My Messianic story

Once upon a time, a scholar of biblical Hebrew and his wife brought a little girl into the world. The girl grew up learning how to say words like "tree" and "swing" in Hebrew, even though she lived in Texas, her relatives spoke Spanish, and her first real language was English. A few years later, the little girl and her parents welcomed a sister into the world. While the Hebrew scholar continued to teach his little girl Hebrew phrases, he would eventually teach her sister biblical Greek. The family would begin each meal by praying to bless the food in English, Spanish, Hebrew, and Greek.

Unfortunately, the scholar didn't know how to properly show love and affection to people, so he began to treat his little Hebrew-speaking girl like a science experiment. Their relationship became less familial and more academic. The scholar began taking his little girl, when she was about 4 or 5 years old, to visit his Hebrew professor so that he could study her communication and interaction. While the little girl's mother and sister would spend time with other family members, the little girl would play at the university while her father and his professor would try to get her to speak Hebrew and tape-record their conversations. Since these scholars were not the world's greatest teachers, the little girl remained fluent in only English -- while being deprived of learning important social-interaction skills with her family and peers.

As the little girl grew up, she was always surrounded by Hebrew music and literature, even though she could understand only a little bit of it and couldn't read it. The scholar took trips to Israel and would bring back souvenirs such as T-shirts and falafel. He liked to tell the story about how one time the Israelis didn't let him leave the country until he showed them his professor ID. His fluency and pronunciation were that good.

One day, after the little girl had grown up and gone off to college, she met the Ruach HaKodesh (the Holy Spirit), and she made the mistake of telling the scholar and his wife about the gifts that the Ruach had given her. The parents treated the girl as if she had just joined a cult and began to deprogram her. Her relationship with the Ruach was stifled for a time, but He kept wooing her back, and she kept looking for Him... because He made her feel freer than anyone else ever had.

As the years passed, the scholar and his wife grew more and more enamored with the Hebrew language and with the nation of Israel. While the family was planning to gather together one Christmas, the little girl suggested to her family that they play Christmas music together. They agreed.

However, instead of bonding together over music that Christmas, a strange thing happened. The scholar and his wife had taken a trip to Israel earlier that year, and the family seemed very preoccupied with that event. The scholar passed around his camera cards so that the children could download pictures of the trip onto their laptops. Then he presented a slide show of his trip to the family. Then more people arrived to the gathering -- the little girl had never met them before, so they were like strangers to her -- and the scholar presented his slide show all over again... even though one lady seemed more interested in her cell phone than the slide show.

The trip to Israel had completely dominated the Christmas festivities. When the day ended, the family had run out of time, so they did not get a chance to play Christmas music together. As the little girl tried to fall asleep that night -- and as her heart had already begun to feel the effects of the Ruach softening it enough to where it could finally feel some emotions -- she hid her tears from her family.

That Christmas was the last time that she saw her parents.

 

In case you haven't figured it out, the little girl in the story is me. It's a true story. I didn't realize that I had grown up in an emotionally and spiritually abusive home (and there were other types of abuse that would spurt out from time to time) until I was in my mid-30s.

The thing about growing up in an abusive home is that you're constantly in a terrible environment, but you don't know that it's terrible, because it's all you've known. You don't know that it's unhealthy or dysfunctional. As a result, you go through life being attracted to the same type of dysfunction that you grew up with. So, as I grew up, I made friends with abusive people, and I became involved in abusive churches. Some of the unhealthy people that I had befriended were also excessively enamored with Israel, I think to the point of worshiping it.

Meanwhile, I had finally found my church. It's a healthy one that holds monthly services for Messianic believers (Jewish people who believe that Jesus is the Messiah -- just like we Christians do). Interestingly, even though I grew up surrounded by the Hebrew language, I knew very little about Jewish or Israeli culture. A few paragraphs up, I shared a photo of the very first latke that I ever ate (I smeared it with applesauce), which was last month at my church's Hanukkah service.

I'm very cool with hanging out at these Messianic services now, but I didn't used to be.

I started going to them several years ago and finally got to enjoy some live Messianic praise and worship music (which I had been listening to for several years on CD). But when the Holy Spirit started to dig up some of the issues in my heart and really deal with them, attending these monthly services became very hard for me. I thought about how my birth father had used me to learn Hebrew. I thought about the year when Israel ate Christmas. I thought about some of my friends who talked about how Christians should observe the Jewish feasts, and their lives looked good on the outside; but their home was a violent place, and I was trying to distance myself from them.

After I disowned myself from my family, I knew that God wanted me to attend these monthly Messianic services as a sort of family night with me and Him. But there were nights when I was grieving the fresh loss of my family, and the last thing I wanted to do was listen to somebody speaking Hebrew.

Another strange thing happened. I noticed that I was jealous of Israel. I mean, it was bad enough that my birth father liked a foreign language more than he liked me. But for mission-trip memories to completely take over my favorite holiday was just plain wrong. Maybe I was burned out on Israel, or maybe I just plain hated Israel, but I was in a place where I was really beginning to be gut-level honest with God, so I was really dealing with this.

Finally one night, I remember telling Him, "If Israel is Your friend, then they're my friend, too." That was a turning point.

Now I love attending the Messianic services every month. I love speaking a little bit of Hebrew now and then (especially when I can show off a phrase or two, maniacal laughter). Do you want to watch me go to heaven and come back? Sing to me in Hebrew and in Spanish during the same song, and I'm gone.

Since God cleared out all the jealousy, anger, and residue that the abuse had left behind in my soul regarding Israel, I've begun to see my relationship with Jewish people in a newer, cooler way. Since Jesus is Jewish, and since I'm His bride... when I hang out with Jewish people, it's like I'm hanging out with my in-laws. Because I married into the family. I'm not Jewish; I'm a Gentile. (I eat shrimp and pork like a good little Mexican.) I don't understand every aspect of Jewish culture and traditions, but they fascinate me, because that's the culture of my Jesus. That's His family. And it's my family, too.

I've discovered that many Messianic Jewish believers have left their families in order to follow Jesus. They've given up everything, and He has completely taken them under His wing. I can relate to that. 

Recently, I joined the Messianic worship team at my church, and it's such a cool opportunity to be able to serve my mishpacha this way. The first time I sang on the team was on November 4, 2016, which happened to be the 16-year anniversary of my suicide attempt. (Yes, I still celebrate it like a really morbid holiday... because I'm still here!) From what I understand, 8 is the biblical number for new beginnings. So, 16 is like two 8s... I asked God if that number meant anything, and He said that it was like a one-two punch. My singing on the platform on that double-8 morbid anniversary was like God giving the devil two black eyes. Heh, heh. You go, God.

So, that little girl who was oppressed with Hebrew grew up to become a woman who serves with Hebrew. I didn't do that. Only God can redeem something like that. Baruch hashem Adonai!