David,

First let me state very clearly: no major Rabbinic authorities, Orthodox or otherwise, argue for racial or ethnic limitations of any kind on who may convert to Judaism. The only requirement is study, a genuine desire to join the Jewish People, and the proper conversion rituals. So no one would ever say that someone who is Hispanic is not allowed to convert.

That is not to say that your conversion would be a simple matter. The real difference is that many Orthodox rabbis are much more hesitant about accepting or encouraging converts than those in other movements. This in part has its source in traditions about the proper requirements for conversion. The sources for our approach to conversion say, in essence, that on the one hand we should initially discourage a potential convert in order to test their sincerity, but on the other should not make the process overly difficult.

It also stems from three related philosophical questions. First, what should be considered a valid reason for wanting to convert? Should someone be able to convert in order to marry a Jew, or in order to get automatic citizenship in the state of Israel? Or must a potential convert come with “purer” motives? Second, what level of commitment to Judaism must a prospective convert demonstrate? Only a minimum involvement with Jewish traditions or the intent to follow a much higher and more stringent level of Jewish observance? And third, should we view an inflow of new converts as an opportunity to be embraced or a source for potential strife to be viewed with suspicion?

Rabbis in most parts of the Orthodox world today have moved firmly toward the pole of placing roadblocks in the way of conversion. Given that the large majority of Jews around the world are not strictly observant, they have argued for much higher demands regarding the level of observance to which a convert must commit. They also tend to view with strong suspicion the motives of people who share less culturally with the Jewish community, whether Hispanics, Asians, or others. There is also, though, a small but growing number of liberal Orthodox rabbis who are pushing back against this trend and want to be more welcoming to converts.

In short, you will not find that you are considered ineligible for conversion because of your racial identity. However, in the current, contentious climate surrounding conversion in the Orthodox world, unless you are currently living among and involved with an Orthodox community, it may be difficult, though not impossible, to find an Orthodox rabbi who would be interested in being your guide, while Conservative and Reform rabbis are likely to be more open to your request.

 There are different levels of prayers that carry different types of concerns. With any prayer that fulfills a requirement of the halakha, a non-Jew certainly cannot lead, since the prayer leader is, at least in part, fulfilling an obligation on behalf of those who are gathered. This is something that a non-Jew could not do because he does not share those obligations.

With other prayers there is no precise legal impediment since they do not represent the fulfillment of obligations. Nonetheless, as these have become part and parcel of the standard liturgy, they have become part of what we assume to be mandated when we talk about reciting daily prayers. We still think of the person leading prayers such as kabbalat shabbat as a shaliach tzibbur, a representative of the community. So leading such prayers is tantamount to leading the community prayer service, and I would consider it improper for a non-Jew to lead these parts of the service as well.

The gray area for me is in reciting non-liturgical prayers – English readings and the like – that we may incorporate into a service but are not fixed parts of the liturgy. Here in principle there is no legal relevance one way or the other to who leads such a prayer. Thus it becomes entirely a question of ethos and judgment, which may differ from one community to the next. Many authorities suggest that preserving the sanctity of the prayer service requires that no non-Jew ever lead a prayer. If there is occasion for a local official, clergy from another religious community, or some other non-Jew to address our community, these rabbis would argue that this must happen outside the framework of a service, even if we allow it in  the sanctuary.

For others, though, the mere notion of a non-Jew participating is not inherently problematic – the struggle is tied much more to whom we permit to participate. The biggest struggle is about the non-Jewish half of intermarried couples who often wish to come up to the bima (podium) for the parents’ aliya at a bar mitzvah or in some other way actively participate in a family simcha (celebration). Here there are two problems, both concerned with perception: we may be concerned that doing so suggests a kind of communal acceptance/embrace of intermarriage which we want to avoid; and allowing this creates a problem of marit ayin, of giving the false impression that the person is in fact Jewish since they are members of the Jewish family we are in fact celebrating. This is especially a problem since they have been members of a Jewish family for some time and have actively chosen not to convert. So the strength of the opposition comes largely from the problems of this case.

