Jazzed for jesus

Whether you consider yourself Orthodox,Conservative, Reform, religious or not, if youare looking for a personal relationship withGod, please consider the following:

1. God is concerned with every aspect ofyour life.“Can a woman forget her nursing child, andnot have compassion on the son of herwomb? Surely they may forget, yet I will notforget you. See, I have inscribed you on thepalms of My hands . . .” (Isaiah 49:15,16a).

2. You can’t truly experience God’s lovebecause of sin.“But your iniquities have separated youfrom your God; and your sins have hiddenHis face from you, so that He will nothear” (Isaiah 59:2).

3. God provided Y’shua (Jesus) to be yoursin-bearer and Savior.“But He was wounded for ourtransgressions, He was bruised for ouriniquities; the chastisement for our peacewas upon Him, and by His stripes we arehealed” (Isaiah 53:5).

4. You can receive forgiveness of sins and apersonal relationship with God by askingY’shua to reign in your heart.“. . . if you confess with your mouth the LordY’shua and believe in your heart that Godhas raised Him from the dead, you will besaved. For with the heart one believes untorighteousness, and with the mouth confessionis made unto salvation” (Romans 10:9,10).

If you believe these verses and want to followY’shua, there is a prayer on the inside coverthat will help you begin a new life.

ISBN

10:

1-881022-83-8

ISBN

13:

978-1-881022-83-1

By Jhan and Melissa Moskowitz

Edited by Ruth Rosen

A Purple Pomegranate BookPurple Pomegranate Productions

Jazzed for Jesus:Two Jews Meet Their Messiahby Jhan and Melissa Moskowitzedited by Ruth Rosen

© 2008 by Purple Pomegranate ProductionsA division ofCover design and inside layout by Daniel Tasman

All rights reserved. Nothing in this book shall be reprinted or reproduced,electronically or in any other manner, without express written permission.

For more information, including reprint permission, write to:

60 Haight StreetSan Francisco, CA 94102USAwww.jewsforjesus.org

ISBN 10: 1-881022-83-8ISBN 13: 978-1-881022-83-1

TM

TM

“There’s a police officer to see you,” the kibbutznik told me, nodding toa uniformed man. I had not been in Israel long enough to get introuble; still, a momentary fear gripped me. Then, to my astonishmentthe police officer hugged and kissed me. He began to weep as he toldme his name was Kozak. Tearfully he explained that my father hadbeen his brother-in-law, though all too briefly. When the Nazis invadedPoland, they had hung Kozak’s sister, my father’s first wife. My fatherhad never told me he was married before he met my mother, much lessthat the Nazis had murdered his young bride!

I went to Haifa to meet Kozak’s family. As they showed me their city, aman came running toward us, yelling, “Is this Moishe’s son?” Kozaksmiled and said “Yes.” The man grabbed me and kissed me. He toldme how my father had saved his life, and the lives of many others inthe concentration camp. As a tailor, my father had been given extrarations—bread and even potatoes. Rather than hoarding the food forhimself, he had fed others. I will never forget how it felt to learn thatmy father truly was a hero.

Later I asked my father why he never told me these stories. Heshrugged and said that he never meant to hide these things from me;they just never came up. My father was not only courageous andgenerous—he was also humble.

Jhan’s Story

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Some Holocaust survivors tell their children little or nothing of whatthey endured. Some tell their children everything. Either way, wewhose parents survived the nightmare are always aware of the greatprice our people paid, simply to exist as Jews.

When I was about five years old, I crawled into my father’s lap andtouching his arm lightly, I asked, “What is that number?” Withoutflinching, he explained how he had been marked in theconcentration camps, where very bad men treated people likenumbers, not human beings. He didn’t offer much more informationuntil I was older.

Eventually I learned that my father’s education had been limitedbecause only a select few Jews were allowed to attend what wouldhave been his high school. I learned that Passover in Poland was notthe festive time of year I knew as a child growing up in New York,especially when it fell during what the Christians called “HolyWeek,” the week leading up to Easter. It was hard to understand, butapparently people who would celebrate Jesus rising from the dead,just days before their big celebration, would be blaming his death onany Jew they happened to see.

My father’s family stayed behind closed doors as much as possible theentire week. Jews who ventured outside paid the price for theirtemerity. My father explained how the priest would come out of thechurch with a big cross. Children would look at that big cross andthen throw rocks at any Jewish people they happened to see in thestreet, calling them “Christ-killers.” I could envision the big crossand I could imagine children’s voices taunting, full of contempt forme, for my family, for all of us.

Knowing the pain and suffering my parents endured made me feelthat I could not complain about incidental problems ordiscomforts. I always felt that any complaint I may have had wasminiscule compared to what my parents had been through. I came

By Jhan and Melissa Moskowitz 5

home from school one day and, looking in the refrigerator andcupboards, was not happy with my choices. I concluded, “Thereis nothing to eat, let’s go out.” My father said with somefrustration, “There is bread, there is a meal!” The man hadsurvived for so long in a state of malnutrition that if he had eatena full meal the day he was liberated, it would have killed him.How did I dare tell such a man that I was not happy with the foodin our refrigerator?

Anytime I was sick I felt guilty—not because anyone said that Ishould, but because I felt I needed to be strong to defeat any futureNazi plans.

The past was not, in my experience, something that was over anddone with; it often seeped into the present and hung like a questionmark over the future. I wondered, could the Holocaust happenagain? When I visited someone’s home, I couldn’t help noticing thatunder their stairs would be a good place to hide—not from childrenplaying hide-and-seek, but from bad men who might come to takeyou away to a concentration camp.

My parents never suggested that this would happen, but their sharpawareness and vigilance toward non-Jews who might not look kindlyon us was not lost on me. The camps had left my parents with amentality that clearly delineated “us” from “them”—us being the Jewsand them being everyone else.

Despite the strong influence of a pluralistic American society, andthe fact that our home was somewhat liberal, anyone of possibleGerman ancestry was suspect in my parents’ eyes. Once I camehome and told my family I was dating a German girl. She wasactually American, but her grandparents—or maybe it was even hergreat-grandparents—had come from Germany, and they were notJewish. I might as well have announced that I wanted to bring an SSguard home for dinner.

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Despite these undercurrents, I enjoyed my life and my family.

My father, Max, had his tailor shop in the Bronx, New York, where Iwas born and raised. He worked six days a week, twelve hours a dayin two rooms that we could walk to from my house, school andsynagogue. The store had a back room for the steam press, and theentire wall on the right side was an open closet where Dad hung therepairs. In the front was a large window with letters that spelled out“Expert Tailoring.” Inside was my father’s Singer sewing machine,his chair and a counter with an old cash register behind it. On thewall hung a large picture of a Marine unfolding an American flag.

That shop is where I got to know my father. Perched on top of theradiator, I would listen to him for hours. He was the wisest man Iever met, not to mention the best storyteller.

He told me how he grew up outside of Lodz, Poland. Eventually hetold me about his time in the concentration camps—for four and ahalf years he survived several work camps, as well as in Auschwitz.Of course we talked about other things: about history, about beingJewish, about life.

My birth mother died of leukemia when I was six months old. WhenI was two, my father married Lilly, the woman I knew as Mother forover 54 years. She grew up in Maramusha, between Hungary andRomania. Lilly was also a Holocaust survivor and had been almosttwo years in the camps. She kept the house, took care of us kids(Phyllis, my half sister is four and a half years younger than me) andstill managed to help my dad with the business.

My father was a joyous man who almost daily celebrated the fact thathe was alive. He calculated his age from the date he had beenliberated from the Nazis, because it was as though he’d been broughtback from the dead. I found it remarkable that he had learned to loveand to laugh again. He was an amazing testimony to the strength of


the human spirit. Dad taught me to appreciate life and never take itfor granted. Yet the Nazis had stolen so much from him, not the leastof which was his faith.

