazon, but I discovered it’s also streaming on Netflix. I jumped into the stream and heard the following quote from Schwartz (the irony of her name is just too perfect), remembering a moment at her bat mitzvah when a member of her synagogue told her, “It’s so nice to have an Ethiopian Jew in our presence.” That made me think of an email that just arrived from Alex, the first reader who responded to the story from Abby that started this whole discussion on Jewish identity and conversion. Here’s Alex:
It was good to correspond with you a few days ago. I found a recent Times of Israel article about members of the African Selwi tribe in Ghana converting to Judaism. You can also look up additional information from Kulanu, an organization which helps isolated communities (African and Asian tribes, etc.) to reconnect with Judaism. Also try B’Chol LaShon, with a similar mission: reaching out to people who want to become Jews by Choice.
There’s a small post I did several years ago on the “Lost Jews” of Zimbabwe that also might be worth checking out if you’re interested in the more complex areas of Jewish identity in Africa.
Abby also emailed a followup:
Thanks again for this opportunity. It’s been enlightening and interesting to follow along with the responses you guys have been posting to my submission. My friends and I have also been laughing all day about how many angry emails you must have received from Jews obsessed over what makes someone a Jew.
Actually there haven’t been any angry emails at all. (Perhaps there’s anger over on Twitter, but I wouldn’t know.) It’s been remarkable how gracious but candid readers have been over this topic. Our latest email comes from Aaron, who doesn’t introduce an especially new angle to the discussion but does an eloquent job of highlighting the best parts:
I want to address a few things that came up in other readers’ responses. First, Alex draws the line on openness to conversion between traditional and liberal forms of Judaism: “The more liberal streams, the Conservatives and the Reform, are much more open.” I don’t disagree with that, but I think it has to be majorly qualified with another line, one that Lekha alludes to: “So in my case, choosing Judaism is not so much a religious choice, but a cultural identity that I was born into, and that I have chosen to reclaim in my own way.” This is the line—presumably only present in the liberal forms of Judaism—between religious Judaism and purely secular Judaism.
I’m a Jew who spent his childhood attending High Holy Day services at a Reform temple, and although as a college student I still attend these services sometimes, it’s never been a matter of spirituality. I have no connection whatsoever to the religious side of Judaism; the reason I still attend services, and the reason I consider myself a Jew, is entirely a matter of culture and heritage.
This is true for most of my family, as well. For us, to be Jewish is to connect with a familial history of having been Jewish, and nothing more. I wouldn’t even say we draw on Jewish cultural values in a big way; if we have “Jewish values,” they’re the values inherited from, say, American secular Jewish culture rather than from a millennia-long religious culture.
So, that someone like Evan would find the sentence “I identify as Jewish” bizarre is, to me, extremely bizarre, at least for anybody who recognizes that there is a substantial chunk of the Jewish population whose connection to Judaism is rooted only in heritage. I do firmly believe that it’s not meaningful for someone to identify secularly as a Jew if they don’t have that heritage, in the same way that someone cannot identify racially with a heritage they don’t have; but it’s important to recognize that some of us call ourselves Jewish not by virtue of adherence to religious practice, but rather solely by virtue of identification with cultural heritage.
In fact, I take the significance of this identification to be something externally imposed more than anything else: As Jon wrote, “[having standards for acceptance] is a luxury that Jews can only afford in relatively safe times. Our enemies have never made such distinctions.”
My identification as Jewish is most deeply rooted in the fact that throughout most of history I would have been labelled as Jewish no matter what I said; that I would have been sent to a concentration camp if I had lived in Nazi Germany in spite of my secularity; that even today I would fear being beaten for talking about my Jewish heritage if I had grown up in Malmö rather than in a major city in the U.S. For me, and for many of the secular Jews I know, identifying as Jewish is tantamount to publicly recognizing that this past is still very much with us, and to standing up to that past, to saying “There is no accepting us as people without accepting as people with this heritage, with this culture—without accepting us as Jewish people.”
