I know that I am still Jewish. I don’t use the word “converted” because it implies that I’ve left something behind. I do not feel I have left anything.
I grabbed the New Testament from where I had hid it in the cupboard and opened it. It happened to open to the Gospel of Matthew, chapter one. I was completely overwhelmed when I read the very first sentence: “This is the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah the son of David, the son of Abraham.”
The missionary asked my great-great-grandfather, Hakim, “Did you know that the Messiah you are expecting has already arrived?” and told him that Jesus was the Messiah. Hakim was so upset that he slapped the missionary in the face and threw him out of the synagogue. But that wasn’t the end of the story…
I take comfort in Jesus’ words: “Truly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or wife or brothers or parents or children, for the sake of the kingdom of God, who will not receive many times more in this time, and in the age to come eternal life” (Luke 18:29–30).
Although my faith made for some uncomfortable times with my parents, it also led to some thoughtful and fruitful discussions. And, much to their credit, they never allowed it to rupture our relationship.
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