This leaves room, in my opinion, to be more open to allowing participation when such problems of perception are absent. Allowing visiting clergy to offer a greeting or even benediction appropriate to a synagogue does not risk confusion as to that person’s religious status. Giving someone studying for conversion the chance to participate in a marginal way could serve to applaud and embrace their efforts and process while preserving a clear distinction between Jewish and not yet Jewish. These could be opportunities to be inclusive without the blurring of boundaries between “in” and “out” that are essential to our own self-definition.

It seems unnecessary to moralize about the evils of pornography or how much Judaism values intimacy. Instead, I want to focus on the terminology we use to talk about this kind of conflict. You use two terms to describe what your partner has done – infidelity and betrayal. So if we are to speak about this through the lens of Jewish Law we have to understand what we mean by these terms.

The key question is whether you are thinking of these terms in a legal sense or only an ethical one. Infidelity in a legal sense generally refers to a violation of legal vows made between partners in a marriage. That is, it is only marriage that creates a legally significant sexual commitment that we can even speak about being violated. This is the actual text of the blessing that begins the wedding ceremony – we become absolutely forbidden to all others and permitted to our spouse. We often talk about “cheating” in the context of other committed relationships, but this is a violation of a promise, of a personal pledge, rather than any legal obligation.

Secondly, the force of this legal prohibition is specifically about sexual intimacy with another partner outside of the marriage, essentially adultery. While other types of betrayal may feel like violations of the bond of marriage, they do not rise to the level of actual adultery with another partner. The reality is that pornography, as distasteful as it is, does not involve a physical and emotional bond with another person which displaces the marital relationship.

What I sense is really at the heart of your question is how angry you have the right to be over what your partner has done. This is ultimately a question of how you feel about it and cannot be answered by a stranger, but here is how I would approach it. There are two separate issues here: pornography and betrayal of trust. You imply in the question that a partner watching pornography is not in its essence equivalent to actual adultery – it is an egregious violation specifically because you so clearly expressed your feelings about it at the beginning. So we are left with two points of crisis. One is that your partner knowingly engaged in a practice that he knew was deeply repugnant to you, and failed to show sufficient respect for your moral judgment to allow himself to be guided by it. The second is the deep and corrosive damage done by an extended period of deception. The years of deceit and lies have eroded the sense of trust and safety that you can feel with him, and trust is the bedrock of any healthy and fulfilling relationship.

So the bottom line answer is this. In a legal sense, adultery and pornography are two separate realms. But I doubt that this sense is relevant because I assume that no legal issues hang in the balance. Rather, the question is how deep a sense of betrayal you are justified in feeling at this discovery. It seems to me that an apology and a promise to do better would hardly suffice to convince you to move beyond this crisis. And so you are left asking yourself some difficult questions. Is there anything you could imagine your partner doing, any process of teshuva, that would convince you that he has made a real renewed commitment to full openness and honesty in your relationship? And if he did agree to such a process, can you imagine yourself reaching a place where you can once again feel a deep sense of trust, where you can be as open and unreserved with him as you have a right to be in, hopefully, a lifetime partnership? It is, in the end, less about how egregious the betrayal was than what kind of healing there can be for your sacred bond of love.

This is an interesting question. There is nothing inherently problematic about making a commitment to abstinence until marriage. That is itself a very positive choice and indeed is the expectation of the Halakha. It is also, as we know, a very difficult commitment to make in contemporary society in which multiple societal factors push hard against such a position. One of the ways that we reinforce our tradition’s expectations of proper behavior, especially when those expectations diverge from what is happening around us, is through positive social pressure – through creating sub-communities of religious values in which these expectations are the norm. So the principle of encourage teens to actively join such a circle fits perfectly, in principle, with Jewish values.

