A Mother's Grace

The Spirit of Christmas

Each Advent, members of my theology class at church bemoan the vast commercialization of Christmas. Complaints like, "They start putting out Christmas stuff before Halloween is even over!" are accompanied by the observation that the birth of Jesus is lost among Santa, wish lists, and the frenzy to buy, decorate, cook, and buy some more.

Where God Dwells

I love ritual (I guess the Holy Spirit knew that when we were pushed toward the Episcopal church). In a recent conversation with some Christian friends familiar with Jewish worship, they speak of being drawn to Judaism's rich traditions and rituals. Of feeling connected to God when lighting Sabbath candles, and their awe over the sacred beauty of the Passover meal. I feel strange during their exchange -like somehow I should relate to what they are saying more than I do. It occurs to me that, if these friends did not believe in Jesus, they could happily practice Judaism.

Real Presence

I have been having a spiritual fantasy lately. One in which I enter a dim, quiet church. I kneel to light candles and offer prayers. I sit in a pew in silence. I pray. There is quiet ritual among the clergy, broken by the biblical recitations - first the Hebrew scriptures, then the New Testament, and then bowing to the cross for the Gospel readings. The fantasy is in response to a recent spiritual longing I feel in reaction to our traditional church service. I am no longer completely fulfilled by church and want to reach toward God in new and different ways. God is pushing me beyond what I have become most comfortable with. Right now, I can feel God most while reading the Bible, listening to Christian music, and during Communion. My style of prayer has changed from an incessant list of concerns to leaving more space to quietly listen for God. This does not mean I will leave church, I know I need its rituals and rhythm. But I also recognize my desire to expand.

All Your Mind

I often wear signs of my faith - a Rosary bracelet, or a cross necklace. I notice others observe my religious adornment. I wonder what they think? There must be conclusions already made about who I am, what I believe, and whether I am "judgmental" or not. I remember all too well the silences that met news of my conversion. This is the reaction of many of my friends. Especially my grad school cohorts. Into the silence I read this message: studying religion is commendable, but being religious is not. How could I, their intellectual equal, trade in my intelligence for faith?

Messianic Judaism

Aspects of Judaism made me uncomfortable. But, ultimately, those things were not at the heart of my conversion. The inescapable fact was that Jesus haunted me;* demanding my consideration.

My graduate work in Tampa ultimately led to my study of Messianic Judaism. I first read about this religious movement in Tampa Jewish Federation’s newspaper. An article about Messianic Judaism discussed their basic beliefs and talked about it as a missionary threat to Judaism.

The article said Messianic Judaism split off from Jews for Jesus to form their own congregations. Memory brought images of Dayla and Nathan flooding back to me. Fascination engulfed me, and I pushed aside all the assignments and term papers that needed attention. Instead, for several hours, I read as much as I could about the Messianic movement.

Then I flipped open the the Yellow Pages and my eyes fell to a small ad for Dalet Shalom Messianic congregation. I translated the name in my head: door of peace. Fine print listed the hours of services. With astounding certainty, I not only knew I had to go to their next worship service, but that this would be my doctoral dissertation topic. Though I did not realize it, another piece of my spiritual journey fell into place.

Dalet Shalom was relatively small, made up of approximately sixty regular attendees. At the time of my study, the synagogue was located in a small, white house converted into a sanctuary and office area. Rumor had it that the house used to be one of prostitution, but I was never able to officially confirm that. Still, this information circulated among congregants and they spoke proudly of how their presence spiritually cleansed the house of past impurities.

The first time I arrived for a Friday evening service, I sat in the front seat of my Dodge and observed people entering the house. The lot was just a gravel clearing, and vehicles parked haphazardly wherever they liked. People happily greeted one another with hugs. Anticipation coursed through me. But my bravado waned a bit when I considered the inevitable questions about my research they surely would ask. Finally, I decided it was safe for me to enter. I got out of my car and approached the sanctuary entrance.

My eyes took in lots of red; from the carpet to various wall hangings. A man with a pile of programs in the crook of his arm smiled warmly at me. “Shabbat Shalom!” he said as he took my hand, “you are new,” this was more of a statement than a question.

I nodded, “Yes.”