I grew up attending an Orthodox synagogue, but not because my parentshad a strong belief in God. Like many other Jewish boys, I attendedTalmud Torah (Hebrew school) every day from 3:00 P.M. to 6:00 P.M. fromthe age of five. There I learned Hebrew, Jewish history and Jewishculture, as well as the traditions and obligations of being a Jew.

As a little boy I knew that God was real and I used to talk tohim—mostly when I was in trouble. I knew that God had a part inthe lives of people I read about in the Bible. I loved those Biblestories and I expected God to respond to me as he had done with myancestors. That expectation faded over time.

Each day after Hebrew school, I walked two blocks to my father’s shopand kept him company until 7:00 P.M., when we’d walk home together.

Now right across the street from my father’s shop was one of thelargest churches I had ever seen (though in later years it turned outto be not nearly as big as I remembered it). One December, as I waswalking to my father’s store, I saw a most unusual sight.

There on the lawn of the Catholic Church stood three life-sizedstatues of turbaned men, each carrying a box. Several life-sized cowand goat statues “grazed” nearby. But the focal point was a smallshed, wherein two more life-sized figures, obviously a mother andfather, sat next to a wooden box filled with hay. Lying on top of thehay was a baby doll. Above this entire scene was a wooden sign thateven a seven-year-old could read: “Born Is the King of Israel.”I stopped dead in my tracks.

I might not have known much, but I did know that we (Jews) were“Israel” and they (Gentiles), who attended that church, were not. As

8 Jazzed for Jesus

I tried to make sense of the sign, all I could think was, “The deliverypeople brought this stuff to the wrong address.” Our synagogue wasjust down the street, and it seemed obvious to me that it was ourlawn, not theirs, that should house the King of Israel.

I duly ran to my father’s shop as fast as my legs could carry me andyelled, “Daddy, Daddy! Somebody made a big mistake. OUR king ison THEIR lawn!” In a rush of words and emotions, I explained whatI had seen. My father smiled and assured me that there had been nomistake, and that the baby in the manger did not belong in front ofthe synagogue. That king, he said, was not our king. From then on, Ialways wondered about this strange, strange baby whom Gentilesrevered as the King of Israel while we Jews did not.

I began to wonder about different religions. Some of my playmates wereProtestant; some were Catholic. I asked my father what the differencewas between what we believed and what my friends believed. He toldme a story about three rings. It was something like this:

Once there was a man who had three sons; and he loved these three sonsequally; and the three sons loved their father very much. They all livedin the same house and worked and played together. The father had abeautiful emerald ring that he always wore. But it was more than just aring; it was also the seal of that family. As time went on, the father grewolder and was approaching his death. While on his deathbed, he calledeach of his sons to come and have a private, final word with them.Knowing that each son would cherish having the ring, and knowing thatthere was only one ring to be given, the father had two duplicate ringsmade. Then, when each son came in, the father gave the son with whomhe was speaking a ring and said, “This is my ring, and I love you. Do nottell your brothers that I have given the ring to you, so that you mighthave it as an inheritance and a remembrance of who I am.”

The father passed on, and the sons came together. Each could nothelp but reveal to the others that he was the possessor of the ring. As


each pulled out the emerald ring, the others were amazed that thefather had, indeed, given each of them a ring. But which was the realone? Each insisted that the father loved him more than the other two,and he was the true possessor of the ring.

My father then explained his belief that the various religions are likethe rings, and the brothers are like all people, and the father is trulyour Father in heaven. Each of us claims to possess the true religionand the true love of the Father. My father was trying to say that Godloves all His children and that no one knows what the real or truereligion is. Therefore, no one should be so arrogant as to think thatthere is one true religion. I held this story in my heart, and for manyyears it guided my thinking about God and differing beliefs in him.

Nevertheless, my parents impressed upon me the importance of takingpride in my Jewish heritage. Our “ring” was still to be respected as thereal thing. I attended Shabbat service every Saturday morning for thethree years leading up to my bar mitzvah at age thirteen. For the yearprior to that event, I was a giaby at our synagogue, which meant that Ihanded out tallit (prayer shawls) and siddurim (prayer books) aspeople came in. I also occasionally shushed people who didn’t realizetheir loud talking was distracting others from the service. After theservices, I collected the tallit and prayer books and put them away.

I attended a Zionist youth camp in my early adolescence anddeveloped a strong love and loyalty for the ancient-yet-newhomeland that was born the same year as I was—Eretz Yisrael.After my bar mitzvah, I stopped going to Sabbath services andjoined the teffilin and lox club. One Sunday a month some of uswould lay teffilin* at the shul (synagogue), and then after the

*Laying teffilin is a ritual whereby Scriptures contained in leather boxes are strapped to one’s headand arm as part of the daily prayer service. The ritual is performed in accordance with Deuteronomy6:8: “You shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes,”and Deuteronomy 11:18: “Therefore you shall lay up these words of mine in your heart and in yoursoul, and bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontlets between your eyes.”

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prayers, we’d go down to the basement and have a breakfast of lox(smoked salmon) and bagels.

Joining this “club” was a way of showing that I had crossed thethreshold of childhood and intended to continue identifying with mypeople in a religious and cultural sense. However, I only lasted forabout four months. By then I’d begun to question my religion anddrift into another culture—subculture, really, of “hippiedom.”

I was influenced by Ayn Rand and her book, The Fountainhead, whenI was fourteen. By age fifteen, I saw my Jewishness in terms of aconnection with the Land of Israel rather than the God of Israel, whoseexistence I doubted. I considered myself an agnostic. I began readingSartre, and hanging out with bohemian types. I associated with othernonreligious Zionists and found myself reading Marx and Engels.Some of the people I spent time with started smoking marijuana, andso did I. I became a fan of Bob Dylan and the Beatles, and as theymorphed, so did I.

I graduated from high school and began studying philosophy atLong Island University. One night I was listening to some BobDylan albums with a friend. He was filling my head with stories oflife on the beaches of Eilat, smoking hashish and meeting Danishwomen. I decided I would go to Israel that summer. It was 1967.

The war broke out and the U.S. government banned American citizensfrom traveling to Israel. By then I knew that I had to go, if only to help inthe war effort. I remember talking to my father about it in his shop. Heasked me not to go, but I insisted that I would rather die in Sinai than insome rice paddy in Vietnam. Dad sighed and said he would rather that Inot die at all. But he understood and gave me his blessing. The war, asyou know, did not last long. In fact, by the time I got to Israel, it was over.

I arrived late in the evening, with the standard travel gear of theday—my trusty knapsack. I caught the bus to Tel Aviv and headed to


my aunt’s apartment. I looked around the bus and realized that I hadnever seen so many different kinds of Jewish people. It was the firsttime in my life when I, as a Jew, was not in the minority.

I arrived at my aunt’s home around 11:00 P.M. and was neverthelessgreeted with a large meal. My aunt both looked and cooked a lot likemy mom. The next day I began my life as a short-term volunteer fornoncombat duty on a kibbutz (communal farm) in the Negev. My workdetail was picking peaches along with other volunteers, mostly fromEngland. I felt that we were serving the country as best we could. Bytaking responsibilities on the kibbutz, we freed others who werebetter trained for military duty.

While in Israel I had two rather startling experiences. The firstwas on the kibbutz.

