Experiencing Messianic Judaism
I see stories in people. In every observation and exchange, I'm looking for the stories that make them who they are. If I can hear the stories that create you, sustain you, and shape you, then I can know you. I am trained in narrative ethnography, in participating in people's stories, in observing the way they tell about their experiences, and in creating a written account of what I've seen. I understand and embrace the idea that narrative allows us to better appreciate and comprehend those we share our world with. This is the framework that accompanies me on my life's travels, and it is the framework I took with me when I embarked upon an odyssey that would profoundly impact me: my two year ethnography of Dalet Shalom, a Messianic Jewish congregation.
Messianic Jews identify themselves as Jewish, carrying out Jewish rituals and celebrations within the context of a belief in Jesus (Yeshua). Messianic Jews are not accepted by mainstream Jews because of their theological insistence that Yeshua is the Messiah; they have an ambiguous relationship with mainstream Christians because they view Christian worship as paganized. Simultaneously defining themselves as Jewish while believing in Yeshua places Messianic Jews in an undefined border-land, a site where their identity is continually challenged and negotiated.
My interest in Messianic Judaism was sparked by a newspaper article claiming that the Messianic movement is a disguised missionary movement, meant to lure Jews into converting to belief in Jesus. I found this claim both intriguing and suspect. Part of me wondered if this religious movement could be an ingenious ruse. But another part of me felt that the article was not addressing the complexity of faith. Could followers sustain belief based purely on trickery? To answer these questions, I began an ethnographic study of Dalet Shalom, a local Messianic Jewish congregation. Two and a half years later, it was time to write my dissertation, and to use my training in narrative ethnography not only to illuminate the people of my ethnography, but myself as well.
The world of Dalet Shalom was one of passionate, evangelical worship, where "amen!" and "hallelujah!"would wash over the congregation in waves of joyful praise. The music was always vibrant and alive, often sparking several women to form a circle and perform Israeli-style dances. During a dance, the women's feet would glide lightly across the floor, their skirts moving like sheets in a breeze. Sometimes their arms encircled one another while other times they lifted their hands. Their synchronized movements were infused with sign language. I was continually overwhelmed by the emotional release of their dancing. The impassioned worship style of Dalet Shalom attracted me to Messianic Judaism, but their theological beliefs distanced me. Sermons usually focused on how we were currently in "the end of times," only moments before Yeshua's second coming. The rabbi's voice would boom: "Look at the world today -- all the evidence you need is out there. Murder of the unborn, rampant homosexuality, all the horrors. Everyday, more horrors. And it's all been spoken about in the Bible. God gave us the Bible -- it is His word, his literal word. And Yeshua is waiting, waiting to return to Israel. Why do you think Israel adopted Hebrew as their language -- formerly an almost dead language, used only for religious ceremony? But now, Hebrew is being spoken in Israel, God's language in God's land. These are all steps toward Yeshua's return!"
From my seat, I cringed internally, upset by their intolerance. Looking around at the congregants, I would try to read their faces. Had any of them had homosexual friends or family members? Had any of them had to make a choice about an unexpected pregnancy? Was there any way that I, a liberal, secular, Jewish woman could relate to the people of Dalet Shalom?
In the beginning of my fieldwork, I was not sure that I would be able to open myself enough to a world view so different from my own. Internally I wondered, "What if their stories don't resonate with me at all? What if I can't ever understand these individuals?" I was intrigued enough by the dilemmas of their post-conversion lives (like the fact that the faith of many congregants was strong enough to withstand the rejection of their families and friends) that I was compelled to continue.
As soon as I began to write in my field journal, memories from my own life began to surface, collectively pouring out with my narrative accounts of my encounters at Dalet Shalom. It did not take me long to realize that my attraction to this congregation was rooted in my own ambivalent relationship to Judaism, and my own life experiences. A parallel story was emerging alongside the story of the congregation: the narrative of my own Jewish identity and spirituality.
My thoughts turned to my own ambivalence about being Jewish, and I wondered how much of those feelings were rooted in the context of my familial history. I always felt as though I were born with a mark of shame on my soul. As though deep within me -- already present at conception -- was a reminder of faces and bodies pressed tightly into train compartments headed for Auschwitz. As though the genetic mass within my mother's womb, dividing and subdividing, already felt the twinges of comprehension that, from that moment on, Judaism would become a constant reminder of victimhood.
I have always had a deep desire for spiritual fulfillment. The urge for it has filled me like a hunger, causing me to seek it out continually, but without complete satisfaction. At Dalet Shalom, I loved the feeling of joining in praise and worship, of having the rabbi ask about my emotional well-being, of how it felt when congregants invited me to sit with them during services. However, I felt estranged by their belief in biblical literalism, their intolerance of homosexuality, and by their insistence that there is only one correct way to worship. Because of those disconnections I wondered if it would ever be possible to convert to Messianic Judaism. I wanted the intense emotional energy of Dalet Shalom, and the warmth and caring among members. I wanted the moments of transcendence offered by the singing and dancing, and the link to the sights and sounds of my heritage. I was surrounded by people worshiping in an evangelical style, but with loyalty to Jewish identity and ritual. From the pre-conversion stories told to me, I knew the congregants shared my desires for a heightened, spiritual worship within Judaism. The congregants at Dalet Shalom expressed their Jewishness with passion and emotion, but within the framework of belief in Yeshua, the figure not accepted as the messiah by mainstream Jews. In the context of my experiences at Dalet Shalom, I began to question my spiritual beliefs. Could I ever believe in Yeshua? What would it mean for me and my relationships if I did convert? Since beginning my ethnography, my Jewish friends and family members had been both interested and wary. They wanted to know what I was discovering about this group viewed as traitorous by most in the Jewish community. They were fascinated by how members practice ritual and why they define themselves as Jewish. On the other hand, more than one of my Jewish friends had expressed concern that I might "go native" and convert to Messianic Judaism. They seemed to fear the appeal that Yeshua might have for me.