But the very fact that purity rings are symbols of such a circle of commitment means that it would be quite problematic for a Jewish teen to wear one, regardless of its symbols. Purity Rings are an exclusively religious phenomenon, created by a series of fundamentalist Christian groups. More importantly, they are not simply personal accessories. They are symbols of membership in a circle of peers whose intent is to reinforce each other’s commitment to the principle of abstinence. These are precisely sub-communities of shared religious values – of deeply Christian values which extend far beyond the single principle of abstinence. And these groups tend to be not only devout but evangelical, in the sense of feeling a strong obligation to spread the Good News (of Jesus) to those who have not yet accepted it. So wearing such a ring would involve intentionally joining a circle of peers who firmly embrace fundamentalist Christianity and are strongly motivated to convert others.

Even if one has no interaction with such a group, purity rings are unquestionably Christian religious objects, with or without explicit Christian symbols. Think of a Christmas tree, which seems inappropriate for a Jewish home even though many secular people have them – these rings are far more closely associated with a specific religious movement. It also sends a troubling signal to others that the wearer has embraced such a movement, one which could lead others to explore them. I would applaud the principle that the question represents, but would strongly encourage the questioner to look for a less fraught way to express it.

There are a few parts to this question. First, there is certainly no need for someone to eat meals in isolation in order to keep kosher. The Talmud describes the case of guests  at an inn – if there is no presumption that two people are going to share their food, it is fine for them to be seated at the same table, each with his own plate. In fact, it would seem to be a major and unnecessary hardship to try to do so. If meals are a primary opportunity for social connection in a situation that is otherwise quite isolating, it would be unfortunate if an inmate’s desire to observe Jewish law were a cause for deepening that disconnect from others.

With regard to the questions about types of serving dishes and utensils, that should be taken care of in the process of the prison offering those meals. Generally any kosher meals brought into an institution from outside (like airline meals) are sent with specific instructions for reheating and with the necessary cutlery etc. If there is a problem with how such things are being provided, there are rabbis who deal with ensuring proper provision for Jewish inmates who can be called upon to help. In a situation where the inmate is not given access to kosher food, there is a different and somewhat more complex set of considerations with regard to deciding what can be deemed reliably safe from a kashrut perspective.

The third thing to understand is about the relationship between kosher food and other ritual obligations. It is without question appropriate for someone to wear a kippah when praying and eating at least, if not all the time. It is also an important Jewish principle that one should not use and enjoy the riches of our world, and particularly food, without thanking God by saying blessings. However, these practices are unrelated to the kashrut status of the food. This is important for two reasons. First, if there is an individual who requests kosher food but does not put on a kippah, this does not invalidate the kashrut of the food. One may not be denied access to kosher food because she does not follow other practices. Second, thanking God for one’s food is required any time one eats. The fact that certain food was not prepared under kosher supervision does not change the fact that it is part of God’s bounty. It is NOT the case that you may not recite blessings over non-kosher food if you are in a situation where you have no other food options.

The food brought to the shiva house is for the benefit of the mourners. There is nothing inherently significant about a particular house. Therefore the food that is brought can be taken to wherever the mourners go.

The only concern I would have is practical in nature. If some members of the family (presumably your brother’s family) are remaining in the first location, you should make sure that enough food is left there for their needs – people have already brought food there and will assume that they are taken care of. With that caveat, though, there is no problem. In fact, the food people have provided is even more important in this case, since you may need food as soon as you get home and your own community will not yet have had time to bring anything.

The concept of or lagoyim has always been a complicated one for the Jewish community, both in terms of how we see ourselves and how others see us. It is essentially an offshoot of the broader idea of Chosenness, the idea that Israel was somehow chosen by God to have a special relationship with God and a special role in the world. In Exodus 19 God declares us to be a mamlechet kohanim, a kingdom of priests. Priests, for the Bible, are those members of a community who are imbued with greater holiness and serve as mediators between God and the larger group. We also have a story about why God would do this if God is indeed the Creator of the whole world. God tried to have a relationship with all of humanity, first naturally (Adam and Eve), and then through a Covenant (Noah), but each time ended up let down and betrayed. So God turned to a specific individual, Abraham, and appointed his descendants to share God’s love with all of humanity and essentially to be God’s emissaries to the world.