“There’s a police officer to see you,” a kibbutznik told me, noddingto a uniformed man. I had not been in Israel long enough to get introuble; still, a momentary fear gripped me. Then, to myastonishment the police officer hugged and kissed me. He began toweep as he told me his name was Kozak. Tearfully he explainedthat my father had been his brother-in-law, though all too briefly.When the Nazis invaded Poland, they had hung Kozak’s sister, myfather’s first wife. My father had never told me he was marriedbefore he met my mother, much less that the Nazis had murderedhis young bride!

I went to Haifa to meet Kozak’s family. As they showed me their city,a man came running toward us, yelling, “Is this Moishe’s son?”Kozak smiled and said “Yes.” The man grabbed me and kissed me.He told me how my father had saved his life, and the lives of manyothers in the concentration camp. As a tailor, my father had beengiven extra rations—bread and even potatoes. Rather than hoardingthe food for himself, he had fed others. I will never forget how it feltto learn that my father truly was a hero.

12 Jazzed for Jesus

The second experience was in the ancient city of Jerusalem. Ours hadbeen one of the first groups of noncombat volunteers to come into theOld City, only weeks after its capture. There was a special tour for us.It was quite amazing to make my way through narrow, winding streets,wander through Arab shops in the marketplace, and step on soil thathad not been in our people’s possession for almost 2000 years.

I came out of the maze of streets, looked up and saw, perhaps 200feet away, the Western Wall. Old men stood davening, bowing andpraying, swaying back and forth. A partition separated them from thewomen. I came closer and saw that a box of yarmulkes and prayershawls had been provided for public use.

As I approached the wall, I was overwhelmed. I touched and feltthe stones. I wept as I thought of the thousands upon thousands ofJewish people who had stood where I was standing. I thought ofmy mother and father and how they had suffered simply becausethey were Jews. I thought of God, the God of my childhood, theGod who made a covenant with a man named Abraham andpromised us that this would be our land. That day, I left the wallknowing I could no longer claim to be an agnostic. I had had atruly spiritual experience.

At the end of that summer, I returned to the United States as a seeker. Idon’t mean to say that I became a godly or even a religious person. Ireturned to Long Island University and resumed life as a pot-smokingleftist who kept company with political extremists. But I was on a questfor truth. I had to know if the survival of the Jewish people was by design.Was there a God who did not simply exist, but was directing history?

In the summer of 1968, I hitchhiked across the country, headingfor Sausalito, just north of San Francisco. I spent a few nights inBerkeley, attracted by news of the political action going onthere. There, for the first time, I used LSD. I promptly decidedthat the answer to the world’s problems was not political but had


to be found from within. I started a campaign of “better livingthrough chemistry.”

Just north of Sausalito was Gate 5, on the waterfront, where a motleycollection of ramshackle houseboats rose and fell with the SanFrancisco tide. It was “outlaw territory,” not yet incorporated into themunicipality of Sausalito. As such, it drew creative, counterculturaltypes. I decided to return to New York and bring my friends back tothis newfound paradise. By the end of the summer most of them were“on board,” and we were discovering the beauty of California sunsetsover Mt. Tamalpais.

I returned to New York yet again to finish college. I tried to explainto my leftist friends that the only way to really change the world wasto change the people in it. I was giving away LSD to anyone andeveryone. I was not a drug dealer. I was (I thought) a revolutionary.

I started reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead, as well as booksabout Kabbalah. As a philosophy major I was also reading Sartre,Camus, and other books that I would not have otherwiseopened—such as the New Testament. I saw that once-forbidden tomeas part of the plethora of books that offered truth. Besides, Jesus wasnot a taboo in the hippie subculture in which I had become immersed.I’d read Jess Stearn’s The Sleeping Prophet, about Edgar Casey, inwhich I found a “cosmic Jesus.” That allowed me to see Him assomething other than “the-god-of-those-people-who-hate-us-Jews.”

I was supposed to graduate in May of 1969, but with all theantiwar activity at my campus, we actually shut down the school.No graduation exercises took place that spring, and I was toomuch into the counterculture to care. When I left for California, Ifigured that LIU would mail my diploma. (Later that summer mymother informed me that I’d received a letter from LIU explainingthat I was three credits short of graduating. The three credits werefor an elective, so I contacted the school and asked if a film class

14 Jazzed for Jesus

at the College of Marin would be sufficient. They agreed; I tookthe class that September and got my diploma in January of 1970.)

Meanwhile, my friend Bruce came back from Vietnam, having losthis index finger through “friendly fire.” He was receiving severalhundred dollars a month compensation, enough for us to build ahouseboat of our own. Bruce had already started work on the boat bythe time I returned to California that May. We convinced his youngerbrother Freddie and his friend Mitch to come join us, as well as aguy named Sandy—a streetwise dope-dealing African Americanfrom Bedford Stuyvesant.

We considered ourselves psychedelic pirates. The “psychedelic”part was due to our drug use. We lived on the water, and occasionallystole building supplies from abandoned construction sites, hence the“pirates.” In reality, we were playing at Huck Finn, postponingadulthood. Our plan was that eventually we would get a big sailboatand sail around the world.

So there we were, four Jews and a Gentile from New York City whohad never built anything in our lives, trying to construct ahouseboat. The result was a shack on barrels that would have beensunk by the first major winter storm of the year, had the countyboard of health not made us rip it down. I had wondered why Brucewanted me to be part owner of the boat, since he was fronting all themoney. It turned out that my name was on the summons demandingthe demolition of the craft.

Nevertheless, we got to occupy “the boat” for five months before tearingit down. We loved our boat. It represented freedom. It also gave usamazing views of the San Francisco skyline, the Golden Gate Bridge,and of course the bay. Actually, “the boat” was a 20 x 25-foot platformthat floated on 30 five-gallon drums, all harnessed together. We onlyhalf completed the “house,” which consisted of a living room and twosleeping rooms on the second floor. Bruce and I took the sleeping


rooms while Mitch and Freddy slept in the living room. We had lightsand a modified fireplace for heat (having tapped into a line from landthat ran underwater and came out through a sunken pile driver to whichwe were docked). We had no running water and no refrigeration.

The four of us got along pretty well, except for one instance that Irecall. We had agreed to sell about ten kilos of marijuana for somefriends because we needed more money for building materials. Mitchand Freddy had contacted some people from Marin City (which wasa pretty rough area) to buy the stuff. One night a boatload of guyscame out to our place with guns. They took the marijuana, emptiedour pockets, tied us up and left. It was scary—but we got over it.

We were blissfully unaware that our living situation was not the best.We magnanimously invited Joan—Mitch and Freddy’s school friendfrom New York—to come and visit us. She was on a spiritual questand we felt that we had the perfect environment in which to seek themeaning of life. Joan, however, soon realized that the “paradise” shewas promised was not exactly that. Accordingly, she decided tocontinue her search elsewhere and headed north to Oregon, endingup in a place called Coos Bay.

After we ripped down the shack (it was September or October), weall moved into a commune in San Francisco. About ten people livedin the commune at any given time. The place was clean and we alllived according to the house rules and got along. I left for a fewmonths and came back. Bruce left in December never to return; sodid Freddy. Only Mitch and I stayed on through May. It was a realhippie commune with the requisite LSD, parties and group outings toGolden Gate Park to enjoy the free concerts.

Joan returned from Oregon and surprised us all with the news thatshe had found Jesus and that He was the true Messiah. Sheearnestly insisted that He was what we were truly seeking, thoughwe didn’t know it.

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Freddie went up north to investigate Joan’s claims and he, too,became convinced that Jesus was the Jewish Messiah. Brucewent up to visit his brother and sent me a postcard telling methat he had “burned his stash” (destroyed his drugs) and wasalso following Jesus.

Mitch had begun working at a camp just south of San Francisco andwould only come to the commune for weekends. (Eventually he, too,became a believer in Jesus.)

