Chick-fil-A instead of Break-Fast bagels

My very Gen Z relationship with religion

An armed security guard stands outside the brick building. I walk a few steps behind my dad because his long legs always carry him much faster than me. I rush to catch up, the early fall brisk air swishing against my cheeks.

We enter Or Ami, my synagogue, and are greeted by a table of older men and women checking-in people for the morning Yom Kippur service. My dad and I are already thirty minutes late, so I imagine the click-clack of my block-heeled boots when I must walk past the hundreds of people already sitting in the sanctuary. I look down at my outfit; my skirt is way too short. I don’t remember the last time I went shopping for clothes appropriate to wear to synagogue. My heart beats a little faster in my chest.

Given the okay, my dad and I turn to our left to ascend the familiar tall staircase.

Upon entering the sanctuary, the first thing I notice is that the grey divider that separates the ‘events’ room from the sanctuary is pushed closer to the sanctuary than on the usual high holidays setup. Years ago, the Yom Kippur service was so full that they had to have numerous rows of plastic chairs behind the wooden pews, utilizing more of the cavernous room beside the sanctuary. Today, there are only a few rows of plastic chairs and plenty of empty seats for me and my dad.

As we settled in, I couldn’t help but think about all those empty seats. When I was younger, this room seemed packed. Where is everyone? I thought about how I was almost responsible for one of those empty chairs. My mom said that I didn’t have to go to services today because it was my fall break and I could relax. But, what my Rabbi would later call a quarter-life crisis brought me to Or Ami this morning.

I pride myself on being Jewish, but up until today, I had not been to synagogue in years. At Duke, I struggle to find my place in the Jewish community. It’s to the extent that I ditched celebrating the high holidays the past two years, trading traditional Break-Fast bagels for Chick-fil-A. I’ve been feeling disconnected from my Judaism for a while, so I wanted to break that trajectory by attending Yom Kippur services. Sitting in a sparser synagogue, I wondered if all the other missing audience members were feeling disconnected too.

My relationship with Judaism stems from a push and pull between both my parents’ Jewish backgrounds.

My mom prioritizes the family-oriented aspect of Judaism. “Being Jewish to me means being a part of a community and a culture more than a religion,” my mom said. “To me, it wasn’t as much about religion but getting together our family.” This sentiment is expressed in her motivation to plan family get-togethers to celebrate the big Jewish holidays.

My dad values Judaism’s communal aspect in addition to the ritual component. Prayers and traditions are important to him. This is why he reads Torah in front of our whole congregation every Rosh Hashanah.

My own relationship with Judaism began when I was 6 months old at my baby naming where I was given the Hebrew name “Shayna Jacoba.” As soon as I could walk, I entered preschool at Or Ami. At my own “Tot Shabbat,” I carried a stuffed Torah around the sanctuary and sang songs with my class.

Once I entered public elementary school, I transitioned into Sunday School at Or Ami. After that, it was the after-school Tuesday program, which was more tailored to Bar/Bat Mitzvah preparation. For all of my childhood, I spent some time at Or Ami almost every week.

Though I did not realize it at the time, the climax of my Jewish involvement was my Bat Mitzvah. I started off on the bimah performing my Torah portion, which was not an easy feat for an insecure pre-teen terrified of public speaking. Then, that night we had the celebration. The room was decked in pink and navy decorations, and I wore a light pink princess ball gown (a bit excessive for a 13-year-old, but it was the trend of the time).

My cake from my Bat Mitzvah

Despite being an official Jewish adult, after my Bat Mitzvah, I started to phase out of my religious participation. No longer obligated to attend Or Ami at least once a week, I filled that time with tennis practice. My family became the Jewish version of CEO (Christmas/Easter-only) Christians–we went to synagogue for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur only.

Then, the turning point in any post-2020 story hit: the pandemic. With almost all in-person events canceled, we watched services online. We adapted to having the ability to tune into services in the comfort of our own house, listening to sermons while simultaneously scrolling on social media.

Once synagogues re-opened, most of my family had acclimated to this comfortable virtual experience except my dad, who was eager to return to services for the following holidays. My mom said my brother and I could stay home, so we did. What teenagers would schlep to synagogue if they were allowed to sit on the couch and watch TV? Certainly not my brother or me. Suddenly a few years passed without stepping inside Or Ami.

Before arriving at Duke, my grandmother begged me to get involved in the Duke Jewish community. I knew doing so would make my parents happy too. So, I tried.

Julia Ecker, a Duke sophomore from New Rochelle, NY, is one of the friends I’ve had since orientation week. Spotting Ecker on campus, she can be found rushing to Organic Chemistry in a trendy outfit with a flippy blowout. She grew up at a reform synagogue and despite not necessarily believing in a higher power, she emphasized how community is integral to her definition of Judaism. Ecker worked at her synagogue from age 12 to 18, teaching Hebrew to children and serving as a Youth Representative for her temple’s administration.

