Why Do People Return to Judaism?
Why do seemingly ordinary, successful individuals, with healthy and structured lives, suddenly decide to embrace religious observance? Is there a particular trigger that drives them to make this dramatic change? And what do some of them, including well-known figures in the world of entertainment and academia, have to say about it?
Some view ba’alei teshuvah (individuals who return to Orthodox Judaism) positively, and admire the depth of their commitment, and above all, their courage to choose an unfamiliar way of life. Others, however, interpret their drastic move as a response to weakness, or a coping mechanism for hardship or failure. There are several common, and often unflattering, assumptions about those who become observant. One such assumption is that religious awakening stems from personal weakness or a life crisis.
The phenomenon of a coworker showing up one day with a yarmulke, and someone cynically quipping, “Did someone die?” perfectly captures this mindset. The assumption is clear. Only a personal crisis could drive someone to faith. In this view, Judaism is reduced to a crutch for the broken, the opium of the people.
Others claim that becoming religious reveals a weak character that needs a rigid external framework to dictate life’s choices. “He just couldn’t find himself,” people will say dismissively about a person who embraces religion. They argue that the religious believe simply because they want to believe, and that faith removes the burden of personal responsibility by placing everything in God’s hands. In this view, becoming observant means losing one’s independence and capacity to think critically, resulting in a loss of self.
So, let’s bust a few myths.
Weakness or Strength?
The phrase “religion is the opium of the masses” portrays believers as fragile individuals who need a powerful entity to lean on. But is that really true? Does becoming religious indicate a personality prone to weakness?
We all admire people who sacrifice comfort, wealth, or personal pleasure for a higher cause. We revere “heroes” who leave their comfort zone in pursuit of values, and respect intellectuals who choose spiritual achievement over material gain.
Those who return to Judaism aren’t looking for the easy way out. On the contrary, they recognize that Judaism is demanding and binding. Judaism, unlike Christianity, is not a once-a-week visit to a house of worship or a holiday meal. Torah accompanies a person every single day. It requires inner change, moral refinement, and constant growth. It demands that we control our anger, yield to others, refrain from gossip, and be kindhearted, among other things. It also demands that we observe mitzvot (Divine commandments) between us and God, such as prayer, keeping kosher, and observing the laws of family purity. The Torah asks us not to leave this world as we entered it, but to grow into our best selves.
Initially, the Torah’s demands can seem intimidating, even frightening. Some hesitate. But those who take the leap and live an observant life often discover joy and fulfillment they never imagined, and realize that the initial fear was far greater than the actual challenge. The sacrifices are real, but the benefits far outweigh them.
What makes ba’alei teshuvah unique is their willingness to ask questions. They dare to challenge themselves and raise difficult questions. They are brave enough to pursue the truth relentlessly until they find it. They left behind comfort and familiarity, not because it’s convenient, but because it’s correct.
True strength lies in mastering oneself and resisting impulses that conflict with higher ideals. Weakness is the inability to set boundaries. Strength is the courage to live by them. Those who choose to follow Torah necessarily set limits, demanding discipline and seeking transcendence. That’s not weakness. It’s resilience, determination, and courage.
Far from being mindless followers, ba’alei teshuvah refuse to be slaves to social conventions or fleeting cultural dictates. They swim against the current of the world they grew up in. As Israeli musician Evyatar Banai put it about his own journey: “In the end, I think it takes courage…to suddenly turn your back on the flow of life, to swim against the current and say, ‘Guys, I’m not continuing this way.’ That is greatness in my eyes.”
Ba’alei teshuvah are unafraid to confront a reality that demands lifelong growth, unafraid to embrace absolute truth that leaves no room for vacation or retirement. They accept limits not as shackles, but as a path to freedom; freedom from their lower impulses.
As Rabbi Yehuda Halevi wrote: “Slaves of time are slaves of slaves, only the servant of God is truly free.” The Mishnah notes: “The only one who is truly free is the one who engages with Torah” (Ethics of Our Fathers 6:2). Real freedom is not living by the dictates of fashion or social approval. Real freedom means living in truth and aligning with the soul.
Loss of Self or Discovery of Self?
Does becoming observant mean losing yourself? Is it an escape from reality? Quite the opposite.