Our group had more or less disbanded—leaving me to ponder mynext step. Not to be outdone by my newly Jesus-believing friends(whom I still loved but could no longer get high with), I decided tocontinue searching on my own. I ended up in the mountains ofJamaica, where for a few weeks I lived with a Rastafarian, whotaught me the mysteries of Haile Selassie and ganja. ((Haile Selassiewas the emperor of Ethiopia, and the Rastafarians of Jamaica believethat he was the messiah. They worship him and they use ganja—avery powerful marijuana—as part of their worship.)

I arrived in Jamaica and was given a two-day visa. I headed for themountains, looking for a man named Joshua I had heard about froma hippie in Florida. I found Joshua and gave him some money forfood, marijuana and housing. He allowed me to sleep on his slatfloor under his tin roof with his family. For two weeks I did verylittle but swim in beautiful springs, enjoy scenic waterfalls andwatch birds fly this way and that. At the end of two weeks, Joshuaasked for more money.

I had none to give. I had eaten his food and smoked his dope withoutbothering to ask how far the money I’d initially given him would go.Apparently it hadn’t gone far enough for two weeks, so Joshua andhis buddies threatened to cut me up. I found myself running from hishouse in the middle of a moonless night, scrambling down amountain-goat trail, praying in earnest, “If Jesus is real, please God,


get me out of this country alive.” (Immigration was also looking forme because I had overstayed my visa.)

I managed to make it back to the United States and began hitchhikingfrom New York back to San Francisco. Remembering my prayer(actually my desperate cry for help), I picked up a New Testamentand read it while waiting for rides. Strange “coincidences” began tohappen. I would be thinking over something I had just read aboutJesus, then I’d look up and “happen to see” a cross on some distantmountain. Or I’d be thinking about Jesus, and the next person to pickme up would be a Christian. A string of these coincidences occurredall the way back to California. I developed a vague notion that Jesushad died for my “karma,” and figured I could leave it at that.

I returned to the hippie commune to discover that Bruce was stillliving up in Coos Bay. I wondered if maybe they were putting somestrange chemicals in the water to make people become Christians. Idecided to hitchhike up there to investigate. I found Bruce and othersliving on a ranch, reading the Bible and talking as though God wassitting right next to them. That night, I had a very vivid dream. Idreamt that an Asian woman was seducing me. I awoke in the middleof the dream and, in a most cavalier manner said, “God, what astrange dream you gave me.” Not thinking much more about it, I wentback to sleep. The next morning, Bruce, Mitch and I hitchhiked backto San Francisco. I arrived at the commune by midevening.

There was an orgy going on. This was not an unusual occurrence,and certainly not one I had found objectionable in the past.However, this time was different. I was struck by the contrastbetween the love I had seen at the ranch in Oregon and the lustall around me in the commune. I went to the kitchen to be aloneand collect my thoughts. As I stood there, an Asian womanapproached me, and I found that my dream from the night beforewas unfolding in real life. The “coincidence” was not lost on me.As I looked over her shoulder and out the window, I was startled

18 Jazzed for Jesus

to see that there, on the foggy glass pane, someone had made thesign of a cross.

Then and there I realized that God had shown countless times thatHe wanted me to take Jesus seriously. My “quest” of late hadopened me to one seduction after another, not just sexual butspiritual. Now it was time for the truth. I really needed to addressthe issue of what Jesus had done and what it meant to me. Idisentangled myself from the young lady and ran out into the SanFrancisco night . . . where I met Bruce and Mitch. I said, “This Godyou’re talking about—he’s real. What do I do?”

One of them suggested, “Maybe it’s time you open upcommunications with him.”

It was about 11:00 P.M. when we left to get coffee, just a block fromthe commune. Mitch reviewed the meaning and purpose of Jesuscoming to earth, his life, death and resurrection. Mitch then asked ifI wanted to pray, right there outside the coffee shop. I told him that Iwanted to pray closer to nature, so we walked up to 19th Avenue,just south of Geary, and I got on my knees on the grass (really it wasmore like dirt) and I spoke to God. I was about to give him this greatexcuse about the way I lived my life, but then I realized that he knewevery thought I had or ever will have. The only words that couldcome to my lips that night were, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” Thatnight I was filled with forgiveness.

I wrote a letter to my father that very night, saying that I had found anew ending to the story of the ring. Indeed each of the sons hadreceived a ring, but only one of them was special. The possessor ofthis ring would become more and more like his father. He wouldgrow more and more in stature and would be able to teach the otherbrothers the love and concern of the father. The ring was no longerjust an object of his love. It was the vehicle by which the fatherwould transfer his own image onto his children. I believed my father


would rejoice to know I found the “real ring” and that it wastransforming my life.

And indeed my life was transformed. I stopped getting high withinthree days. Within a week I had an opportunity to have casual sex,and ran in the opposite direction. Within two weeks the communewas raided and everyone was hauled off to jail. When the chargesagainst me were mysteriously dropped, I got out of jail and out of thecommune. I moved to Coos Bay for a while, then back to SanFrancisco, where I spent time with Moishe Rosen and other early“Jews for Jesus”—though at the time it was a movement, not anorganization. And then I went back to New York in the fall of 1971,which is where I met my wife-to-be, Melissa Roberts, who you canread about in just a few moments.

You might wonder how my father responded to all this, and what hethought about my alternate ending to his story of the rings. I did notexpect my own story to persuade him, so I presented my dad with aYiddish New Testament. I opened it up to Jesus’ Sermon on theMount. I wanted him to meet the real Jesus, not the one whose namewas invoked by Nazis who turned the gas on his parents. I wantedhim to meet the Jesus who not only talked about love but whoactually gave his life for those he loved. To me, the most perfectdemonstration of God’s love throughout all of history is theself-sacrifice of the Messiah.

My father read the story, and for the most part he accepted that Jesuswas a Jew and that I had good reason to be drawn to him. Then he gotto the place where the disciples asked Jesus how to pray, and he toldthem to say, “forgive us as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

At that point, my father closed the book. He shook his head andsaid, “I can’t do this, I can’t.” He looked at me and said, “Iwould rather go to hell, knowing I could take the Nazis with me,than forgive them.”

20 Jazzed for Jesus

I said, “Dad, they still win that way.”

He said, “I can’t.”

The horrors of the Holocaust are almost beyond numbering. To me,one of the most horrible is how the Nazis robbed my parents of theability to understand God’s forgiveness. If being reconciled to Godwas something that people could do with one fist clenched and theother open, I wonder how many would receive it. But God, accordingto the gospel, does not work that way. If we want to be forgiven forthe wrongs we have done to God, we have to empty ourselves of theidea that we can hate others for the wrongs they have done to us.

Years later my father did work out some of his problemspertaining to forgiveness, when he rented an apartment to ayoung German couple. I asked him how he was able to do so. Myfather shrugged and said that they had been born decades afterthe Holocaust, and that it would be wrong to hate all Germans forthe sins of a few. It was in those later years that I was able toreally talk to Dad about the grace of God.

Some find the idea of grace irritating . . . because it implies that wecan’t do anything to deserve God’s forgiveness—that it can only bereceived as his gift to us. Others don’t see their need of God’sforgiveness because when they look at how bad others are (like theNazis), they see themselves as relatively innocent. But the God ofthe Jewish Bible doesn’t operate that way. He does not compare oursin to the sins of others. He compares our sin to his righteousness,and we are left far, far away from him in that comparison. When Irealized who Jesus is, I also realized that God wants to extendforgiveness to people who earnestly understand their need for it.Until I came face-to-face with God, I didn’t expect that my responseto him would be an apology. That kind of repentance can’t happenwhen people think of forgiveness as something they themselves donot truly need, and that others don’t deserve.