As an aside, I want to address something that’s come up in a few of the more religious Jewish readers’ responses: namely, that one is a Jew only by virtue of being born to a Jewish mother or converting. I have no problem with this as a doctrine for religious Jews, but I’m extremely wary of applying it to secular Jews. My mother happens to be my Jewish parent, so it’s never been an issue for me, but I hate seeing this kind of exclusion among other secular Jews. The fact of the matter is that, as I wrote above, secular identification with Judaism is largely the result of external labelling, and since a lot of the people doing the external labelling didn’t care at all which parent was Jewish, neither should we.
To identify as a secular Jew is to have Jewish blood and to choose to embrace the label for yourself as a sign of resistance—and nothing more.
One more story, from Maia:
I was adopted as a baby into a Jewish family and was “converted” at two months old by a Conservative rabbi. We did the mikveh and the baby naming and all that. Same with my older brother.
I am now basically a reform/secular Jew, in that I enjoy all the rituals/holidays but I’m not particularly drawn to the theology or keeping kosher etc. My brother is more observant, but when studying with ultra-orthodox Jews in Brooklyn, he was told that he was not Jewish because his conversion wasn’t done by an Orthodox rabbi. Very upsetting, to say the least.
Even though I am not an observant Jew, when I got married (to a lapsed Catholic), we had a Jewish wedding ceremony and agreed to raise our kids Jewish. His family understands this generally, but I have struggled to explain why I’m uncomfortable celebrating Easter or Christmas with them. Basically, their question is, if I’m not actually concerned about the theological differences between Christianity and Judaism, why do I care if we celebrate Christian holidays as well?
The best explanation I can come up with is that it’s helpful to view Jews as you would various Native American groups—that is, as members of a particular tribe. This means that there is both an ethnic/nationalist component to the identity as well as a religious/cultural component.
Now imagine that this tribe is expelled from its homeland and scattered throughout the world. What remains? As the group fractures, the rituals and religion are kept alive but because the tribe is scattered throughout numerous countries, the ethnic identity is muddled (except, of course, when it is used as a point of discrimination).
This means you end up today with ethnic Jews who don’t practice any of the traditions, religious converts who have entered into the “tribe” by agreeing to adopt the belief and ritual system, and everything in between.
For me, it’s fair to say that I don’t adhere to all the laws and rituals of the Jewish tribe, but they are still the framework within which I learned about Judaism and eventually chose how to express myself as a Jew. For me this means that I don't want to celebrate Easter—not because it’s Christian per se, but rather because it is notJewish and, thus not part of my identity, ethnically, religiously, or culturally.
Finally, I agree that it’s terrible that Jews of any stripe would be unwelcoming to converts, but every religion and ethnic group has their own internal strife about who is “authentic” and who isn’t. The truth is, these discussions don’t have a “real” answer; they just serve to highlight what is important to a particular person about his or her own religious identity.
That’s a good note to end on with this Jewish discussion, unless someone has an exceptionally new experience or angle to share. We’ll post more of your stories on other religious choices soon.
The rumors began with a video depicting a black-clad figure in the group’s signature Guy Fawkes mask. “Greetings, citizens of the United States,” the figure said in a creepy, distorted voice. “This is a message from Anonymous to the Minneapolis Police Department.” The masked announcer addressed Floyd’s killing and the larger pattern of police misconduct, concluding, “We will be exposing your many crimes to the world. We are legion. Expect us.”
The clip generated a wave of renewed enthusiasm for Anonymous, particularly among young people. Twitter accounts associated with the group saw a surge of new followers, a couple of them by the millions.
Something fundamental has changed about the ways Americans vote.
As polling places closed on November 6, 2018, the expected “blue wave” looked more like a ripple. Not only had some of the highest-profile Democratic candidates lost, but the party’s gains in the House and the Senate looked smaller than anticipated.