Becoming observant means facing reality head-on and asking: Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going? It demands deep introspection, recognition of one’s strengths and gifts, and honest acknowledgment of one’s flaws. It means connecting to one’s soul and living in accordance with authentic Jewish values.
The ba’al teshuvah does not lose his sense of humor, intelligence, talents, or abilities. He doesn’t lose himself. He finds himself. Judaism demands that each person live as the best version of themselves. At the end of life, the only question man will be pressed to answer is, “Why weren’t you you?” You don’t need to be someone else. We’re tasked to fulfill our own potential.
Israeli actress and former Miss World Linor Abargil described her own journey: “At first, it was hard for my parents. But today they see how much good it has brought me, and they’re happy. I gave up modeling, even though it was lucrative, because I wanted to gain myself, my husband, and my family. Is there anything better than that?”
Faith in God: Emotion or Reason?
Many intellectuals and scientists embraced Orthodox Judaism for logical and rational reasons, such as Professor Yaakov Vardi, Professor Doron Aurbach, Professor Eliyahu Rips, Professor David Kazhdan, Professor Binyamin Fine, Professor Yirmiyahu Branover, Dr. Eric Neveh, and Professor Gerald Schroeder, among others. Professor Doron Aurbach, a world-renowned chemist, explains: “The more chemistry I studied, the less I could believe that the world came about by chance. The chemistry of life is incredibly complex. Even a single leaf performs processes we cannot replicate in our most advanced labs. According to the second law of thermodynamics, the natural world tends toward disorder and breakdown. The idea that complex proteins formed by accident while the world moves toward decay is absurd. To me, Creation is undeniable.”
He adds: “One must come to faith with intellect and love. There is no place for coercion. We have free will. If Judaism could not be understood rationally, why would scientists like me, along with doctors, engineers, and countless others, embrace it?”
The Big Question: Why?
Some ba’alei teshuvah turned to religion after near-death experiences or dramatic events prompted them to ask existential questions, such as: What’s life’s purpose? What happens after death? Is there a Creator?
But most ba’alei teshuvah did not encounter trauma. Rather, they were driven by existential restlessness, unanswered questions, or a gnawing emptiness despite having everything. Some reached the heights of success—wealth, fame, comfort—yet felt hollow until they found meaning in Judaism.
As a case in point, consider the words of Professor Shlomo Kalish, a highly decorated Israeli pilot and tech investor: “I had achieved everything one could imagine. But at 45 I realized I had missed life itself.”
The late Israeli actor Yehuda Barkan reflected: “I had tasted everything—fame, pleasure, money. And it all left me empty. When I finally tasted the sweetness of Torah, I knew I had found where I belonged.”
Israeli musician Gili Shoshan similarly expressed: “I had everything, money, fame, honor. But it never gave me true happiness. Only Torah gave me meaning, satisfaction, and the sense that I was touching the core of life itself.”
The Common Thread
Why do people become observant? Sometimes, people are prompted to embrace Judaism for rational and intellectual reasons. On other occasions, a traumatic experience can push someone on their journey. Still others seek to find meaning in a life that feels increasingly empty and meaningless. The impetus notwithstanding, the journey always involves asking, searching, and refusing to settle for a shallow life.
Ba’alei teshuvah dare to confront themselves and reshape their lives. Step by step, they walk toward the truth. The path is neither quick nor easy. Yet, steadily and decisively, they change their trajectory and imbue their lives with deep meaning.
Becoming more observant—or being a “ba’al teshuvah”—means drawing closer to God by keeping the Torah and its commandments. Too often, people assume that becoming observant automatically places someone in a particular camp, whether Charedi, Modern Orthodox, or another group. In truth, living a life of Torah and mitzvot (Divine commandments) doesn’t require adopting a label or fitting neatly into a category.
A Jew who lives according to the Torah and its commandments is simply a Torah-observant Jew, and that is what God desires. Nowhere in Jewish law does it say you must wear a white shirt and black pants or grow a beard. Of course, some people who become observant choose to identify with a particular community, whether because it aligns with their outlook or because they want to raise their children in a specific environment. But the essence of the process itself is not about joining a “sector.” It’s about coming closer to God.
The Sages famously declare: “In the place where ba’alei teshuvah stand, even the perfectly righteous cannot stand” (Berachot 34b).
