I wrote a thousand words into ChatGPT this evening and then asked the bot to punch it up. I took what I liked and made it my own:
Gerim are way too sensitive. Always scanning for slights like they’re reading the Talmud with a Geiger counter. “I wasn’t invited to the shiva!” “No one asked me to chip in for the kugel fund!” “Why wasn’t I on the WhatsApp for the bris?!”
Converts write these long haunting essays about how Jews disappointed them.
Only the neurotic convert! Sorry we’re such a mixed blessing, chevra.
I never had any success discipling myself. I had to find a life of service, and that disciplined me.
Self-help and therapy didn’t help me. Conversion didn’t help me. Twelve-step led me into a life of service and that helped me to get out of my own way. If you live for something greater than yourself, you are less vulnerable to your selfish addicted destructive side.
Victory over sin didn’t come for me through religion and effort and theology and religious teachings.
Victory over sin doesn’t come from status, success or inclusion—it comes from service. When you’re schlepping meals to old Jews and plunging the shul toilet after a men’s mikvah session, you’re not obsessing over why the rabbi won’t let you marry his daughter. You’re too busy doing God’s work to care.
You say, “No one at shul cares about me.” Okay. But do you care about anyone?
You don’t need invites when you’re the one doing the inviting. “Come join our ragtag band of sincere weirdos trying to keep Shabbos like pros!”
Converts nurse their wounds. They catalogue every way the community lets them down, but they never consider how often they’ve let down their community.
People worry about their status: “How many likes did my dvar Torah get? Did Rebbetzin Glantz smile at me? Should I call myself a rabbi yet?” Me? I’m God’s forgotten man. I’m out here ministering to the lost tribes of the San Fernando Valley—Producers, Pilates Instructors, and Jewish stars of independent cinema.
I’m like Hosea—God told him to marry a prostitute, and Hosea said, “K.” I gave up my good name to serve the people no one else wants. I’m out here inviting lost souls to the Friday night kugel crawl.
Bro, let it go. You feel bad you overslept and missed the chupa (wedding) next door? You weren’t invited because it wasn’t about you. The world’s not your spotlight. You’re not the Shakespeare of sleaze any more. You’re not the Charles Krauthammer of double penetration. Big deal. God already knows your browser history.
You think you’re lonely? Maybe you’re just not giving enough.
It’s not what you can get—it’s what you can give. Victory over sin comes when you stop being a love sponge and start being a faucet.
And let’s talk about carnal Judaism. Old Luke – Carnal Luke would hit the Sephardic singles events in Westwood and pile up eight different desserts like it was a competition. Bro thought being frum meant free rugelach.
Now? I’m transcending animal desires. I study Mishneh Torah till my eyes bleed. There’s more than enough in the Talmud to keep me busy—trust me. And when I’m not learning, I’m calling lonely Jews before Shabbos, helping them light candles, and teaching boomer BTs how to kasher an air fryer.
So, your mate Shlomo had an upsherin for their three-year-old, big shul turnout, entire block was there… except me. I guess your hair was just too good for an upsherin. They’re probably afraid you’d overshadow the kid. It’s a cross you bear.
Being on shul duty, I get to see everyone. Sometimes for hours. In the sun. My jokes usually get a polite chuckle, followed by a very efficient door closing. I’m starting to think my superpower is making people walk faster.
My main job is to ensure everyone feels safe… from my attempts at witty banter. It’s a delicate balance.
I stand in the sun so other people can stand in the shade of the Torah. It’s like being a mensch-shaped umbrella.
I asked for conversation during my volunteering. They gave me a nod and a shrug — which in frum world is basically a restraining order.
I asked a guy at shul for conversation as a joke when I opened the door for him. He gave me what he felt obliged to give, which I think was a ‘bless your heart’ with his eyes. High praise.
People want to pass through, just not pay the fee of interaction.
I struck up a great conversation with a stranger. We talked for two hours. We exchanged numbers. Then I saw him taking a different route to the gym to avoid me. I waved. He waved back. Clearly, my charisma is too powerful for him.
You know how you have those fantastic conversations and exchange numbers? Yeah, me too. My last one responded with, ‘Busy.’ Which, if you think about it, is a very efficient way of saying, ‘Please stop trying to connect.’
All my life I’ve been on the outside. First it was Adventism, then journalism, now Orthodoxy. At this point I don’t need a therapist — I need a loyalty card for marginalized identities.
I converted to Orthodox Judaism because I wanted truth. Turns out, truth doesn’t return texts either.
During speed dating, maybe I should’ve led with ‘I study Torah’ instead of ‘I study the industry’!
As a convert, I thought I’d nailed the Orthodox vibe—tefillin, kosher, the works. But when the invites went out, I guess someone whispered, ‘That Luke guy? He was the Matt Drudge of you-know-what.’ Now I’m wondering if my kippah needs a disclaimer!
My dad was the most famous heretic in the Seventh-Day Adventist church. So I grew up knowing how to disappoint organized religion — and I’ve kept the tradition alive.
My family put the ‘dys’ in function. After mom died, dad married his secretary. Jesus had 12 disciples, I had 12 foster homes.
Being raised by a theological rebel gave me a taste for spiritual danger. So naturally, I joined the only religion where even God has to consult a rabbi.
I’ve never been invited to the secret ceremonies. But I’ve attended the silent inner ceremonies of being emotionally trimmed down to size. No kippah cake, but plenty of bitter herbs.
Judaism gave me structure, purpose, and the profound realization that nothing has changed inside.
People say I’m socially awkward. I prefer ‘strategically enigmatic.’
I thought converting would be the end of my outsider phase. Turns out, being a single, 59-year-old Orthodox convert is like being in social purgatory — just long enough to appreciate what heaven must be like… for other people.
Even my therapist ghosted me. He said, ‘I think we’ve made enough progress for you to process future abandonment on your own.’
I was a media guy once — radio, TV, blogging. Then I chose a life of prayer and celibacy…for the health benefits.
At some point I had to ask myself: do I want to be respected, or do I want to be retweeted? Then I realized, I’m not getting either, so I converted to Judaism.
I used to run a gossip blog. Now I meditate on mortality. It’s not a glow-up. It’s a lateral move into Abrahamic existentialism.
People ask me how I balance my spiritual life with my… other life. I tell them, ‘Well, during the day, I’m finding meaning in ancient texts. At night, I’m generating new meaning for modern search algorithms. It’s all about content creation.
As a bachelor convert who reads Torah and blogs about Richard Spencer, I’ve essentially chosen to live in the Venn diagram where no woman has ever wanted to be.
You want to feel whole? Serve. You want victory over sin? Stop making your feelings your god. Get over yourself. Turn me loose, I’ve gotta do it God’s way.
And if you still feel down, just remember:
Young man, there’s no need to feel down, I said
Young man, pick yourself off the ground, I said
Young man, ’cause you’re in a new town
There’s no need to be unhappy
Young man, there’s a place you can go, I said
Young man, when you’re short on your dough you can
Stay there and I’m sure you will find
Many ways to have a good time when you’re doing mitvos