Thus the Torah sees the laws that God gave Israel as the height of wisdom and righteousness. Other nations, it says, will see how we follow the Torah and say, “That is truly a wise and understanding people.” (Deut. 4:6) In other words, key to the idea of our being Chosen is that God gave us the Torah and that, by observing the Torah, we are to demonstrate to the world that the greatest wisdom is to be found in drawing close to God and God’s teachings. This is the core of the idea that we are meant to be a Light to the Nations, or lagoyim. We are to show the world through our actions what God is about and to model for them the kind of uprightness that God truly desires from God’s creatures, i.e. humans.

This is clearly both a blessing and a curse. It is a privilege to be invited to be God’s inner circle, as it were, to be given a detailed blueprint for how to live in intimate closeness with God. But it is also a heavy burden. The idea of or lagoyim is a major focus of the Prophets largely in the negative – the consequences of failing to follow the Torah, in both its ritual and ethical dimensions, goes far beyond the damage to our own spiritual well-being. By sinning we destroy the connection between God and the world; we give the world exactly the wrong understanding of what it means to be close to God. The Prophets are in large part the authors of the idea that it is not enough for Israel to be as moral as other nations; we are to be held to a higher standard because we represent what humanity could be if, as Isaiah envisions, all nations turned as one to reach out to and serve God.

On the other hand, the idea of being an or lagoyim also carries with it the opposite danger, of becoming overly certain of our own righteousness. Rabbinics texts are full of statements disparaging other nations and depicting them as steeped in violence and immorality. Some of this surely reflects their own experience of the world - their most common interactions were often with foreign soldiers who were prone to abuses. But it also reflected the belief that the theology of Chosenness leads directly to the idea that the Torah is an inherently superior law source and that Jewish law by definition reflects the most perfect way to live in the world. Whatever we as Jews are doing, the rest of the world should be watching and seeking to imitate it. That they do not do so shows that they either cannot recognize Righteousness nor are simply not interested in it.

These two views of the meaning of being an or lagoyim have been expressed in various ways throughout Jewish history (and in Christian communities that have adopted this language), and can be seen prominently in our own world. On the one hand, we are continually wracked with anxiety about how we are perceived by others – any misdeed by a Jew is not just about him but is a shanda fur die goyim (a shame before the nations). On the other, most rabbinic writing of the last century has been guided by the often unreflective presumption that Torah is the sole source of “correct” morality and that any external sources of moral insight must be shunned as reflective of an inferior understanding of the world. Neither one, I would say, actually gets us so much closer to fulfilling our mission to serve as a moral compass and exemplar to those around us.

Nonetheless, the concept can be both relevant and deeply important to us in the modern world in two important ways. First, it should be a motivator to self-examination, a measure of what we should demand of ourselves as individuals and as a community. The notion that God expects us to model the ideal life of Divine service ought to be a challenge to us, a call to constant self-reflection. An exemplary life is static – complacency tends to be the enemy of goodness. True morality is a product of constant striving, of endlessly seeking ways to grow and to do. It is about clinging to an ideal vision of ourselves that we never reach but always approach. It should be an essential part of our thought to examine and refine even halakha itself, not to reject it but to actually enable it to more closely realize it own ideals. If instead of smug certainty we approached our own tradition with the critical eye of the Prophets, we would help it to grow more fully into the moral beacon it was intended to be.

Second, it is crucial to the sense that Jewish peoplehood is worth investing in and guarding. The Jewish community has for decades been asking how to ensure “Jewish continuity”, but we have terrible trouble explaining why. The most compelling answer is that we are the custodians of Torah, of a deep a rich tradition that has things of great import to teach the world about how we as mere mortals can strive to walk in God’s ways. This may be the true secret of Chosenness – the opportunity to continuously search Torah for the profound insights that can help to build a more perfect world.