Did my friends have reason to fear? Did I? I knew the allure of welcome and comfort in Dalet Shalom. There were times during services when I experienced a deep sense of belonging. And there were times when a great wellspring of emotions met me while standing in the sanctuary. Often, tears pushed at my eyelids, trying to work their way out. My throat constricted, and I fought my emotions with all my might. I was afraid to let myself feel anything this deep while in services at Dalet Shalom. My response was to look down at the red carpet, biting my lower lip and trying to swallow back my tears. A barrage of thoughts ran through my mind. "Why do I feel this way? What happens that makes me cry? What brings up this gushing reaction from me?" Many times I closely studied the facial expressions of those in attendance, wondering if what they were feeling was anything like what I was feeling.
"Why don't I let myself go? What would happen if I broke down here? If I let it rush out of me? Would I experience what they experience? Would I understand it better? Is it my obligation as an ethnographer to let myself feel these feelings? Or to not let myself feel them? What if I were to have a spiritual experience one Friday night? How would I interpret that -- interpret me -- interpret them?" I knew that if I did have a spiritual experience, the roles set up by my research project would be irrevocably altered. The expectations the congregants had of me would shift, and I would be expected to fully embrace Messianic Judaism. But what if the spiritual experience did not lead me to belief? Or what if I believed in Yeshua for a while, but then changed my mind? The congregants would be disappointed by my wavering spirituality, and my relationships with them would be jeopardized.
A conversion to Messianic Judaism would change my relationships to those in my academic community as well. Academia is a world where theories of social construction are dominant, and often spiritual beliefs are reduced and explained away on various social, philosophical, and psychological levels. In this context, claiming a conversion to evangelical belief in the Bible would marginalize me, and might even challenge my identity as a scholar.
Even more confusing to me was how to hold on to the dividing line between the label of Judaism and that of Christianity. The congregants certainly had a broader knowledge of Judaism and practiced more Jewish ritual than I did. The questions I began asking myself were more and more difficult. If these congregants could no longer be considered Jewish, than what rights did I have to that label?
As I gathered the stories of the congregants, I began to realize that their spiritual experiences were too complex for simple labels like "disguised missionaries." Whether or not their theology was something I could embrace, the congregants were responding to spiritual realities, and their beliefs could not be swept aside or reduced to a mere social construction. I opened myself to accept the emotional truth of their faith, and the importance it played in their lives.
As my own stories unfolded along with theirs, still another narrative began to reveal itself. This new plot line was the historical story of Jewish-Christian relations and what this troubled past meant for my understanding of Messianic Jewish theology. I began reading about the tangled relationship that developed between Jews and Christians. Christianity's growth in popularity and its becoming the official religion of the Greco-Roman empire in the fourth century fueled the already tense relations between Jews and Christians. Christianity developed a story line in which the Jews are no longer God's chosen people. Instead, Christians replace Jews as God's elect, and Jewish people become unnecessary to God's plan for salvation. This attitude continued to grow until it eventually culminated in the ideology of the Holocaust. This chilling narrative made me realize the ethical danger posed by Messianic Jewish theology, which views Messianic Judaism as the one correct way to worship. I knew that as long as Messianic Jews viewed themselves as the "true Jews," here to testify that mainstream Jews must embrace Yeshua as the messiah in order to be saved, their theology only reinforced a dangerous trend in the Christian narrative of salvation through Jesus alone.
At the same time, I had to balance this realization with the understanding that the mainstream Jewish community should not summarily dismiss the legitimacy of Messianic Jewish religious experience. As my ethnography drew to a close, I realized that both story lines, individual experience of Messianic Judaism and the history of Jewish-Christian relations, worked together to inform my understanding of Dalet Shalom and Messianic Judaism. I was also now able to draw some conclusions about my own spiritual journey in the Messianic world.
I was attracted to Messianic Judaism because, as a faith, it reflected my innermost struggles: could following a structured, evangelical style of faith reconcile my conflicting emotions about Judaism? Was Jesus to be accepted or rejected? I began this ethnography looking for clear answers about what it meant to be Jewish, searching my own experiences for the right and wrong of my actions.
I believe my continual failure to completely connect to Messianic Jewish faith was a needed failure, a failure that moved me to remain more open to the complexities and ambiguities of life rather than having to embrace a more definite belief about right and wrong, us and them, saved and damned. My Messianic Jewish sojourn was one of continuous unlayering. I could not firmly grasp the meanings I constructed, for as soon as I tried they were altered. Every insight I made was followed by the realization that there were other angles, more material, multiple understandings. The mysterious quality of spirituality followed my journey all along, raising questions that did not always have answers. I have gotten used to probing my Jewish identity, and to the idea that my feelings about being Jewish are in constant flux. The congregants of Dalet Shalom felt that my relationship with God was lacking because I was unable to disengage from intellectualizing. But during this study I realized that almost every research project I have undertaken in my life deals with some aspect of Judaism. And I came to understand that it is through my academic self that I converse with God.
I leave the field a different person than I entered it, having discovered many things along the way. Among the bits of wisdom I've gleaned from this experience is the understanding that the spiritual and ethnographic explorations overlap. Both are based in subjective experiences, contemplate the unknown, suspend one world view to understand another, and ask open-ended questions about our place in the world and our connections to things and people beyond ourselves.
Ethnography and spirituality invite us to consider the power of uncertainty. This is an offer that will always tempt me, and one that requires I be engaged in an evolving process of inquiry. From this study I take with me the challenges of remaining receptive to the unknown, and the hope that my continuing journey will be marked by wonder.