This powerful idea reflects the unique spiritual stature of a person who returns to Judaism after being raised far from Torah and mitzvot (Divine commandments). Unlike someone who grew up immersed in observance, for whom Jewish practice became second nature, the ba’al teshuvah consciously chooses a new path, despite the difficulty and discomfort. That journey, and the inner strength it demands, elevates the ba’al teshuvah to extraordinary spiritual heights.
The Rambam (Maimonides), one of the greatest halachic (Jewish legal) authorities, writes in his Mishneh Torah:
Let no person think that a ba’al teshuvah is distant from the level of the righteous because of the sins and transgressions he once committed. This is not so. On the contrary, he is beloved and cherished before the Creator as if he had never sinned at all. Moreover, his reward is great, because he tasted sin, distanced himself from it, and overcame his desires.
Our Sages said: “In the place where ba’alei teshuvah stand, even the perfectly righteous cannot stand.” That is, their level is greater than that of those who never sinned, because they subdue their impulses to a greater degree (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Teshuvah 7:4).
From time to time, we hear about ba’alei teshuvah who sever all contact with their families. It should be qualified that such cases are extremely rare and do not represent the broader community of ba’alei teshuvah. The overwhelming majority maintain warm and healthy relationships with their parents and relatives.
Moreover, those who choose to cut ties are not acting in accordance with the integrity of the Torah. According to the Torah, every Jew—regardless of background—is obligated to honor his parents. Turning your back on the very people who raised you with love, devotion, and endless care is not only ungrateful but directly contradicts the spirit of the Torah.
The Torah seeks to cultivate within us a deep sense of gratitude toward anyone who has shown us kindness, and guides us to uproot even the faintest trace of ingratitude. The Talmud teaches: “Do not throw a stone into the well from which you have drunk” (Bava Kamma 92b). In fact, the Torah even discourages us from being ungrateful toward inanimate objects, in order to refine the human soul.
A striking example appears in the story of the plagues in Egypt. Although Moshe was commanded by God to bring about the plagues, he himself did not strike the Nile or the earth for the first three plagues—blood, frogs, and lice. Instead, his brother Aharon carried them out. The Midrash explains why:
Why were the waters hit by Aharon and not by Moshe? Rabbi Tanchum said: The Holy One, blessed be He, said to Moshe: The waters that protected you when you were placed in the river in a basket, it is not fitting that they should be hit by your hand. Therefore, they shall be hit only by Aharon (Shemot Rabbah 9:10).
And likewise: Why was the earth hit by Aharon and not by Moshe? Rabbi Tanchum said: The Holy One, blessed be He, said to Moshe: The earth that protected you, that hid the Egyptian you slew, it is not fitting that it should be hit by your hand (Shemot Rabbah 10:7).
The phrase teshuvah is often misunderstood. Many assume it means “answer,” as in a response to a question. In truth, its root meaning is “return.” Teshuvah refers to the act of returning to Jewish life, to our spiritual roots, and ultimately to our Father in Heaven.
Throughout the Tanach, we find verses calling upon every Jew to correct his actions and draw closer to God. For example:
“When you are in distress and all these things have befallen you at the end of days, you will return to the Lord your God and listen to His voice” (Devarim 4:30).
Similarly, the prophet Yechezkel declares:
“Say to the House of Israel…return, return from your evil ways” (Yechezkel 33:11).
And the prophet Hoshea pleads:
“Return, O Israel, to the Lord your God, for you have stumbled in your iniquity” (Hoshea 14:2).
God longs for every one of His children to return to a life of closeness with Him. As it says in Tehillim:
“The Lord looked down from Heaven upon the children of man to see if there is one who seeks God, one who acts wisely” (Tehillim 14:2).
We cannot see God directly, but we can perceive His presence through His revelations, both in the Torah and in the natural world.
The book of Iyov teaches, “From my flesh I shall behold God” (Iyov 19:26), meaning that by contemplating the astonishing complexity and sophistication of the human body, one can recognize the guiding hand of a Creator.
Professor Doron Aurbach, a world-renowned chemist who embraced religious observance as an adult, shares how his scientific research led him to believe in the existence of God.