He placed a program in my hand. “Welcome! Have a seat and make yourself at home,”

Relief met the usher’s lack of inquiry about my presence there. I paused and looked around the room. Sixty or so folding chairs encircled three sides of a raised platform with an altar and Ark, the wooden cabinet that housed Torah scrolls. Colorful banners hung on all the walls, with the names of the tribes of Israel spelled out in glittery letters.

People stood talking with one another. As I made my way toward the center of the room, smiles and nods greeted me. I chose a chair and sat just as the sounds of soft, contemporary-style music began to filter through the sound system. I looked at the program. Announcements for Hebrew lessons, women’s Bible study, and Israeli dance classes filled the pages.

More curious, but friendly glances were thrown my way as seats filled with adults and children. Almost nobody looked older than fifty, and there were many children. This boded well for the congregation’s vitality. Surprisingly, no direct questions were posed to me. Disappointment now tinged my reprieve, weren’t they the least bit interested in me?

The music’s volume increased, and a man’s voice filled the speakers, carried on soft guitars and gentle melody. “O God, Father in heaven and earth . . .” The song sounded familiar to me. After a couple of verses, I recognized it as a Christian Contemporary tune, though I couldn’t imagine where I heard it before.

I looked back down at the bulletin in my hands. A picture of a couple graced the back page. Small print below the picture identified them as Rabbi Aaron and Rebecca Levinson. They looked to be in their fifties. When I read further I learned that the Rabbi and his wife were both Sephardic. I searched my mind for what I knew about the Sephardim. They were Jews, or descendants of Jews, from Mediterranean, North Africa, the Middle East, and Latin American countries. The Sephardic community had many different customs and practices from the majority of U.S. Jews who were Ashkenazi (descended from Europe and Eastern Europe).

Because of the photograph, I immediately recognized Rabbi and Mrs. Levinson when they entered the room. Short in stature, the Rabbi’s grey suit looked expensive, and it was expertly tailored to his frame. He had a full head of grey-white hair and a closely cropped beard. My attention turned to Mrs. Levinson. I first noticed the long, curling tendrils of her dark brown hair. This provided a dramatic frame for her small face. A blouse and long skirt draped her in brown and sparkling gold.

Everyone stood, so I followed suit. Many began to sway to the music, and some raised their arms up, hands stretched heavenward. I swayed to the music as well and observed at the same time. More Christian Contemporary Music plus some songs with Hebrew words continued to play. People sang along, and some cried. The music slowly increased in tempo until, at its most animated point, the congregants danced, playing tambourines and performing Israeli circle dances. Dancing feet glided across the room and the women’s skirts billowed like sheets in a breeze. Women and men did not dance together.

The outpouring of emotion through song and dance mesmerized me. Unexpectedly their worship style did not offended me, instead the honesty of their spiritual expression moved me. An other-worldly quality came over the entire room, and I felt completely removed from the world right outside the front door.

The music shifted to a slower tempo, but only for one song. Then, the Rabbi picked up a microphone in place on the platform. A Spanish-accented voice reverberated through the sound system. “We are in the end of times!” I thought it odd that no real transition marked the movement from worship to sermon. Discomfort at his words rose in my chest. Would this be a repeat of my long-ago conversations with Sheri in Kansas?

People around me picked up Bibles, pens, and notepads. I had never been at a worship service where people followed along so closely and took notes during the sermon. “You know, some people are not ready for Yeshua’s return.” Yeshua, the Hebrew pronunciation of Jesus. I had not heard that since my college days. “But whether we’re ready or not, it’s going to happen! At any moment, in one split second, BAM!” the Rabbi paused dramatically, then continued in a stage whisper, “People will vanish. And those left behind will wonder what has happened, where is everyone? Those are the people who thought they could wait to embrace Yeshua, who kept putting off religion, or who never believed.”

“Praise Yeshua!” Some called out. “Hallelujah!” Others yelled.

I groaned internally at his message. I get defensive when others spek of the resurrection as a time of terror and chaos, and a time of exclusivity. How I wished the sermon contained the joy and expressiveness of the singing and dancing part of the service.

