As I struggled to understand him, he stated the words as clearly as he could: “I want to convert”

HEwas confident as he went up for his aliyah. As he said the brachos flawlessly, my mind waxed nostalgic as I recalled our initial meeting more than eight years ago.

Erhan Deri, a Turkish Muslim, speaking heavily accented English, had come to my office. As he sat before my desk, he looked nervous, but also determined.

As I struggled to understand him, he stated the words as clearly as he could: “I want to convert.”

The fact that a non-Jew was sitting across from me inquiring about conversion was not unusual. During an average year, about a dozen people reach out to me regarding conversion. Most are locals who either claim to have always “felt Jewish,” or people who have had exposure to Orthodox Jews. Almost always, their birth religion is a form of Christianity.

The man sitting in front of me had been born in a tiny village in Turkey, where the population is over 99 percent Muslim. This was the first time a Muslim man had reached out to me for conversion.

Needless to say, even without the halachic mandate to dissuade converts from joining the tribe, his Turkish birth, coupled with his Muslim background, certainly gave cause for serious concern and made me hit the pause button.

Yet he persevered.

After doing my due diligence, I decided to give him a chance. As can be imagined — and not without reason — I began to receive weekly calls, emails, and face-to-face warnings from people who were convinced he was some kind of operative.

Yet he persevered.

It took almost two full years. At times I wondered if he would stick with the program. Yet he pushed on, learning diligently with the chavrusas I arranged for him and attending davening regularly. Soon, his gentle nature and kind soul were recognized and appreciated by all.

Finally, on the 5th of Adar Beis 2019, Erhan Deri became Yehudah ben Avraham.

And now I was sharing in his simchah as he received his aliyah. Yehudah has continued to learn and grow, and on this Shabbos, parshas Pinchas, he was celebrating his first siyum. Yehudah and his chavrusa had completed, after more than three years of learning, all of Maseches Berachos.

Normally, one’s family would be there to celebrate with the man making the siyum. However, as Yehudah is still looking for his bashert, and his birth family still resides in Turkey, I knew it was up to all of us at the shul to celebrate this momentous occasion with him.

As I rose to speak, I realized that we are Yehudah’s family.

After relating the well-known insight of the Chofetz Chaim — that all converts trace their roots back to the minority in each nation who voted to receive the Torah but were “out-voted” by the majority, and Hashem orchestrates their “return” — I did something I have never done in almost 30 years at the pulpit.

As I concluded my mazel tov to Yehudah, I announced, “Yehudah, today is your bar mitzvah. And as many a bar mitzvah boy marks the occasion with a siyum, so too, you mark your coming of age with your siyum. We must therefore celebrate as we would at a bar mitzvah.”

I then began a rousing niggun of “Siman Tov U’Mazel Tov.” As the shul sang, I descended from the bimah and embraced Yehudah.

I grabbed his hands, and spontaneously, the entire shul erupted in a spirited and heartfelt rikud around the shulchan. As the singing and dancing concluded, I gave Yehudah one more hug.

With tears in his eyes, he responded in his simple and humble manner, “Thank you, Rabbi.”

As I walked back to my seat, I too wiped away a tear shed with genuine happiness.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1077)