The more I studied, the clearer it became that the chemistry of life—photosynthesis, growth processes, the internal organization of every living cell, and the complex molecular-level interactions that sustain life—could not have developed by chance. It is far too brilliant, too intricately designed to be accidental.
Every blade of grass we step on without a second thought is a marvel of microscopic chemical engineering. It is an elegant, precise system of processes more efficient and flawless than anything humans have ever created.
To me, it was obvious that according to the basic laws of nature, life could not emerge spontaneously without intentional direction and advance planning.
The most profound scientific experience I had during my studies was a sense of awe, an awe inspired by the delicate balance that holds together subatomic particles, atoms in compounds, celestial bodies in space (despite the universal force of gravity pulling them together), and most of all, the brilliant chemical processes that create and sustain life.
Becoming more observant—or being a “ba’al teshuvah”—means drawing closer to God by keeping the Torah and its commandments. Too often, people assume that becoming observant automatically places someone in a particular camp, whether Charedi, Modern Orthodox, or another group. In truth, living a life of Torah and mitzvot (Divine commandments) doesn’t require adopting a label or fitting neatly into a category.
A Jew who lives according to the Torah and its commandments is simply a Torah-observant Jew, and that is what God desires. Nowhere in Jewish law does it say you must wear a white shirt and black pants or grow a beard. Of course, some people who become observant choose to identify with a particular community, whether because it aligns with their outlook or because they want to raise their children in a specific environment. But the essence of the process itself is not about joining a “sector.” It’s about coming closer to God.
From time to time, we hear about ba’alei teshuvah who sever all contact with their families. It should be qualified that such cases are extremely rare and do not represent the broader community of ba’alei teshuvah. The overwhelming majority maintain warm and healthy relationships with their parents and relatives.
Moreover, those who choose to cut ties are not acting in accordance with the integrity of the Torah. According to the Torah, every Jew—regardless of background—is obligated to honor his parents. Turning your back on the very people who raised you with love, devotion, and endless care is not only ungrateful but directly contradicts the spirit of the Torah.
The Torah seeks to cultivate within us a deep sense of gratitude toward anyone who has shown us kindness, and guides us to uproot even the faintest trace of ingratitude. The Talmud teaches: “Do not throw a stone into the well from which you have drunk” (Bava Kamma 92b). In fact, the Torah even discourages us from being ungrateful toward inanimate objects, in order to refine the human soul.
A striking example appears in the story of the plagues in Egypt. Although Moshe was commanded by God to bring about the plagues, he himself did not strike the Nile or the earth for the first three plagues—blood, frogs, and lice. Instead, his brother Aharon carried them out. The Midrash explains why:
Why were the waters hit by Aharon and not by Moshe? Rabbi Tanchum said: The Holy One, blessed be He, said to Moshe: The waters that protected you when you were placed in the river in a basket, it is not fitting that they should be hit by your hand. Therefore, they shall be hit only by Aharon (Shemot Rabbah 9:10).
And likewise: Why was the earth hit by Aharon and not by Moshe? Rabbi Tanchum said: The Holy One, blessed be He, said to Moshe: The earth that protected you, that hid the Egyptian you slew, it is not fitting that it should be hit by your hand (Shemot Rabbah 10:7).
We cannot see God directly, but we can perceive His presence through His revelations, both in the Torah and in the natural world.
The book of Iyov teaches, “From my flesh I shall behold God” (Iyov 19:26), meaning that by contemplating the astonishing complexity and sophistication of the human body, one can recognize the guiding hand of a Creator.
Professor Doron Aurbach, a world-renowned chemist who embraced religious observance as an adult, shares how his scientific research led him to believe in the existence of God.
The more I studied, the clearer it became that the chemistry of life—photosynthesis, growth processes, the internal organization of every living cell, and the complex molecular-level interactions that sustain life—could not have developed by chance. It is far too brilliant, too intricately designed to be accidental.
Every blade of grass we step on without a second thought is a marvel of microscopic chemical engineering. It is an elegant, precise system of processes more efficient and flawless than anything humans have ever created.
To me, it was obvious that according to the basic laws of nature, life could not emerge spontaneously without intentional direction and advance planning.