“Small signs are all around us. Our dependence on computers is just one example. Think of how much companies and the government knows about you based on computer records. It would be so easy for them to control you, me, everyone this way! You might ask, ‘So what? What does this have to do with the second coming?’ But look at Revelations! This is all predicted right there on those pages. Revelations 13:17 tells how the Anti-Christ will control what you can buy and sell. Think of how easy that is today with credit cards.” Rabbi Levinson paced around on the platform. “But think of how much pain and suffering you can be spared.” He stopped walking and looked at the congregants. His eyes rested first on one section of folding chairs, then the another, and then another. “There is one way to save yourself. One way. The way, the truth, and the life. Give Yeshua the reigns, the power and control should be His.” He placed the microphone back in its stand with a final, “Amen!”

“Amen!” voices replied in unison.

Mrs Levinson came up on the stage and took the microphone. “Praise Yeshua!” Once again, the room was flooded with Amens. Soft music began to play and people stood, many raised their hands in the air. “If you feel Yeshua calling your name, please come up here, and we will pray with you. We will help you find his embrace as your Lord and Savior.”

After two women were prayed over at the altar, the Rabbi once again took the microphone. “May the Lord bless you and keep you. May He make His face to shine upon you. May the Lord lift up His countenance and give you peace. In the name of Yeshua the Messiah, Amen.”

People gathered their belongings and talked boisterously. I looked at my watch and was startled to see three hours had passed. When I looked up, the Rabbi’s wife stood before me, her face creased in a smile. “Shabbat Shalom! I am Rebecca. Welcome to Dalet Shalom.” She took my hand in hers and looked into my eyes.

I returned her smile. “Shabbat Shalom. My name is Leigh.”

“So nice to meet you, Leigh. What brings you here?”

I inhaled deeply. Here we go I thought. “I am in graduate school at the University of South Florida. I am thinking about doing some research here.”

“That’s wonderful!” She exclaimed. “What a gift to share how the Lord is working here.” I hadn’t considered that they may be open to my research as a method for spreading the gospel. “That’s a beautiful star of David,” she pointed to the necklace I wore.

I fingered it. “Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

“How nice! So you are Jewish?”

“Yes.” I replied.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways. I am sure you’re here for a reason.” Thankfully, before I needed to respond, someone waved to get her attention. "It’s wonderful to meet you. Maybe you should set up an appointment with the Rabbi so you two can talk.”

“Definitely. Nice meeting you!” I called after her as she walked away. I slipped out the door and carefully made my way across the gravel back to my car. Ensconced in its safety, I could not maintain control of the millions of thoughts and questions that bounded through my head at that moment. I sat bolt upright in my seat and tried to focus my concentration. I exhaled and said, “Wow.”

* I want to thank my friend Jane for suggesting the idea of Jesus "haunting" us.

This Thing Called Christianity

I thought I knew a lot about Christianity. I spent most of my adolescent years in Wichita, Kansas. Wichita appeared to be the headquarters of protestant Christianity. People quite openly discussed their own salvation and inquired after my spiritual status as well. I never knew how to address their questions. After all, I did believe in God. But I knew they were asking specifically about faith in Jesus, a conviction I did not share with them. One memory, in particular, surfaced when I thought about being Jewish in Kansas.

I was one of only three Jewish students at my school. One of my good friends, Sheri, felt it was her duty to convert me. Whenever discussions about possible boyfriends and fashion choices waned, Sheri invariably turned the conversation to my “lack of faith.”

“I wish you had come to church with me yesterday,” she said. She stood in front of her floor-length bedroom mirror as she crimped sections of her blonde hair. She invited me to church every weekend. Every weekend I declined.

“Did you have fun?” I asked. I sat browsing Tiger Beat, hoping to come across news about Duran Duran. My biggest dream was that they’d have a concert in Wichita. A dream I knew was unlikely since the only musicians that ever seemed to grace the stage of the Century II Convention Center were country bands.

“Well, it was informative. In youth group they showed a movie.”

“Really?” I perked up. Maybe Judd Nelson made a guest appearance as God or Moses.

“A documentary type thing. Totally good!” Her hair now fell in zig-zag strands. She moved on to applying eye shadow. “It was about the end of the world.” My brown eyes met her hazel ones in the mirror and I gave her a quizzical look. She continued, “You know, when the world ends and Jesus returns. The rapture.”

I tossed Tiger Beat back on her night table. “What are you talking about?” I sighed with exasperation. Even though I never had a clue about the religious concepts she brought up, she always acted like I should somehow be in the know.