If people could understand some of what Jesus endured on the cross,what would they think of his prayer: “Father, forgive them for theydon’t know what they are doing”?

Jesus had the grace to forgive those who tormented him so that youand I could be forgiven through the sacrifice he made, a sacrificethat I believe was predicted in the Jewish Bible.

If you want to receive that forgiveness, you can begin with the prayeron the inside cover. If you pray that prayer, I hope you will let meknow. I’d like to encourage you.

Or, if you think that Jesus just might be the Messiah and you want toknow more, please call me at 718-832-8101, or write to me [email protected]. Or, you can look on our website atwww.jewsforjesus.org.

Maybe you are still unsure about who Jesus is but are curious tohear more stories of Jews who believe as I do. I would very muchlike you to hear another story, the story of someone I love verymuch: my wife, Melissa. Her story starts on page 30. �

22 Jazzed for Jesus

Jhan and his mother Evelyn,photographed within months of

her passing away.

Baby Jhan.

Jhan's father, Max, post-World War II.

Jhan's bar mitzvah.


Jhan (center) with friends from amulticultural community in NewYork known as Beth LogosAramba.

Mike and Ann (above) welcomedJhan and many other seekers totheir "ranch" in Oregon.

Jhan at the head of the “rollercoaster” in a street skit titled “TheCarnival of Life”

Jhan (center) among the earliestmembers of the New JerusalemPlayers.

Jhan in hisHippie Days.

24 Jazzed for Jesus

Melissa with her mother,Rebecca.

Little sister Melissa on the right,her kindergarten portrait, and

her “swing” days.

Melissa with her mom, before the junior prom.


The wedding rehearsal.

The real deal: finally married!

Melissa joins Jhan in the NewJerusalem Players.

The New Jerusalem Playerspresent Christ in the Passover.

26 Jazzed for Jesus

Jhan and a long-time friend, Baruch.

Nature Girl.

.

Jews for Jesus around the world!

Jhan teaching a Bible study.


A typical Melissa grin.

Indiana Jhan.

Deep thoughts.

Melissa (right) with Martha, aformer teammate from the NewJerusalem Players (some 30years later).

Jhan as a public speaker.

28 Jazzed for Jesus

Melissa as newsletter editor.

Relaxing outdoors, at home,and with her father, Seth.

Melissa signing her cookbook.


(Left top, left middle) In the ’80s.

(Below middle) Camp cohorts:after eleven years of campleadership, Melissa is just aboutready to pass the baton to Dan.

(Above right) Melissa as directorof Camp Gilgal, Midwest.

Thirty years of marriage.

My name is Melissa Dell (Roberts) Moskowitz. I was born in theBronx, New York City, on January 24, 1951, to Seymour andRebecca Roberts. I am the second from the oldest of four sisters.

I was born into a time of social activism, and my father, a union“rabble-rouser” at the time, was smack in the center of it. I rememberone cold, wintry morning when my three sisters and I were leaving forschool, my father was just returning and ready to drop into bed. Hewas haggard and bleary-eyed from a three-hour vigil up in Harlem. Heand a few comrades had strapped themselves to a bulldozer to protestthe building that was to be erected by the state on that site.

In those days, people like Stokely Carmichael and Ralph Abernathy,who figured mightily in the struggle for equality for AfricanAmericans, were among my father’s acquaintances. Dad served onschool boards and governing boards; he was also influential inbeginning the engineering union in New York City. He was a fighter,an organizer, a revolutionary. He instilled in me the awareness thatwe must do what others wouldn’t dare to do in order to bring aboutradical change. A design engineer for Otis Elevator Company, Dadwas passionate about human rights and eventually became the headof the school of labor relations at Cornell University.

He changed his last name from Rubenfeld to Roberts when he andmy mother got married because he was concerned about

Melissa’s Story


anti-Semitism in the engineering field. In any case, he was fondlycalled “Red” by his friends on account of his hair, but I remembermy mother calling him “Shlomy.” Both my parents were raised asOrthodox Jews, but neither continued for long in that tradition.

My mother was eight years old when she and her five brothers andsisters arrived in this country. Mom had a tremendous desire tolearn English, and received most of her lessons at the movies,where she would sit spellbound hour after hour. The family settledinto a comfortable townhouse on Thompson Street in GreenwichVillage. My mother immersed herself in the world of museums,movies and books. She devoted herself to the study of art, readingabout the masters and viewing their artistry through the untrainedeyes of one who was becoming acquainted with beauty for the firsttime.

Mom was just as passionate about beauty and art as Dad was abouthuman rights. She eventually became an art historian and researcherin American paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New YorkCity. When I was little, Mom would point to a tree and say, “Look athow many shades of green there are,” or “Can you count the colors inthat field?” Through her, I gained a strong aesthetic sensibility.

My mother attempted to keep a kosher household early in themarriage, but most likely this was out of respect for mygrandparents’ feelings. Without any deep spiritual conviction tosupport them, her intentions had pretty much dissolved by thetime I was born. Taking care of my older sister and me waschallenging enough; keeping separate dishes and the day-to-dayplanning for meals that had either meat or dairy—but notboth—were a bit much. And so we were brought up in a ReformJewish home—definitely Jewish, but not religious.

Mom and Dad didn’t talk much about their personal beliefs. When Iwas in my early twenties, I was surprised to discover that my father

32 Jazzed for Jesus

had considered himself a Unitarian (technically a UnitarianUniversalist) since his teen years.

Apparently when Dad was about twelve years old, he secretlyattended a Catholic church with a friend. After several visits, heunderstood that Orthodox Judaism was not his only option. Heconcluded that while there is only one God, “all roads” lead to Him.

Dad never mentioned his religious views when we were growing up.Although he had rebelled against his strict upbringing, he and mymother both felt it was important that we girls be raised as Jews. Dadfigured we could “choose” our religion later, after our Jewish identityhad been formed.

Our family attended my grandparents’ synagogue—a small, but tome, majestic building in Washington Heights in Upper Manhattan.Simple stained-glass windows let in diffused, multicoloredsunbeams. I remember how the Light of the Eternal Presencefascinated me; I sometimes wished that I could sneak into thesanctuary late at night to see if it really was still lit. But my favoritesynagogue memory was seeing the Torah removed from its royalvelvet nest during the Sabbath services. The drama of that momentalways captivated me, lifted me up and filled me with awe.

Our holiday celebrations took place in my grandparents’ apartment.When we went there for Passover, I used to imagine that I couldsmell my grandmother’s cooking as soon as I emerged from thesubway station, five blocks away!

Their apartment consisted of a combination living room/diningroom/kitchen plus a separate bedroom and bathroom. The “kitchen”was too small to store anything for the holiday, so the bedroom wastransformed into a “keeping room.” Cookies, cakes and boxes ofmatzoh filled every available windowsill and spilled over onto thetops of dressers and nightstands. I always rushed straight to that


bedroom as soon as we arrived. I’d sit on the bed, inhale thefragrance and pretend I was in some sort of Passover heaven.

I remember the year my cousin and I got in trouble for sneaking toomany bites of Grandma’s toasted walnut cake—it was half-eaten bythe time she brought it to the table! We tried to convince her thatmaybe a squirrel had nibbled at it from the windowsill and suggestedthat she find a better place to store Passover goodies. We went homestuffed with delicious Passover food, but with our behinds smartingover the “scolding” we received.

From the time I was six until the “wise” old age of fourteen, mysister Shelley (who is two and a half years older than me) and Iwalked across the (old) Washington Bridge every week to get toSunday school. There we learned about the holidays, studied asmattering of Hebrew and listened to stories from the HebrewScriptures. Afterward, my mother would pick us up and take usto White Castle for square hamburgers with chopped onions.That was a treat!