The most profound scientific experience I had during my studies was a sense of awe, an awe inspired by the delicate balance that holds together subatomic particles, atoms in compounds, celestial bodies in space (despite the universal force of gravity pulling them together), and most of all, the brilliant chemical processes that create and sustain life.
The Sages famously declare: “In the place where ba’alei teshuvah stand, even the perfectly righteous cannot stand” (Berachot 34b).
This powerful idea reflects the unique spiritual stature of a person who returns to Judaism after being raised far from Torah and mitzvot (Divine commandments). Unlike someone who grew up immersed in observance, for whom Jewish practice became second nature, the ba’al teshuvah consciously chooses a new path, despite the difficulty and discomfort. That journey, and the inner strength it demands, elevates the ba’al teshuvah to extraordinary spiritual heights.
The Rambam (Maimonides), one of the greatest halachic (Jewish legal) authorities, writes in his Mishneh Torah:
Let no person think that a ba’al teshuvah is distant from the level of the righteous because of the sins and transgressions he once committed. This is not so. On the contrary, he is beloved and cherished before the Creator as if he had never sinned at all. Moreover, his reward is great, because he tasted sin, distanced himself from it, and overcame his desires.
Our Sages said: “In the place where ba’alei teshuvah stand, even the perfectly righteous cannot stand.” That is, their level is greater than that of those who never sinned, because they subdue their impulses to a greater degree (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Teshuvah 7:4).
The phrase teshuvah is often misunderstood. Many assume it means “answer,” as in a response to a question. In truth, its root meaning is “return.” Teshuvah refers to the act of returning to Jewish life, to our spiritual roots, and ultimately to our Father in Heaven.
Throughout the Tanach, we find verses calling upon every Jew to correct his actions and draw closer to God. For example:
“When you are in distress and all these things have befallen you at the end of days, you will return to the Lord your God and listen to His voice” (Devarim 4:30).
Similarly, the prophet Yechezkel declares:
“Say to the House of Israel…return, return from your evil ways” (Yechezkel 33:11).
And the prophet Hoshea pleads:
“Return, O Israel, to the Lord your God, for you have stumbled in your iniquity” (Hoshea 14:2).
God longs for every one of His children to return to a life of closeness with Him. As it says in Tehillim:
“The Lord looked down from Heaven upon the children of man to see if there is one who seeks God, one who acts wisely” (Tehillim 14:2).
Michael Freund's Story
As the train slowly made its way northbound, leaving behind the commotion of Manhattan’s Grand Central Station and heading toward the serenity of the suburbs, my gaze out the window at the lush, autumn scenery suddenly turned inwards.
The year was 1984, and although I was a mere 16 years old, I had been wrestling for weeks with a momentous question, the kind of potentially life-altering choice that I found both intriguing and intimidating: should I start to observe Shabbat? Of course, for a restless teenager with hectic hormones, it often seemed that every decision carried with it the weight of the universe, as though the cosmos itself would be forever altered should I opt to see The Karate Kid rather than Ghostbusters Saturday night at the movie theater.
But I knew this was a qualitatively different dilemma, one that would affect all aspects of my life, ranging from my worldview to possibly even my character and personality.
Growing up in a Conservative Jewish household, where Shabbat was commemorated but not strictly observed in the halachic (Jewish legal) sense, did I really want to go the more Orthodox route and become one of… them? Despite attending Jewish day school and yeshiva high school, my best friends were all non-Orthodox, and we did lots of non-Orthodox things every Saturday, from watching sports on television to driving to a friend’s house to play tennis.
I didn’t understand the seeming obsession that Orthodox Jews had with all the minutiae of observance. Did it really matter if you declared a festival over at precisely 7:32 pm? Or if you had a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal for breakfast with those delightfully delicious multi-colored marshmallows, even though the box didn’t have a kosher symbol on it? I was proudly Jewish, passionately Zionist and pro-Israel, and hawkish in my political views. Wasn’t that enough?
On Friday nights and holidays, we always said Kiddush, sang songs and recited the Grace after Meals, and the following morning we would drive to shul. I wasn’t allowed to go out on Friday nights or on festivals, but that didn’t seem too overly burdensome.
All in all, it was a comfortably Jewish environment: not too demanding yet occasionally uplifting.
And then came that fateful Shavuot, in early June 1984, the aftermath of which would set off the philosophical neurons in my head, sparking large amounts of electrical impulses to surge through the synapses and give me no rest.