“It’s in the Bible. Revelations and some other places. The movie showed exactly what would happen when the world ends. First, terrible things will happen to everyone and the world will be in chaos. The antichrist will sign a seven year peace agreement with Israel. Fire will be sent to earth, probably in the form of a nuclear war, and there will be famine.” She sat on her bed, a serious, slightly fearful expression on her face. “People will disappear before your eyes, people you know, like me. But since you don’t accept Christ, you’ll remain on earth. You and your family will suffer a lot with the destruction, locusts, and other curses sent by God.”

I was completely freaked out. Was what she said true? From the way she spoke, it sounded as if she’d put a lot of thought into the rapture and drew her conclusions based on something sound. I pictured me and my family members suffering in agony while Christians got swept up to heaven in a blanket of peace and light. “Hey, I’ve got to get home,” I lied. I did not want Sheri to see how her words affected me. Quickly, I pulled on my jean jacket and said good bye.

The crisp, fall air whispered of another freezing winter to come. In Wichita, there were barely transitions between the scorching hot summer and bitter cold winter. My nose and ears began to tingle and I picked up the pace of my walk.

Sheri’s words bounced around in my head. I had never considered when or if the world would end. What she described sounded a bit like the nuclear holocaust I saw portrayed in one or two television movies. Except in her version, the entire world was consumed except Christians.

I arrived home where my mother ushered me into the kitchen so she could warm me with hot cocoa. I began to feel better after my first few sips. “Mom, have you ever heard of the rapture?”

My mother turned to look at me. Her brow furrowed slightly and she sat down across from me. “What do you mean?”

“Sheri told me all about what will happen when the world ends.” I filled her in on the details.

My mother rested her chin on her hand and gave me a thoughtful look. “I see. What Sheri’s talking about is from the Bible - the New Testament. Some people believe that’s how the world will end. Not all Christians believe that. And, Jews don’t believe that because we don’t believe in the New Testament.”

I pondered what she told me. “But, then, what do Jews believe about the end of the world?”

“The Jewish faith doesn’t have a clear conception of the afterlife. Different rabbis believe different things about it. Personally . . .”

“I know,” I interrupted her. “You think we just die and that’s it.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, nobody really knows, so I guess anything is possible.”

I am relieved to learn that Sheri does not have a monopoly on the truth. Even though my mother said not all Christians believe in the rapture, it seemed like many of my Christian friends did. In Kansas, people appeared divided between those with the fiery faith of Sheri, and the agnostics. Even after we moved to Florida when I was sixteen, my Christian friends were passionate about their beliefs. Because I did not come across many who held moderate views on religion, I erroneously began to equate depth of faith with degree of dogmatism.

Ritual Feast

My spiritual beliefs bear the indelible mark left by my grandparents. My parents did not practice Judaism beyond celebrating basic holidays. For Hanukkah we lit candles for eight nights and exchanged presents; for Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, my mother fasted until sundown. Once old enough, I fasted as well. When I asked my mother why she fasted even though she did not believe in God or organized religion, she replied, “It’s a custom. Just like many Christians only go to church on Christmas and Easter. I only observe some holidays like Yom Kippur and Passover.” My favorite Jewish holiday, hands down, was Passover. It was celebrated with a symbolic seder, a meal that reminded us of our escape from slavery in Egypt. Passover was the final meal Christ ate with His disciples - the Last Supper.

Often, we visited my grandparents in Florida for this holiday. My sister and I loved trips to Florida. We loved the two-bedroom condominium, decorated in shades of green and blue where we’d escape into the cool air-conditioning after humidity bathed days at the pool. My grandmother spent an enormous amount of time in her compact kitchen, preparing meals for us and talking girl talk with my mother.

“You’ll never believe what Ethel told her. She said she’ll have to car pool with someone else if she wants to get to the movies next week.” Grandma’s quick, expert dicing of onions did not cease during her conversation.

My mother gasped, “You’re kidding!”

My grandmother had boundless knowledge of Margate Condominium's Phase One gossip. I never completely understood who her sources were, but they were clearly good ones.

