‘Why would you want to convert to Judaism?” exclaimed the rabbi at the synagogue in Marble Arch, “we have all these problems.” “Why would you want to be Jewish?” asked the Parisian Jew at a barbecue last week. “You’re kidding me,” said my lovely and most politically correct Swedish flatmate.

A girl of my age declaring herself a convert to any religion is sure to raise eyebrows. Not just in surprise that she is independently and actively pursuing her spiritual growth, but mostly because a girl of 23 wouldn’t dare talk about her religion in public. Fanaticism has turned religion into the biggest taboo of our generation. It is an absolute conversation stopper.

Of course my friends are shocked by my spiritual conversion. After all, we modern twentysomethings are far too clever to be completely without religion for long, so we’ve simply invented our own. Eating Disorders, Consumerism, Alcoholism, Drug Abuse and Depression are the new religions for a new millennium.

But we need guidance. We need faith, support and knowledge. We need a goal, and most of all we need a faultless role model who inspires us to do our best to reach that goal. Without religion, the only thing that is answering all of those needs is personal satisfaction.

When I was 12 years old, growing up in Conway, a coastal town in South Carolina, I was kicked out of my Southern Baptist church for asking “Why?” “Why did Jesus do that?” “How do you know there is a hell?” “How do you know this isn’t hell?” The same answer was given every time: “Because the Bible says so, Margo.”

The pastor called my parents and told them that I wasn’t allowed to come back until I could be a “good Baptist girl”. When I asked my parents why we went to the Baptist church when there were three churches on the way into town, I was told, “Because it’s closest to our house.” I had to apologise and sit silently through Bible school.

It seemed strange to me that my family could be so blind and methodical when choosing something that was supposed to be so important. As Southern Baptists we were taught not to question anything. The head of the parish and the leader of our services was the pastor and we, the congregation, were his sheep, or the “flock”.

Perhaps, if I had had an educated, intelligent, sophisticated pastor, things would have been different, but as God, or fate, or luck, or all of the above would have it, that was not the case. My pastor was an excited born-again Christian called Terry who lost his leg when working as a coal miner in West Virginia.

Forgive me, but I didn’t trust the man to check my spelling homework, let alone teach me biblical analogies and most certainly not to lead me into spiritual salvation.

This rebellion proved unpopular. On my 16th birthday I came home to find all my belongings lying on the lawn. I was no longer welcome in my parents’ home. I had to leave school and take two part-time jobs to be able to save up enough money to pay rent and graduate.

Socially, I had little choice but to give Christianity another chance. To keep in touch with my friends and to keep hold of what little bit of respect I still had from the people in Conway, I threw myself head first into worshipping at the Methodist church. I was even sponsored for Chrysalis, a hardcore retreat where teenagers have to nail their sins to a cross.

After my brief return to Christianity I knew that it was not the religion for me. And with that small bit of knowledge, I strayed further and further away from the ignorance promoted by the Southern churches.

At 20, I auditioned with the director Michael Winterbottom for the lead in his controversial and sexually explicit film 9 Songs. I wanted people to question their own moral identities as I had. I wanted the audience to ask themselves, “Why don’t I like this?” “Why does this bother me?” I sacrificed myself, so that the audience could find out a little more about themselves. I have found out so much about myself by questioning the simple things around me and one of those discoveries is that I don’t actually have a problem with sex.