At Duke, Ecker described her relationship with Judaism as “stagnant.” While it's natural to drift from religion with the business of college, part of the reason Ecker feels this way is because neither of the popular spots for Jewish students–Hillel or Chabad–feel like home.

Hillel is directly affiliated with Jewish Life at Duke, and they take a “pluralistic approach to Judaism” so that all Jewish students of any sect feel included. Due to its all-encompassing reach, to some, Hillel lacks that feeling of tight-knit community.

Chabad is an orthodox movement within Judaism, and even though Duke Chabad is not directly affiliated with the university, it has a building right off East Campus. Chabad is more social; people go for Shabbat to have home-cooked food and drink wine with their friends. But it retains that more orthodox feel, especially for their services. And the seating arrangements can sometimes feel reminiscent of a high school cafeteria.

Ecker summed up the experience for Duke students like me and her when she said, “There’s no middle ground for someone who wants to be Jewish but is less traditionally religious.”

Like Ecker, after giving both organizations a shot, I soon settled with the notion that it felt more comfortable to neglect my Judaism at Duke than to force myself to go somewhere I didn’t love. But with that decision, I took yet another step away from my religion and my culture.

Amongst my generation, my struggle with organized religion is not unique. According to a 2021 survey, 34% of Gen Z identifies as religiously unaffiliated, making Gen Z the least religious generation yet. Of all Americans, about one-quarter are now religiously unaffiliated. The majority (71%) of current unaffiliated Americans say they were raised in a formal religion. Participation in organized religion is trending down in the United States.

Depending on the religion, there are a vast number of reasons why people would disaffiliate. Religious trauma, conflicts of values, and other life commitments come to mind. But, I’d be curious to know how many people just slowly drifted from their religions. Perhaps they traded services for comfort along the way, until active participation didn’t feel worth it at all.

Although people stray from religion when their lives get busier, my dad believes that people tend to return. This is because religion plays a central role in major life events: marriage, birth, and death. The rituals surrounding these events are essential to support people through these times, whether they are happy or sad occasions.

Ever since my grandfather passed away in 2008, the Mourner’s Kaddish prayer gained significance for my dad. “It’s a good deed that you’re doing and it's helpful for you to express your emotion,” my dad said. “That’s why when I was younger sometimes I would cry at services. Because I would think about my dad.”

Or Ami’s current Rabbi, Glenn Ettman, shares a similar perspective with my dad. Ettman, 48, has been an ordained Rabbi for 19 years. Wearing a grey suit with a yarmulke, he has an extroverted aura with an expressive voice. Prior to attending rabbinical school, he earned a masters in Performance Studies from the Tisch School of the Arts at NYU. His theatrical background shines through in his energetic storytelling.

I met with Ettman to discuss my turmoil about my relationship with Judaism. In his bookshelf-wrapped office, I shared how I felt guilty for my lack of religious engagement, and how seeing those empty seats at Yom Kippur services only exacerbated that guilt. I also told him about my struggle with finding a place in the Jewish community that feels authentic to me.

In true Rabbi fashion, Ettman channeled my existential dread into hopeful optimism. He explained how synagogues constantly ebb and flow. There’s always going to be what he called a “power user” of a synagogue, someone who uses it for the religious school and Bar/Bat Mitzvah and ends their membership when that is over. Such membership problems were amplified during the pandemic. But, Ettman said that people came out of COVID with “an active desire to really try to rebuild what we have.” He continued, “I've seen more participation. I've seen an active desire to find your community and find your space.”

Regardless of general demographic changes, there will be people, such as myself, who want to come back because of the communal benefits of religion. In a world in which we are spending increasingly more time alone and inside on our screens, getting out into society in any way is vital. Moreover, the community found in organized religion is even more meaningful because it is based on a shared spiritual understanding. “The knowledge that life is going to end is what gives our living a purpose, and organized religion gives meaning to those moments that we just can't explain and can't understand,” said Ettman.

For people who feel on the outs of their religion, Ettman suggested that all we need is a doorway back in. It could be spending time with Jewish friends or remaking a family recipe of matzo ball soup. These little moments lead to more learning and engagement with Judaism as a whole.

Ultimately, there is not one ‘right’ way to be Jewish. Whether it is prioritizing the familial aspects of holidays like my mom, or reading Torah like my dad, it is a continuous journey that is bound to change as one transitions through life.

In a way, Judaism has internal struggle baked into its constitution. Jews are the people of Israel, and when you break the word Israel down in Hebrew, “yisra” means to struggle, question, or challenge, and “el” is another word for God. Ettman said, “The root of who we are, the people of Israel, are the people who are supposed to struggle, challenge, question, and not completely understand God. It's right in our name, so be comfortable with the struggle.”

I made it to Yom Kippur services this year–I’ve stepped through the door. Maybe next I’ll find a family recipe for latkes to make this Hanukkah. One step at a time.