This weekend, I will lead Shabbat services at a synagogue for the first time in months. It’s a synagogue I almost served as spiritual leader. Just as we were about to sign a contract, the previous rabbi indicated he might want to return.

It took the congregation a few days to sort things out. In that time, I was offered the position I now hold. The following week the synagogue did offer me the job, but I politely declined. Their rabbi decided to return in the fall, and I helped the congregation recruit several rabbis to cover services over the summer.

In the end, everyone—the rabbi, the congregation, and I—made the right decision. Everyone is pleased with the outcome. I’m glad to be stepping in this weekend because they are a wonderful community. And I’m even more grateful that I chose to become a full-time educator instead of a pulpit rabbi.

Some people have told me it was God’s plan that brought me here. That’s hard for me to accept. While the circumstances may feel like more than coincidence, I can’t bring myself to believe they were part of a divine design.

Still, as I read this week’s Torah portion, I found myself wondering: What does God want me to do? Does God guide my choices? More importantly, do I ignore God’s will at my own peril?

The portion, Eikev, is clear:

“Therefore, if you give heed to these judgments, and keep, and do them, then the Lord your God will keep with you the covenant and the mercy which He swore to your fathers. He will love you, bless you, and multiply you. He will bless the fruit of your womb, the fruit of your land, your grain, your wine, and your oil, the offspring of your cattle, and the flocks of your sheep, in the land He swore to your fathers to give you.” (Deuteronomy 7:12–13)

The passage continues by listing blessings for those who obey God’s laws—and, just as vividly, curses for those who do not. I’ll spare the details, but suffice it to say: it isn’t pleasant.

I take Judaism seriously, and I take much of the Bible seriously as well. But I cannot bring myself to believe in those extremes—neither the promises of endless reward nor the threats of terrible punishment.

For me, God is not an invisible micromanager assigning individual fates: “She’ll get cancer; he’ll trip and break his leg, then marry his nurse; that one will have an uneventful day; this one will land her dream job.” That image feels both absurd and unworthy of the Divine.

Can I explain the chain of events, decisions, and circumstances that brought me here? No. Until late in life, I never imagined I’d become a rabbi. Yet it happened, and I am deeply grateful.

Did God have a hand in it? Does God care whether or not I believe? I don’t know.

Here is what I do know: My relationship with the Divine, and with Judaism, gives my life meaning. It sustains me in hard times and fills me with joy in easier ones. It is essential to who I am.

So I have chosen not to worry about the “how” or “why” of God. Those questions are above my pay grade. I’ll leave them to others and continue, as best I can, to live as my highest self—even with my flaws and imperfections. I don’t think God will mind.