Finally, the day of the seder arrived. Anticipation hung in the air. My grandmother’s food preparation began at least a week earlier, but was brought to fruition slowly over the course of the day. In the morning, I grabbed a navel orange, plate, and knife and plopped down in one of the kitchen chairs. As I sliced the orange into wedges, I watched my grandmother scrubbing a whole chicken clean.

“Did you get that at David’s?” I asked, knowing she purchased all her meat and poultry at David’s, the small kosher butcher shop in the corner of a strip mall. She and my grandfather followed Jewish dietary laws. Special treatment of meat and poultry, no pork, and no mixing of meat and dairy products were a way of life for them.

“Yes. Now I’m going to season it.” Strong hands, with years of practice, expertly handled the bird. She moved it around while sprinkling generous amounts of salt, pepper, and garlic on it. When she was finished, she stored it in the refrigerator, washed her hands, and dried them on a green dish towel. She ran her fingers through her short, dark grey hair and turned to look at me. “You have to eat more than an orange!” She seemed genuinely distressed that I might attempt to survive on oranges alone.

“Well, I might have matzot,” I said. The Jews leaving Egypt did not have time to let their bread rise, so unleavened bread, like matzot, is eaten the week of Passover.

Relief flooded her face as she removed matzot from a box and pulled out butter, “I’ll butter it for you.” After placing it in front of me, she placed a hand on my head. “I really like your hair long. It’s so nice and shiny!” She ran her fingers through my curls.

“Well, it’s hard to keep curly hair short. It just won’t do anything,” I complained. Changing the subject I asked, “Is Grandpa out for a walk?” My grandfather was known for taking long walks all over town.

“No, he went to synagogue.”

Ah ha. Grandpa walked to synagogue every morning and evening to say prayers. Not until many years later, after his death, did I realize he tied tefillin, leather cases with torah portions in them, to his arm and head during morning prayers. This is a very traditional part of men’s prayer. Now, as an adult, I wish I asked my grandfather more about his religious beliefs. As he prayed, did he sense God’s presence? How often did he talk to God? I yearned to know what his spiritual experiences were. I try to imagine how the conversation might unfold, but my grandfather was a very private man, and may not have been very forthcoming with this information.

I placed my plates in the sink. “Thank you, Grandma,” I said as I exited the kitchen.

The hours of the day folded into one another. My mother spent it helping my grandmother with preparations. Evening neared and aunts and uncles arrived. My grandfather mixed drinks for people as my sister and I set the table and began putting out small serving dishes. Laughter and discussion surged.

His blue eyes twinkling, my grandfather held up his hand for quiet. His attempt was not successful. “Okay, okay,” he waited. “We need to move to the table!” he shouted above the din. Somehow my grandfather actually got everyone to sit at the table, which, to me, seemed almost as miraculous as Moses parting the Red Sea.

My grandfather was in charge of leading the seder. Wine was blessed, and the story of Exodus told. We ate bitter herbs to remember the sting of slavery and salt water to remember our tears. These and other symbolic foods marked the Israelite’s journey to freedom.

My grandparent’s Judaism was what I grew up with. My grandparents expressed their faith in acts large and small. When they chose meat or dairy dishes, or when my grandfather attended morning and evening services. A Judaism of custom and ritual.

If they were alive, what would their reaction to my conversion be? In my heart of hearts, I know my choice would pain them. This feeling of betrayal is one of the hardest parts of becoming Christian.

Seeking God

Had I, right then, answered the vision’s call and run down to the altar to publicly accept Jesus, my story would be more dramatic, and more concise. Maybe I would be worshipping in a Messianic congregation today. But that was not what my journey was meant to be. Instead, I went through the rest of the service that evening, got home, and typed up my field notes like usual. My fingers flew across my computer keyboard. I imagined what it might feel like to see Jesus, imagined how he might reach a hand out to me. I wonder what my own “salvation” would feel like? This became my official version of the vision.

Throughout my life, the Judaism I practiced ranged from nonexistent to observant. I was a seeker, searching for a connection to God. As a teenager, I lit sabbath candles on Friday nights and said prayers until the day of my grandmother’s funeral, when I decided there must not be a God. I did not accept that a loving God would sentence my grandmother to cancer’s pain and devastation.

