Finding me―and Them

"Practically everything I’ve ever studied about Judaism can be traced back to a tradition. There is a reason everything is done the way it is and the origin is usually a compelling story. That always intrigued me. I was fascinated by how the traditions had been kept alive through centuries, at times compromising life itself. Our family practiced Reform Judaism which is based on choice through knowledge. My sister did not become a Bat Mitzvah until she was in her thirties, while most girls and boys (Bar Mitzvah) go through this rite of passage at thirteen. She did this by choice.. She went to Hebrew school, though, as a child, and learned what is necessary to become a Bat Mitzvah. My sister went of her own free will. I was never inclined to study anything other than what was required to get myself through the public schools. That was hard enough for me and I think my parents knew that. Intellectually getting through high school was not hard, but in those years, because of my ethnicity, my physical ability and maybe being Jewish, I had too many personal issues on my plate.

I am Jewish because I was adopted by a Jewish family. My dad is German-Jewish and my mom descends from Russian Jews. By Orthodox Jewish law, because my biological mother is not Jewish, I am not truly Jewish. I would have had to have been converted and have accepted that conversion at age 13, but I think even without that, if I had wanted to become a Bar Mitzvah, I think I could have in our temple. In my adolescent years I embraced Judaism for good and bad. I liked its sense of uniqueness and cohesiveness and the way it gives you a definite identity. I accepted the stigma that being a Jew brings. By the late 1970s and early 1980s, Jews were not such a minority in Richfield, Minnesota. During the early ’70s, though, mine one of a small handful of Jewish families in the suburb. Once a kid from a very Christian family—the kind whose mouth got a soapy taste when it swore—accused me of killing their savior. That was the first personal attack I remember. I think I took it to heart and really felt the cross Jews bear. I never figured out how the blood of Christ made it from those little wine cups to my hands."

--excerpt from A Lesson from the Shema

"It was a no win testimonial. Both sides needed to be happy, satisfied, sanctified, and redeemed. That’s a lot to ask from within the walls of a dorm room where most impetuously conceived deals with a higher power are made. For such saplings to be rooted requires an expanded mind, one free of contradicting thoughts from a Reform Jewish background.

In the midst of the various inter-campus groups was one called “Jews for Jesus.” It sat at the end of the commons at a table off the path. The Baptists and even the New Agers had more recruits. There was even a group whose philosophy amounted to glorified fascism that aroused curiosity. And then at the end of the hall, like a reprieve from all the other mind games, sat the Jews for Jesus. They claimed that I was half-way there and I was a fool if I did not complete the journey. I assumed “there” meant God and/or Jesus and the tranquility that came from accepting either into your heart. Their logic was simple; Jesus was a Jew and had led his disciples into his faith. One problem: I knew that Judaism pre-dated His teachings by more than 3, 000 years. I thought the whole idea of Jews embracing Jesus was anathematizing. It was sad and did its best to hide a self-righteous ignorance for what Judaism really is—or was.

Still he worked on me. My friend—a true friend regardless of my acceptance of his faith—consented to go with me to hear Jesse Jackson speak on campus. As a reciprocal gesture, I went with him to hear his presidential candidate that year—Pat Robertson. And then one spring night in 1988, my faculties relented. I was worn out and my life was in a tailspin of excessive drink, weekly house parties, and the daunting challenge to one day graduate from college. My friend indulged me, of course, and kneaded my nightly transgressions into loaves of bread he could handle. He prayed with me, and in tones of seriousness I said the standard prayer for beginners in the Book of John 3:16 and I was in the club, I thought."

--excerpt from Power of Prayer