The wave, it turned out, simply hadn’t crested yet. Over the ensuing weeks, as more ballots were counted, Democrats kept winning races—eventually netting 41 House seats. In Arizona, the Republican Martha McSally conceded the Senate race to the Democrat Kyrsten Sinema, who picked up more than 70,000 votes in post–Election Day counting. Democrats narrowed deficits in races in Florida and Georgia too. Republicans were stunned.
No matter what happens now, the virus will continue to circulate around the world.
The coronavirus that causes COVID-19 has sickened more than 16.5 million people across six continents. It is raging in countries that never contained the virus. It is resurgingin manyof the ones that did. If there was ever a time when this coronavirus could be contained, it has probably passed. One outcome is now looking almost certain: This virus is never going away.
The coronavirus is simply too widespread and too transmissible. The most likely scenario, experts say, is that the pandemic ends at some point—because enough people have been either infected or vaccinated—but the virus continues to circulate in lower levels around the globe. Cases will wax and wane over time. Outbreaks will pop up here and there. Even when a much-anticipated vaccine arrives, it is likely to only suppress but never completely eradicate the virus. (For context, consider that vaccines exist for more than a dozen human viruses but only one, smallpox, has ever been eradicated from the planet, and that took 15 years of immense global coordination.) We will probably be living with this virus for the rest of our lives.
Trump is utterly unsuited to deal with this crisis, either intellectually or temperamentally.
For his entire adult life, and for his entire presidency, Donald Trump has created his own alternate reality, complete with his own alternate set of facts. He has shown himself to be erratic, impulsive, narcissistic, vindictive, cruel, mendacious, and devoid of empathy. None of that is new.
But we’re now entering the most dangerous phase of the Trump presidency. The pain and hardship that the United States is only beginning to experience stem from a crisis that the president is utterly unsuited to deal with, either intellectually or temperamentally. When things were going relatively well, the nation could more easily absorb the costs of Trump’s psychological and moral distortions and disfigurements. But those days are behind us. The coronavirus pandemic has created the conditions that can catalyze a destructive set of responses from an individual with Trump’s characterological defects and disordered personality.
The ads are everywhere. You can learn to serve like Serena Williams or write like Margaret Atwood. But what MasterClass really delivers is something altogether different.
Image above, clockwise from top left: MasterClass instructors Serena Williams (who teaches tennis on the platform); Natalie Portman (acting); Gordon Ramsay (cooking); Malcolm Gladwell (writing)
Sometimes an advertisement is so perfectly tailored to a cultural moment that it casts that moment into stark relief, which is how I felt upon first seeing an ad for the mega-best-selling writer James Patterson’s course on MasterClass a few years ago. In the ad, Patterson is sitting at a table, reciting a twisty opening line in voice-over. Then an overhead shot of him gazing out a window, lost in thought like a character in a movie. A title card appears: “Imagine taking a writing class from a master.” It didn’t matter that I’d never read a book by Patterson before—I was hooked. What appealed to me was not whatever actionable thriller-writing tips I might glean, but rather the promise of his story, the story of how a writer becomes a mogul. Any hapless, hand-to-mouth mid-lister can provide instructions on outlining a novel. MasterClass dangled something else, a clear-cut path out of the precariat, the magic-bean shortcut to a fairy-tale ending—the secret to ever-elusive success.
Saudi leaders have figured out what makes the president tick like few others have.
The joke, a throwaway quip, somehow captured the man and the moment—the end of one era, and the beginning of another. It was January 2017, and then–British Prime Minister Theresa May was in the White House, the first foreign leader to visit the new president of the United States, Donald Trump. For May, the trip had gone well: Pleasantries had been exchanged, faux pas avoided, commitments to NATO and the special relationship gleaned. Then came the press conference.
“Mr. President,” the BBC’s Laura Kuenssberg, called on by May, began, “you’ve said before that torture works; you’ve praised Russia; you’ve said you want to ban some Muslims from coming to America; you’ve suggested there should be punishment for abortion. For many people in Britain, those sound like alarming beliefs. What do you say to our viewers at home who are worried about some of your views and are worried about you becoming the leader of the free world?” A momentary silence followed. Smiling, Trump turned to his guest: “This was your choice of a question?” The room burst into laughter. Then came the punch line: “There goes that relationship.”