As my family stood around my grandmother’s coffin, the Rabbi’s words floated across the breeze, and up to the skies. “The cycles of life are mysteries to us. The best we can do is remember those who pass before us, and to notice their reflections in the offspring we bear.” The Hebrew prayers felt empty and hollow to me. This Rabbi had never even known my grandmother. He probably said the exact same thing at every funeral, I silently seethed.

Two years later, I returned to belief at the Hillel Center for Jewish Campus Life at Florida State University. Hillel met in a brick house on one corner of campus. Because it was a house, folding chairs and furniture were used for seating during services. Approximately fifteen people met regularly Friday nights. We often joked that we were, possibly, the only Jewish people in all of Tallahassee. But then, For major services like Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the house nearly burst at the seams with Jewish students.

Short in stature and with a neatly cropped, grey-brown beard, Rabbi Simon led Hillel. “Let’s open with prayer.” Each week, these words marked the beginning of the service.

Opening prayers culminated with the Shema, “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.” These words were said in English or Hebrew by Jews in every worship service on Friday night, no matter where they worshipped, or what form of Judaism they practiced. The enormity of that tradition was breathtaking.

After the Torah reading, Rabbi Simon began his sermon. At the start of the sermon he was seated, running his hand over his beard. “I want to discuss what the Torah tells us about our role as workers for justice. Justice for the less fortunate, the less educated, the people others too often brush aside, or view as unnecessary.”

By this point, he was standing, walking around our small circle with intimacy. “The Torah calls for action. For each of us to take action,” here he paused and looked around, making eye contact with everyone in the room, “For Tikkun Olam. Perfecting the world.” He sat again. “Shabbat Shalom.” Every Friday, his wish for a peaceful sabbath closed his sermon.

I adored Rabbi Simon for his ability to ignite our passions for advocacy. As my participation in Hillel activities increased, I seriously considered keeping kosher. My decision not to was tied to my purely personal belief that, to embrace kosher laws, I needed to practice an Orthodox form of Judaism or it would be hypocritical worship. Yet, as much as the intense requirements of Orthodoxy fascinated me, I could not bring myself to try it. It seemed too structured and too wrapped up in rules and requirements.

Eventually I left Florida State for graduate school in Tampa, and retained Jewish ritual observance, but I never found a synagogue that I liked enough to join. Maybe I am guilty of not giving Judaism enough of a chance. If I had looked harder for a congregation, a community to embrace me and help carry my spiritual needs, perhaps I would have remained Jewish.

The Vision

I’ve never discussed the vision with anyone. The one I tried to dismiss. The one that has haunted me for years. I think the story begins here. With the vision.

There I was, in the midst of a worship service at a Messianic Jewish congregation. Messianic Jews merge Jewish ritual with belief in Jesus as the Messiah. Working on my doctorate, I immersed myself in the congregation for two years. I must confess, I loved the praise and worship part of the Messianic service. Christian Contemporary Music mixed with specifically Messianic Jewish tunes, and people sang and danced with abandon, raising arms, moving bodies, letting their emotions spill forth freely. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before or since. The service was almost Pentacostal in style, where individual feeling and the emotional expression of faith are stressed.

This part of the service always moved me. They explained it as the Holy Spirit, whispering its way through the congregation. At the time, I only partially understood the Holy Spirit, but I sensed what they meant. The room’s energy would become electrified with emotion, noticeably different than its normal state.

I bowed my head in silent prayer, closing my eyes. Was it something the Rabbi said . . . or my own questions . . . I was no longer sure. I began to wonder what it would be like to see Jesus, and to feel Him the way the other congregants did. And then it happened. First an incredible warmth blanketed me. And then I sensed a presence, sensed it close to me, within me, of me, beyond me. I saw a hand reach toward me, inviting me to grasp back. But where would that hand take me? I was not ready to go along and did not reach back.

When my eyes opened again, I felt strangely disconnected. What on earth just happened? And how could I explain it? There I was- a Jewish researcher having visions of Jesus.

You just got caught up in the moment. This is what I told myself that night. And what I said about it in my research. These are the same words I repeated over the course of four years every time I was reminded of that vision. Oddly, the more I tried to bury the experience, the more it asserted itself. Until, finally, I was forced to address what it might mean. Why on earth would Jesus be reaching out to me? I began to think a lot about Jesus and what it would entail for me to reach back. I was not entirely convinced reaching back was something I was capable of.