When I was twelve, I also attended Hebrew school after regularschool as I prepared to be confirmed. I was supposed to learn to readHebrew in order to chant my portion. But since languages are not myforte, and since we were Reform, I was allowed to write thetransliteration in my Bible for my confirmation. And so the day of myconfirmation arrived. I got up to read, and was horrified to see thatmy own familiar Bible with my notes was gone! I found myselflooking in shock and disbelief at a completely different Bible . . .and looking back at me were nothing but Hebrew letters.

My friend Joanne later told me that she did not have her ownBible when she got up to read, either. A group of us, maybe tenor twelve girls, were confirmed together and our booksapparently were mixed up. Well, the result was that I stumbledthrough the Hebrew, my face burning with humiliation. I wished

34 Jazzed for Jesus

I could be anywhere else on the face of the earth. Finally it wasover. Somewhere between mortification and blessed relief, Istepped down and made way for the next girl to get up and read.When each had taken her turn, we all trooped into the fellowshiphall for a reception.

All of this was quite a contrast from my Orthodox cousins, many ofwhose bar mitzvahs I attended. Their services were longer, and they readfrom the actual scrolls, so it was obvious there was no transliteration.After the services, each bar mitzvah had his own reception. Thesereceptions were all pretty fancy, and probably pretty pricey as well.

While my confirmation was neither my happiest memory of growingup Jewish, nor such a landmark as my cousins’ events, it marked thefact that I’d had some religious education and a common experiencewith other Jewish girls my age.

Part of that common experience was that once we were confirmed,most of us, including me, lost interest in the synagogue. Our familycontinued to attend holiday services, but we did little else by way ofreligious observances. My parents felt they had completed their partin seeing to my Jewish upbringing.

We had not depended on the synagogue for our Jewish identity tobegin with, so from that standpoint it did not make muchdifference. Being Jewish was a simple fact of life growing up inthe Bronx. Everyone was Jewish, or so it seemed: my teachers,friends, doctors—everyone except for our good friend andneighbor, Sandra.

Sandra’s husband was Jewish, but she was Italian Catholic, and itwas thanks to her that I learned to love lasagna. The wonderfulpastas she treated us to were like nothing I’d ever had before . . . buteven more exotic than the food was the fact that she and her familycelebrated Christmas. And they invited us to join them.


I found Christmas a curious experience. I could not figure howJesus gave meaning to pine trees, tinsel, twinkling lights orpresents. Not that I wasn’t as fascinated by those things as anychild would be. It was all so colorful and strange, a briefexcursion into a foreign world. My sisters and I listened toChristmas carols with Sandra’s family, and even recordedourselves singing them. It was fun, but I always knew that thiswas “their holiday” and not ours, and that it had something to dowith “their god” and not ours.

While we did not discuss God much in our home, I had, from ayoung age, my own perceptions of him. Being an aesthetic personlike my mom, I figured God must be good-looking. I also believedthat he was kind but firm, and a little scary. I imagined him as across between Dr. Kildare (on television) and my dentist (whom Iliked and respected—and, who looked like Dr. Kildare!).Physicians were authority figures who helped people. So, in mymind, was God. I believed he was real, but somehow very far awayhelping other people. He didn’t inform my life, meaning he didn’thelp me to understand my parents or get along with my sisters.

I came close, I think, to sensing God’s presence in the synagoguewhen I stared at the Light of the Eternal Presence. But that lamp wasonly symbolic, with little bearing on my daily existence. Where wasGod? All I knew was that he was there. Somewhere. Which wasbetter than not being there, though I could not have explained why.

Life was full of things that I could not understand, much lessexplain. For example, I knew that our home was different than otherJewish homes. I could not have explained it other than to say—ifanyone had asked—that I wished our family was more like otherpeople’s families, or at least like I imagined them.

The six of us were rather neatly packed into a very large one-bedroomapartment. My parents slept in the living room, a large bookcase

36 Jazzed for Jesus

forming an alcove to separate their bed from the rest of the room. Myolder sister, Shelley, slept in the dining room. That left the enormousbedroom that faced the Harlem River to me . . . and my two youngersisters. The privilege of a real bedroom with a real door was lost onme because it was not “my room.” The three of us shared it until Iwas sixteen years old, and we fought continually.

My parents’ marriage was not good. They each had their private livesand interests, away from our home, separate from our family. Mysisters and I were by no means neglected; we knew we were lovedyet I often felt alone.

In high school, the world suddenly expanded way past the borders ofthe Jewish enclave I had known. I knew in theory that anti-Semitismexisted and, hoping to avoid a firsthand experience, I found myselfvaguely uncomfortable mentioning my background to new,non-Jewish friends. Being “cool” became paramount; being Jewishwas somehow less relevant in that context.

It seemed like our family was changing too. We still celebratedPassover and Rosh Hashanah at my grandparents’ home, but thoseholidays became less about being part of the Jewish people and moreabout being family.

Meanwhile my father, by then an organizer in his engineering union,kept a rather “low profile” as far as being Jewish because, he said,the union was plagued with anti-Semitism. Certain leaders andworkers came to our apartment to talk with my father about thingsthat seemed, at least to me, very secretive. It wasn’t that he shut usout or asked us to leave when his colleagues came around. But theyspoke in low, very intense voices, and I got the feeling that Dadwanted to keep this very important part of his life separate from us.

At the same time, my mother had immersed herself more and morein her beloved Greenwich Village world of art. She had been raised


there, had many friends there and often went to participate withthem in the art scene. To me, she was strange and mysterious.

Part of me wished desperately that my mother would be more likeother mothers—the ones who attended meetings of Hadassah (aJewish women’s organization, of which a branch met in our apartmentbuilding’s basement) and played mahjongg. They stayed home andcooked and kvetched about their weight and were so fascinated (atleast I thought) with their children that they had little time or desire tohave a social life in which their family was not somehow involved.. Mymother was what I later recognized as a sophisticated bohemian whofound life in the Village far more stimulating than life in the Bronx. My father made most of our meals, simple “short-order” types ofdishes. Mom did stay home on Sundays and made lunch for us whenwe got home from Sunday school. She was not a great cook.

By the time I was sixteen, I too was attracted to the Village andbegan going there with my own friends. We’d hang out onMacDougal Street, me in a raccoon cape I had bought in a thriftshop for $10. We were just trying to “be cool.” I became moreand more drawn to the world of ideals, and just about anythingthat was counterculture.

When I was seventeen, my parents separated. Dad went on somekind of a folk-dancing retreat in upstate New York, where he met awoman who later became my stepmother. She too was a Unitarian.During the separation my mom met someone too, so I gained astepfather as well. Divorce was not nearly as common then as it isnow. I knew that my parents had not been happy together for sometime, but it was heartbreaking to see them split apart.

By the time I got to college, the forces that were shaping me morethan anything else were creativity, high idealism, and the willingnessto be different and stand up and out for what I believed. I reallyneeded to care deeply about something I could give myself to.

38 Jazzed for Jesus

No sooner did I begin college than I met a student named Mark andwe began dating. I realized immediately that he was involved in theSDS,, Students for a Democratic Society. I was very ready to beattracted to a radical student movement that seemed to fit my ideals.

Mark and I dated for at least a year. He was impassioned about theantiwar movement, and I was attracted to that dedication. He camefrom a loving, liberal Jewish family that was into music, art andtheater. I enjoyed being with them and feeling like one of the family.During this time I participated in probably half a dozen marches onWashington, was teargassed, and marched on Fort Dix to “free thepolitical prisoners” (i.e., we hoped to persuade the soldiers that theydid not have to fight in the war).

