But something else, much more troubling than a Jews For Jesus poster, had invaded my blissful college life. Early one October morning (the year, once again, being 1973) the door to my room burst open and I was awakened by my dad.
“Get up. They’ve attacked Israel.”
This was the morning of The Yom Kippur War, a day that lives in as much infamy as Pearl Harbor, a day when surrounding Middle East nations attacked Israel unexpectedly, a Holy Day, when Israel would (hopefully) be caught off guard.
Right before my English class, sitting in the back of the room, waiting for our professor to arrive, several of us were arguing about the war: Who was right? The Jews or the Arabs? I’ll bet you can’t guess which side I was on. My point was that after the European Holocaust, the Jews needed a national homeland. (Notice how I knew as little about Israel’s modern history as its ancient history, for I was articulating a naïve simplistic version of her national rebirth.) As it happened, there was a Christian sitting next to me, not the weird holier than thou kind, just an average guy who actually talked in a normal tone and an intelligent manner. So different was he from any past encounter with religious baboons, that he held my attention immediately. The guy (Peter, as I soon learned) had a Bible with him. No, Peter may not have been a typical Christian, but Peter sure did have a typical Bible, leather bound with gold plated pages, you know; the works. He turned to Genesis and showed me the story of Ishmael and Isaac. If you know anything about that narrative, it is the story of the second Jew and (supposedly) the first Arab.
“This is where the Jewish-Arab conflict began,” he said. “Not during World War Two. It’s been going on for thousands of years.”
I was quite taken back. With serenity, and in a down to earth manner, this student was referring to the Bible as if he was reading a textbook full of historical facts.
“Do you really believe all that stuff?” I asked.
With a very sincere expression, Peter replied, “I believe the Bible is the Word of God.”
“You’re kidding. Everything? Adam and Eve? Noah’s Ark? All those fairy tales?”
“Yes everything.”
But he didn’t sound like he believed it. That is, he didn’t sound like he merely believed it. He sounded like he knew the Bible was true. How could that be? How could anyone be so sure?
“How do you know it’s the Word of God?” I challenged. “How do you know it wasn’t just written by people?”
“I know because I have a personal relationship with God.”
“ Oh, you mean you pray. I pray too. So what?”
I was telling the truth. I did pray, not to the God of the Bible but to whatever God might be out there. Although raised as an atheist I had promoted myself to “agnostic” two years prior. There are two kinds of agnostics; the ones who are uncertain as to whether or not any God exists at all and the ones who are convinced God exists but are agnostic as to who this God is. I was the second sort of agnostic. Ironically, this was due to some supernatural occultism that the Bible would actually condemn. Still, God is merciful and I never got involved to the point of becoming enslaved by the demonic. Nevertheless, I did witness first hand, a vivid paranormal phenomenon that could not be explained away. As a result, I had long since come to the conclusion that some kind of God existed but I was clueless as to who He happened to be and I certainly wasn’t expecting Him to be the God of the Bible (See a previous blog, My Brief Time In The Occult).
Peter responded to me. “It’s not just prayer. God speaks to me. Just as he spoke to Abraham or to Moses, He speaks to me.”
Words do not exist to describe what I was feeling. I figured this guy was either a total nut case who belonged in the Looney bin, or he had made the greatest accomplishment of all time. One thing was certain. Peter had definitely ignited my curiosity.
“Just for argument’s sake,” I said, “If I wanted to have this same relationship with God, where God talks to me too, how would I go about it?”
Peter hesitated because he knew I was Jewish. He even squirmed in his seat. His voice was low and cautious. “Actually, the way is through Jesus.”
It turned deathly silent. Neither of us said another word to each other. I went home that night and I thought about all the Jesus people I had met. Never before had I engaged in a meaningful conversation with any of them. It was generally just some invitation to a meeting or some freakazoid handing out tracts. But I came to a conclusion: The Jesus Freaks had something! Oh sure, maybe it was all in their minds! Maybe it was all psychological! But here, in this crazy mixed up world there were people who talked as if they actually knew God!
All my life I had been taught that the one thing I must never do, is believe in Jesus. If I were ever to make such a decision, my father would disown me. Of that, I had absolutely no doubt. And yet, now I was told that if I wanted to meet God, exploring Jesus was the one thing I needed to do!
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