It was a holiday like any other, except that after synagogue, a friend and I decided to go for a drive. I remember purchasing some much-needed batteries, and we then proceeded to a deli that billed itself as kosher, even though it was open on the festival. After gorging on a succulent hot pastrami on rye, along with a hot dog, a mountain of French fries and some good ol’ fashioned Dr. Brown’s Black Cherry soda, I made my way home.
Boy, were my parents upset. “You know that in this house we do not go out on Friday nights or holidays,” my father said, berating me for violating the unwritten family code and asking me how I could do such a thing.
Resorting to some of that Judaic knowledge I had acquired in school, I replied somewhat irately: “What difference does it make? After all, Shabbat is holier than any holiday, and on Saturday afternoons we do what I please, so why should I be limited on Shavuot?” The discussion went nowhere, and yet I could not shake it. I was suddenly confronted with a stark reality: I was living a life that was neither intellectually consistent nor religiously sensible, simply picking and choosing based more on whim than on wisdom.
So I tried to push it out of my mind, banish it to some inner recess of the brain where chemistry, trigonometry and other unpleasant subjects went to die a forgotten death.
That summer, I went to Israel on a non-religious tour group. Having heard that Tisha B’Av eve at the Western Wall was a big social scene, I somehow convinced the group leader to take us there even though it wasn’t part of the program.
As I made my way through the throngs of worshipers, two things struck me. First, I noticed various groups of Ethiopian, Russian, Yemenite and other Jews, all of whom appeared so different on the surface, with seemingly nothing in common to unite them. They spoke different languages, had diverse wardrobes and ate dissimilar foods.
And yet, there was something so powerful about our people’s tradition that it was able to bring these disparate groups together, at the same time and in the same place, and for the very same reason. It was an eye-opening glimpse for me of the power of Jewish history and the pull of Jewish destiny.
Then, I saw a group of black-clad Chasidim sitting in a circle, reading the Book of Lamentations. Never one to be intimidated by what could prove to be a culturally interesting experience, I went over and plopped down, jeans, T-shirt, and all. Looking around the group, I noticed that several of the men were weeping, literally shedding tears, all because the Temple was destroyed some 1,900 years ago.
I shook my head in disbelief. After all, the newspaper is filled every day with human tragedies and natural disasters, most of which move readers far less than the outcome of the World Series. So why, I thought to myself, are these guys crying over a building that was felled two millennia ago? Is there something wrong with them? And then the answer hit me right in the mental equivalent of the gut: No, Michael. Perhaps there is something wrong with you. Maybe these guys are the ones who ‘get it’ and you are the one who doesn’t.
And so, shortly thereafter, on that train ride through Westchester County, I decided that I could no longer endure the conflicting dichotomy that characterized my Jewishness, and when my mother picked me up, I announced somewhat off-handedly that I had decided to start keeping Shabbat.
What followed is a tale for another time, but when I awoke the next morning and made my way — on foot — to synagogue, the doubts came along for the walk.
Do you really want to do this, I thought to myself. No more TV or videos on Saturday? Are you nuts? “Dear God,” I wondered aloud, “are You sure You want me to do this?” I took my seat in the sanctuary and then, as if in answer to my question, the person reading the Torah began to recite the opening verse of the weekly portion. It began with the Creator telling Avraham to embark on a great journey to an unknown destination: “Lech lecha,” which literally means “go to yourself.”
A shudder went through me as the words sank in. I understood it to be a sign, an affirmation that not only must I follow this path toward the unknown that I had begun, but that ultimately it would lead me to my true inner self.
That first step has led me down a winding trail, as I grew in observance, became a ba’al teshuvah, and embraced Orthodoxy. Naturally, there have been many challenges along the way. But when I look back now, 32 years later, having spent two-thirds of my life keeping Shabbat, I thank God for opening my eyes and giving me this precious gift.
The writer, Michael Freund, served as deputy director of communications and policy planning in the Prime Minister’s Office under Binyamin Netanyahu. He is the founder and Chairman of Shavei Israel, a Jerusalem-based group that facilitates the return of the Bnei Menashe and other “lost Jews” to the Jewish people.
This story originally appeared on aish.com