I was both scared and excited to be part of these protests. It was likebeing in our own army. We wore heavy clothing and hats to protectus, we had a cause, we were willing to stand up for what we believedand suffer for it if need be.

Peace was a big deal to me, though I can’t say that I felt peace in myown heart—far from it. I felt quite agitated. And so I felt justifiedwhen bricks were thrown at the government buildings and antiwargraffiti was scribbled on our Capitol’s buildings. In my mind, the redpaint spewed out the feelings of flower children turned freedomfighters. Occasionally I wondered if our attitude and our ways werereally any better than those we were protesting.

We marched and marched, but peace was as distant as ever. Throughall the protesting, all the postured self-assurance, which I was toldwe had a right to feel, I began to have doubts. I was fighting a warwithin myself, with my own feelings of anger and alienation. I knewthere wasn’t going to be any peace, at least not through my efforts.The more we marched, the louder our voices rang above the rest ofthe sleeping world, the more futile it all seemed. Even if this warended, I knew another would begin.


Over time, my involvement cooled. Mark and I stopped dating,and while I still wanted to have a part in making the world abetter place, I was no longer convinced that the SDS knew theway to make it happen.

Meanwhile, between all these activities, I actually did go to classes.I was an art history major, and quickly found that the art departmentwas a small community unto itself. There I met two nice Jewish boyswho were full of adventure and fun. Barry was an art major and Mattwas a history major. I had known them for six months when suddenlyone day, they wanted us to say a prayer together. We had just enjoyeda sunset by the seashore and were about to have dinner when they,totally out of the blue, wanted to thank God for the food and thewonderful day.

“What for?” I asked. They then explained that during their summertravels, they’d stayed on a Christian hippie commune inAlbuquerque. While there, they became convinced that Jesus is theJewish Messiah and Savior of the world. When they returned to NewYork City they did not look for people or situations to reinforce theirnew beliefs; they more or less “back-burnered” the whole thing for atime. But now they were meeting other Jewish people our age whobelieved like they did about Jesus. And they were very enthusiasticto share their beliefs with me.

They might as well have told me they were secret unicorns. Irecognized this as the Christian belief; yet I could not recall having metany people who were so serious about Jesus, let alone Jewish people.All at once, my somewhat dormant Jewish identity came charging to theforefront. I retorted with something to the effect of, “If Jesus was theJewish Messiah, how come I had never heard that in my whole life?”

I was truly upset.. It just seemed crazy to think you could be Jewishand believe in Jesus. I really cared about these guys and I couldn’tstand seeing them so deluded—or worse yet, wanting to share their

40 Jazzed for Jesus

delusions with me! I decided to take a semester away from schooland do an independent study. I would read everything I could aboutJesus, so I could disprove my friends’ crazy ideas and get back to lifeas we’d previously known it.

I read countless books, including Hal Lindsey’s Late Great PlanetEarth, Art Katz’s Ben Israel and Arnold Fruchtenbaum’s HebrewChristianity. I expected to find a bunch of nonsense but instead Ifound a lot of information that challenged beliefs (or disbeliefs) I’dalways taken for granted. I even started to read the Bible, bothparts (“old” and “new”).

In all this reading I was somewhat shocked to find that the JewishBible made a big deal about sin and falling short of God’s holiness.There was a lot about repenting and receiving God’s forgiveness, andthat forgiveness was always extended by faith in God and by followingthe steps that he gave. The Jewish prophet Isaiah talked aboutsomeone who would die for the sins of “my” (Isaiah’s) people. Itsounded like Jesus, but was written hundreds of years before he everwalked on the earth.

I went with my friends to Bible studies that were especially for youngJewish people who were interested in Jesus, and I met others my agewho believed as Matt and Barry did. And I prayed that God wouldshow me if Jesus was the Jewish Messiah.

After awhile I began to believe that it might really be true, and thatJesus could be the Messiah after all. It seemed to fit together—heseemed to have fulfilled many of the Bible prophecies, and myfriends assured me that he would fulfill the rest when he returned, ashe promised his disciples he would.

I was very uncomfortable and rattled by all this. I wondered ifperhaps I could believe privately, and be around others whobelieved, and keep it all within a secret compartment of my life


that only other believers would know about. Because frankly, Ithought my family would kill me (well, be angry and reject me) if Ibecame a Christian.

I will never forget, on New Year’s Eve 1971, Barry and Matt said theywere going to a fellowship party. I wanted to be with them, so I wentalong. I quickly grew bored with all the praying and singing; it wasclearly meaningful to my friends in a way I could not relate to, and I feltso estranged from them. I quietly slipped away and found a bedroomwhere I curled up and slept until it was time to leave.

The next day I wanted to go to the movies, but there was a newfellowship especially for Jewish believers in Jesus. Naturally myfriends wanted to go, and once again, I went along.

It was there that one of my friends confronted me and asked point blankwhat I believed. I had been reading and studying the issue for about sixmonths. I explained that I thought Jesus was the Messiah, but I was notgoing to become a Christian. I really was afraid of my family’s reaction.Couldn’t I just hang out with Christians? Wouldn’t that be enough?

My friend explained that I needed to decide whether I wanted God inmy life. I couldn’t keep sitting on the fence and I couldn’t rely on myfriends to carry me around on their faith any longer. If I wanted Godin my life, I could not be ashamed or afraid for people to know aboutit. Would I admit that I needed Jesus and surrender my life to Him,no matter what might happen? Would I believe that God cared andcould be trusted?

I absolutely knew my friend was right. Here I was, a supposedidealist who’d been willing to be different and stand up for what Ibelieved . . . and now that what I believed was Jesus, I was askingmyself and others if I could keep it a secret? I could not live withmyself that way. I knew what I needed to do and asked my friendto pray with me so that I could take that personal step of receiving

42 Jazzed for Jesus

the forgiveness and life God wanted to give me. I prayed and Godrushed into my life on January 1, 1972, New Year’s Day.

I know that people’s experiences differ, but this is how it was for me.I felt a fire come into my heart, a real love for God. I suddenly knewwhat people meant when they said, “Praise the Lord!” Instead ofbeing some hokey, non-Jewish phrase, it resounded with truth. Godwas great and really deserved my praises. I wanted to give him hisdue. I also suddenly knew for certain that the Bible was not just aregular book. “God’s Word” no longer seemed like a weird way todescribe it. He was actually saying things to us through it.

I found out that being radical and being “cool” don’t always gotogether. Following Jesus made me much more radical than theSDS ever did. He began to affect every aspect of my life as I triedto follow his example and trust him when facing life’s difficulties.And suddenly I understood why my friends had been soenthusiastic about telling me their beliefs, so concerned for me toknow Jesus.

Did my family kill me? No, but they were not happy. Even my dad,whose Unitarianism supposedly embraced Jesus, felt I hadbecome “too religious.”

But to me, it was not a question of being religious at all. I foundmyself wanting to tell others about God because he is so great andhe really did bring peace to my heart. I wanted those I cared aboutto know him too.

So I found myself willing to be considered foolish, to do just aboutanything that will help others consider what Jesus has done for us.Certainly Matt felt the same way, and Barry, who I dated for a while.But a couple of other people I’d met through them were also whatyou might call Jewish radicals for Jesus. They were Susan Perlmanand Jhan Moskowitz, and both were among the original volunteers,


and later staff, that helped to found Jews for Jesus in San Francisco.Susan and Jhan invited me over many times to come see them andwhat was happening with the Jews for Jesus movement out west.