A conversation with Ariel Sabar about the stranger-than-fiction story of a Harvard professor, a con artist, and a papyrus fragment that made front-page news
At a September 2012 academic conference in Rome, Karen King, a historian at Harvard Divinity School, made a major announcement. She had discovered a fragment of papyrus that bore a shocking phrase: “Jesus said to them, My wife.” If the scrap was authentic, it had the potential to upend centuries of Roman Catholic tradition.
The journalist Ariel Sabar covered King’s 2012 presentation for Smithsonian magazine, and revisited the mystery of the papyrus’s origins in a 2016 article for The Atlantic, “The Unbelievable Tale of Jesus’s Wife,” in which he tracked down the owner of the papyrus—a man whose identity King adamantly refused to share with the press. Could this man have forged the explosive text? Was King’s discovery too good to be true?
The electorate is split into separate information bubbles. But unconventional messengers, appeals to patriotism, and even jokes can reach voters who don’t want to listen.
A few weeks ago, I went to a political rally in a farmyard. The Polish presidential candidate Rafał Trzaskowski was speaking; in the background, a golden wheat field shimmered in the late-afternoon sun. The audience was enthusiastic—the host, a local farmer, had spread news of the candidate’s visit only the day before—but the juxtaposition of Trzaskowski and the wheat field was odd. He is the mayor of Warsaw, speaks several languages, has degrees in economics, and belongs to the half of Poland that identifies as educated, urban, and European. What does he know from wheat?
But Trzaskowski was running for president in a country whose other half lives in an information bubble that teaches people to be suspicious of anyone from Warsaw who is educated, urban, and European. Polish state television, fully controlled by the ruling Law and Justice party, was sending aggressive messages into that bubble, warning its inhabitants that Trzaskowski was dubious, foreign, in hock to “LGBT ideology”—which the incumbent president, Andrzej Duda, called “worse than communism”—and beholden to Germans and Jews. The messages, constantly repeated on a wide array of radio stations and television channels, were designed to reinforce tribal loyalties and convince Law and Justice voters that they are “real” Poles, not impostors or traitors like their political opponents.
In attacking her record on crime policy, her critics are ignoring how politics actually works.
The racial-justice movement sparked by the murder of George Floyd has had two quite different effects on Joe Biden’s presidential campaign. It has intensified the pressure on Biden to choose a Black woman as his running mate. And it has also intensified the pressure on him to choose a running mate with a history of challenging police brutality. Those two political imperatives are now colliding in the debate over whether Biden should pick Senator Kamala Harris—a former prosecutor whom some progressives in California have characterized as too deferential to police.
Biden had previously vowed to choose a female running mate, and the typical vice-presidential pick is a senator or governor. Harris is the sole Black woman in either category. In one sense, therefore, she clearly benefits from the new political reality that the Black Lives Matter movement has created. But that new political reality has also amplified criticism from progressives. In yesterday’s New York Times, the reporters Danny Hakim, Stephanie Saul, and Richard A. Oppel Jr. quoted David Campos, a former member of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors, who argues that when Harris “had the opportunity to do something about police accountability” as the city’s district attorney, “she was either not visible, or when she was, she was on the wrong side.” Criticisms like these, the Times notes, have led progressives to ask: “Is Ms. Harris essentially a political pragmatist, or has she in fact changed?”
A virus has brought the world’s most powerful country to its knees.
How did it come to this? A virus a thousand times smaller than a dust mote has humbled and humiliated the planet’s most powerful nation. America has failed to protect its people, leaving them with illness and financial ruin. It has lost its status as a global leader. It has careened between inaction and ineptitude. The breadth and magnitude of its errors are difficult, in the moment, to truly fathom.
In the first half of 2020, SARS‑CoV‑2—the new coronavirus behind the disease COVID‑19—infected 10 million people around the world and killed about half a million.