It is the middle of July, and I am carefully layering sheets of pure gold over the statue of Saraswati that will sit in the centre of my altar. It is a finicky task, and while I’m trying focus my concentration, I suddenly notice a question flashing through my mind: what’s a good Jewish boy doing gilding a Hindu goddess for a Pagan altar? I was raised as a Jew, and phonetically memorized enough Hebrew to stumble through a Bar Mitzvah. But I was never part of a Jewish community, and as I never understood Hebrew, the times when my parents dragged me to a synagogue were leaden painful hours, an experience to be dutifully endured rather than anything that opened onto a spiritual path. For twenty years I would assert that I wasn’t Jewish, because I didn’t believe in any of the theology, and it wasn’t until I found myself teaching a World Religions course, doing research on what Jews believe, that I realised how much of the ethical framework which I embraced was Jewish.