My Place In This World

I've always questioned Authority in all its forms - but I haven't always been skeptical, really. A true skeptic has good reasons to withhold belief, and a critical mind. I didn't have a critical mind. I didn't know how to be critical. I believed virtually everything anyone said to me. If someone told me they'd seen ghosts, or demons, or angels, I believed them - I only wondered what it meant. I had a suspicion that it didn't mean what they said. Maybe it did - I just didn't know. I withheld belief out of ignorance - I didn't know how to evaluate extraordinary claims. I felt that there should be a way to think about outrageous claims without going around in mental circles. I felt like I was going in circles all the time, with no way out.

I had listened carefully to the sermons preached at my home church growing up, to televangelists, to friends, and to Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses who came to my door. I even listened patiently and debated half-heartedly with suited evangelists handing out tracts at the mall. I envied them a little bit. They understood exactly where they were and what they were supposed to do.

I had tried reading the Bible, prayer, transcendental meditation, and even Yoga. Some moments, I felt like I was on the verge of something important. For instance, there were times I felt as though I was floating a few inches above my chair while I was meditating. But whatever my experiences, I never knew what to make of them, really.

In the summer of 1996, I was depressed. Perhaps I've always been depressed, but at this point I was having a melt-down. I was painfully aware of mortality, and not just my own. I was thinking about pets, friends, and relatives who had died. Everyone dies. No one makes it out of this life alive. Furthermore, everything we do and build eventually crumbles into dust. Looking back at the events of my life that held the most significance for me, I found that they all involved heartache and death.

I was a complete and dismal failure. I had failed at college. I had failed to be a good son, a good brother, a good friend. My job, neither prestigious nor high-paying, had been a source of daily frustration for five or six long, tedious years. I had failed to make my life amount to something. This, despite everyone around me telling me that I had wonderful 'potential.'

I had even recently attempted, and failed at, a career of crime. After eighteen months of training and planning, I backed out of it. Years later I recognized that I had done something right and good, but at the time it just felt like I was weak. That's probably because my would-be partner in crime - my best friend, by far the smartest, most ruthless person I have ever met - didn't have a lot to do with me after I reneged. And as if that weren't enough, around the same time my long-time live-in girlfriend left me.

And I had recently taken in a homeless kitten and it died. (Seriously. I am not making this up! I took her to the vet the day after she came to be in my care, because she was lethargic and not very 'kittenish' at all. The vet said she was dying from malnutrition and dehydration, and that she would most likely not live. He offered to put her on an i.v. and monitor her, but the expense would have been astronomical. He said it probable wouldn't change the outcome. I did everything I could, made food and water available to her, and had a friend visit her while I was at work. The kitten only slept, did not seem to be in pain at all, and passed quietly away after about three days. Her name was Jasmine.)

Abject, lost, and alone, I needed someone or something. I couldn't bring myself to talk to anyone about my feelings because of the shame I felt. I was a little bit self-destructive, had been smoking for a couple of years, and berated myself for it, too.

One night, I fell to my knees in the middle of my apartment. I was tired and sick and alone, and sick and tired of being alone and leading a meaningless life. I didn't like myself and I didn't like my life and I didn't know how to hold on anymore. I had always talked to God - I just wasn't sure that any God was there to listen. This time, I was desperate. I managed to come to faith - a real belief! - because I bought in to the notion that life can't have meaning apart from belief in God. I wanted my life to have meaning, so desperately. Afterwards, I felt better.

Even so, I had to investigate. Who was this God person, anyway, and why did he make it so that life was so hard? In short order, I decided to follow the path of Christianity, because I felt that Christian teaching had at least one thing right: if God was all-powerful and created everything and life has meaning then God created life for a reason. Having a reason implies having a motivation or desire, which implies having some sort of character. God must be a personal God, as I had always been told. I had reservations still, but I ignored them, thinking Christianity would be a good starting point at least, and I would learn more as I went along.

Then , Michelle called me. Michelle, a long-time friend, was different from anyone I'd ever met. Our conversations were typically infrequent, and we hadn't spoken in a long time - maybe six or eight months. She didn't know that I had broken up with my girlfriend, and I didn't know that she had broken off her engagement. I had loved Michelle since we were teenagers. I had not pursued a deeper relationship with her only because I knew her faith was so much a part of her life.

Michelle and her family had exhibited a strong faith and were seemingly stable despite having survived trials of unimaginable difficulty. They had always been - not really role models, but people with qualities that I liked and admired. They were often in my thoughts.

Michelle and her family were Messianic Jews. Instead of calling the Messiah 'Jesus,' they called him 'Yeshua,' which is a pronunciation which is closer to the original Hebrew. I visited their synagogue several times, and felt very much at home there, despite the fact that the worship style and general atmosphere were different from anything I had experienced before.

One day, the rabbi led a special prayer. While the congregation had their heads bowed, he asked for a show of hands from anyone in the congregation who felt a particularly strong burden and were in need of God's forgiveness. He asked everyone to keep their heads bowed, and assured us all that no one would see whose hands were raised. I felt that I should raise my hand. I peeked, and didn't see any raised hands. I immediately felt guilty for spying during a - well, sort of a private moment.

The Rabbi said, "I see your hand raised. And yours, yours ...." Something within me broke. I needed forgiveness. I needed assurance that my life was going to be okay. I raised my hand.

The Rabbi told us that we had agreed to let Yeshua into our hearts, and he led us in a confessional prayer. I had been to similar Christian services and been unimpressed and unaffected. This time, it was different. I prayed honestly and unreservedly. The moment I began, tears started flowing down my cheeks. I prayed that Yeshua would come into my heart. I felt a palpable, physical tingling feeling, like a wave flowing up and down my body, centered in my chest. I got saved right there late on a Saturday morning in front of a fold-up chair in a Messianic synagogue in New Jersey.

Within a few short months, I asked Michelle to marry me, and she agreed immediately. Half a year later, and it was done. The service was gorgeous (we still receive positive comments on how beautiful it was.) We incorporated Christian and Jewish elements, and it was co-officiated by Michelle's rabbi and my dad, who is a pastor.

When I confirmed what I had already suspected - that I too was Jewish - well, that was even better.

I began studying the Bible in earnest. I started reading all the religious materials which I had dismissed previously out-of-hand - creationist literature, for instance. I was taken by surprise by the seeming reasonableness of their criticisms of science and the scientific community. I started to accept the Bible as being authoritative, and came to see much of society through a fundamentalist lens .... I also studied Hebrew and Jewish thought.

Yes, I thought I had a good handle on things. We moved to the South and I returned to college, albeit late (I was twenty-seven at this point). This time I was successful. I intended to get my philosophy degree with a minor in religious studies, and prove to myself and everyone else that I was capable and thoughtful. I had a deep, deep need to figure things out, because I was still trying to figure out who this God person really was. I still had a lot of unanswered questions. Eventually, I decided I would be a Rabbi so that I could devote my life to finding the answers, and help other people find the answers they needed.

It was hard work. I worked full-time and went to school full-time. We started a family and Michelle stayed at home. We were active in a small local synagogue and a small non-denominational church. We had health problems. Looking back, I don't know how we did it all ... but this is a story that will be continued another day ....

(... To Be Continued ... (... or not. I know, I know, I said I wasn't going to be doing this anymore. Who thought that was going to last, really? Well, maybe this post will be the last post. (I mean it!)))