Finally, in the summer of 1975, I accepted an invitation to visitSusan and Jhan and check out what the group was doing. I reallyfelt that I had to go. I’d seen the Liberated Wailing Wall (the Jewsfor Jesus music team) in concert in New York City, and theconcert was bursting with creativity and Jewishness. I feltcompelled to find out what else was being done to tell our peopleabout Jesus in a Jewish way.

I stayed with Susan and asked her question after question about herlife and about Jews for Jesus. Moishe Rosen spent a lot of time withme every day during my six-week visit, walking around the city. Ialso got to work in the art department with Steffi, who illustrated allkinds of things, including the pamphlets (Moishe called them“broadsides”) that staff and volunteers were always handing out. Iwas awestruck by the dedication and talent I saw. I wanted my life tohave that same sense of purpose and dedication.

I told Moishe that it was time for me to go back to New York becauseI was still in college and felt I should graduate. He agreed with me,and asked me to get in touch with Sam and Miriam Nadler, who wereopening the New York branch of Jews for Jesus.

While I was enthusiastic about Jews for Jesus during my visit toCalifornia, I was a little nervous about getting involved once I gothome. Months later, I finally got in touch with the Nadlers. Theywere very good to me and the friendship we formed helped me in mynew faith. I started handing out broadsides with the New Yorkbranch and going to their Bible studies.

That December, Jhan came to New York City for his friend’swedding. We dated for about a week and fell hopelessly in love.

Then he went “back on the road” as he was leading a Jews forJesus drama team called the New Jerusalem Players.

In February of 1976, Moishe Rosen was in New York City and heinvited me to apply for staff after I graduated that June from QueensCollege. He suggested I come back to San Francisco on my springbreak to see if I’d like the work he was proposing (he didn’t tell mewhat my job would be). I agreed, and before I knew it, spring breakhad arrived. But just before I went to San Francisco, Sam asked if,on my return, I would go with him and Miriam and a small singinggroup to Belfast, Northern Ireland! Of course I said yes.

Talk about radical! There was so much fighting going on betweenthe Catholics and Protestants of Northern Ireland that a man by thename of Bill Dooner, who was from Ireland, got a great“outside-the-box” idea. He wanted to send Jews to go and tell bothCatholics (who would not listen to Protestants), and Protestants(who would not listen to Catholics) about Jesus, the Prince ofPeace. After all, he reasoned, maybe they both would listen toJews. I agreed to go along to help schlep costumes and also do folkdancing with Miriam while the group played music out on thestreets of Belfast. I really felt I was taking my life in my hands, butit sounded like a great idea and I was excited to be part of it.

I went on to San Francisco as planned. I was there for about a weekand each day Moishe would talk to me, but still, he never actuallysaid what the new job would be. That week, Jhan “just happened” tobe home on a break from his tour. He took me out almost every day,and when he asked me to marry him, I accepted. Suddenly, thethought of Northern Ireland was just a little scarier. I really wantedto be in one piece for my wedding!

The week ended and I went back to New York City and then on toBelfast. During our time there, we experienced a lot of peace inthe midst of turmoil. There was a time or two we narrowly avoided

Jazzed for Jesus44

an explosion. In addition to the music and dancing, members ofthe team washed people’s feet as a demonstration of care andservice given in Jesus’ name. It really seemed to move a lot ofpeople, and some of them prayed with us to have peace with Godand with others through Jesus.

We came home safely, and I had a few months to prepare for our wedding.Jhan and I actually got married immediately after a six-week-longcampaign Jews for Jesus had in New York, Boston and Philadelphia.

We had a beautiful outdoor wedding on a grassy knoll by a peacefullake. In many ways, it was a typical Jewish wedding with a royalblue chupah, the deep, resonant voice of the cantor, the Hebraicmelodies that wafted through the air. We also had the traditionalkiddush cup, the breaking of the glass, and joyous exclamations of“Mazel tov!” Our family and friends could see that we had notbecome any less Jewish because of our belief in Jesus. In fact, theseoutward symbols were merely an indication of our inner convictionsand desire to honor and perpetuate our Jewish heritage.

In addition to the traditions, we added elements that uniquelyexpressed our faith:

“We came to the chupah today to reenact a pageant, a ceremony, asdid our ancestors from ancient times. The pageantry of thisceremony and the symbol of the canopy are intended to be adramatic representation of lives being joined together under thesoft roof which the Almighty, blessed be His Name, provides. Likeall drama, this ceremony is intended for the purpose of depictingreality: the reality of a blessed relationship between a husband anda wife. It shows the reality of the blessings that God can bestowupon those who love Him, and the realization that God is love.”

Prayers for the bride and groom were offered in the name of theMessiah Y’shua (Jesus). We made our pledges to one another,

45By Jhan and Melissa Moskowitz

46 Jazzed for Jesus

attesting to our belief that God had brought us together. Wecommitted ourselves to living together all the days of our lives.

We began married life “on the road” as I joined the New JerusalemPlayers and traveled around the country doing the kind of radicalstuff I’d dreamed of when I first believed in Jesus. I’m not sure thatwas the “job” Moishe had in mind when he invited me to come andsee if I liked the work.

Since marrying Jhan, my life has been every bit as much of an adventureas I could have hoped—and maybe sometimes a little more than I hoped!Traveling with the drama team started our life as a married couple in away that was not always easy, but always purposeful. We settled down fora while in San Francisco, where I edited the Jews for Jesus Newsletter.Then our work with Jews for Jesus took us to Chicago, where we lived formany years, then New York, back to Chicago, and finally to New York,where Jhan is now the North America director of Jews for Jesus. He andI, both native New Yorkers, feel we have come full circle.

In the midst of it all, we raised two beautiful daughters, I got to writea cookbook, edit a publication for other Jews who believe in Jesus,and involve myself in the lives of people who are now about the agethat I was when I started following Jesus. I have real peace in myheart. The God I once knew as being “somewhere out there” is anevery day, every way part of my life. �


Portions of Jhan and Melissa Moskowitz’s story were adapted from articles thatappeared in a bimonthly publication called ISSUES. If you are Jewish and wouldlike to know more about why the Moskowitzes and others believe that Jesus is theJewish Messiah, you can request a free subscription by filling out a request at:

http://www.jewsforjesus.org/contact?formid=300a.

ISSUES archives are also available online at:http://www.jewsforjesus.org/publications/issues

If you would like to read other stories of Jews who are for Jesus, check outwww.jewsforjesus.org.

Or, if you think that Jesus just might be the Messiah and you want to know more,please call me at 718-832-8101, or write to me at [email protected].

You can also write us for more information:Jews for Jesus International Headquarters60 Haight Street, San Francisco, CA 94102-5895

For titles such as those below, check out Purple Pomegranate Productions:http://www.store.jewsforjesus.org

Books:Testimonies of Jews Who Believe in Jesus, Ruth Rosen, EditorJewish Doctors Meet the Great Physician, Ruth Rosen, EditorThe Last Jew of Rotterdam, Ernest CassuttoBetween Two Fathers, Charles Barg, M.D.Bound for the Promised Land, Haya Benhayim with Menahem Benhayim

Booklets:Drawn to Jesus: The Journey of a Jewish Artist, David RothsteinWho Ever Heard of a Jewish Missionary? Bob MendelsohnLoss to Life, Susan PerlmanNothing to Fear, Karol JosephHineni: Here am I, God, but Where are You? Tuvya ZaretskyBlindsided, Stephen KatzFrom Generation to Generation, Steve and Janie-sue WerthiemShalom at Last, Shlomy Abramov

DVDs and Videos:Survivor Stories: Finding Hope from an Unlikely SourceSam Rotman, Concert Pianist: The Music and Testimony of a Jew for JesusForbidden Peace: The Story Behind the Headlines

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