Good News for Israel - www.gnfi.org
A Rabbi's Search for Messiah
"Just come along quietly," one of the police officers said, "We're leaving the synagogue."
Rabbi Isodor Zwirn was physically dragged off the bimah (podium) and out of a Burbank California synagogue for sharing what he had discovered in Isaiah's prophecies.
An Orthodox Jew, using the research methods (doresh) taught him in rabbinical school, after a lengthy and careful search of the Hebrew (Old Testament) Scriptures, came to a decision that radically changed his life.
GNFI has published this fascinating story of an Orthodox Rabbi's journey to faith in Yeshua (Jesus).
Click here to read my review of the book. - cjp
TRAINED IN TORAH
The Sabbath began as usual at our Orthodox synagogue until I stepped up to the bimah, the platform, to read the weekly portion from the Torah. Then pandemonium broke loose. Before I really knew what was happening, two huge uniformed police officers suddenly appeared, grabbed me by both arms, and started moving me toward the doorway.
"What's happening? What are you doing?" I asked, more startled than angry.
"Just come along quietly, Rabbi," one of the officers said. "We're leaving the synagogue."
"But, why? I belong here. I'm one of the rabbis. I don't understand."
"Let's go," he said, tightening his grip on my arm. "But . . ."
The pressure on my arms increased. "C'mon, Rabbi. Let's go."
I couldn't believe what was happening. For one wild moment I wondered if this was how it had happened in Germany. I looked at the congregants, hoping that they would do something, that they would rescue me from these officers. But they just looked at me, most of them with startled looks on their faces. Not a single one of them raised a hand or voice to help me.
Within moments we were off the bimah, down the aisle, and out on the street. As soon as the officers released their grip on my arms, I turned to re-enter the synagogue. Immediately, they grabbed me again. "Sorry, Rabbi, but you can't go back in there."
"But, I don't understand," I said. "This is the Sabbath. I came here to worship. Why can't I be allowed to do so?"
"All I know, Rabbi," one officer said, "is that we were told to remove you from the synagogue. and to tell you not to come back again. We just did our job. That's all we know."
"But I belong in there," I protested. "I'm one of the rabbis."
One of the huge officers towered above me, shaking his head. "Sorry, Rabbi Zwirn," he said, "but our orders were to remove you from the synagogue, which we did. And to prevent you from entering it, which we're going to do if you try to get back in. Sorry."
The impact of the officers' words struck me full force: I had just been forcibly ousted from my own synagogue! The action was a harsh reminder to me that, as a Jew, an Orthodox Jew and a rabbi at that, my decision to become a follower of the Messiah was not being looked upon with favor by my fellow Jews.
I came from a long line of Orthodox Jews. Though my father was a tzaddik, a righteous man, he was not a rabbi. Nor was my paternal grandfather of blessed memory, though he was even more strict and pious than my father. With his long, white, flowing beard, dressed in his black coat and black hat, Grandfather was a very imposing person.
Because of the biblical injunction, "Thou shalt have no graven images before me," my grandfather and most Orthodox Jews traditionally have made a practice of not posing for photographs. So Grandfather would not allow any photographs to be taken of him. However, just before he went to his eternal reward, a member of our family was able to take one picture of him.
Orthodox Jewish fathers and their sons usually develop a very close and lasting relationship. My father's and mine was no exception. Some of my earliest memories in New York City are of sitting with him while we studied the weekly portion from the Torah and Haftarah (a section from the Book of Prophets).
My father wanted me to become a rabbi, just as his father had wanted him to be. For the past 2,000 years or so, any Orthodox Jew who wanted his son to become a rabbi would send him to a Hebrew school called a yeshivah, also called bet hamidrash, "house of research." The name comes from the words bet, meaning "house," and doresh which means "to seek, ask, question or research."
Before the boy can be accepted as a yeshivah student at the age of six, however, he must already know how to pray in Hebrew and understand what he is saying. This required level of learning can be compared to an incoming student in an American secular school having to be able to read English and also having considerable knowledge of the language.
For me to achieve this somewhat advanced level of learning by age six, my father, and all other fathers who desired to send their sons to the Yeshivah Rabbenu Yaacov Yoseph in New York City, started teaching me to read and pray from the Orthodox Prayer Book from the time I was only three years of age. That was in 1918. And as far as I know, this standard has not changed, either in the United States or Israel.
From the very first day in the yeshivah, our textbook was the Torah. And, of course, the Torah was in Hebrew. As each student was called upon in turn, he had to read the next sentence and give his interpretation of what the verse meant to him.
The teaching rabbi would then give his and other rabbis' interpretations of that verse, and encourage all the students to participate in the ensuing dialogue. Often this dialogue would center around the meaning of a single word in the sentence. Sometimes the meaning of the entire passage would even hinge upon a single letter of a single word. The discussions that grew out of such intense studies gave rise to the standing joke that whenever two Jews meet for a conversation, you can expect at least three or four different opinions.
Basically, that is how we studied, both in the yeshivah and in our homes. This method taught us love and respect for the honest opinions of others, even though they might differ or conflict with our own. This same respect for the opinions of others was expressed when we began to research the Talmud (the written record of the Oral Law and the discussion of the Sages concerning its interpretation) and other religious books that we studied.
Our learning was accompanied by a catchy tune, that no yeshivah child could ever forget, with the words going something like, "And so said Rabbi X.and so said Rabbi Y ... and so said Rabbi Z ..." and so on.
The same method of study, with the same openness in expression of personal opinions, and the same respect for the opinions of others, was adopted wherever we studied, even at home during the times when my father and I would review the weekly portion of the Torah (which is read by Jews all around the world).
We were taught, and I firmly believe it to be true, that there is no way of ever arriving at eternal truths unless all concepts and all opinions are allowed to be discussed openly. We were taught that this was the way that free men and children of the free were to study life. It could be said that this bet hamidrash method of study is based upon the commandment, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
Of course, the bet hamidrash, house of learning, method stands out in stark contrast to the principle adopted by many teachers, preachers, and professors who feel that they must ban all opposing views, and who say by their attitude, "In my class I allow for only one opinion or viewpoint: my own!"
We Jews sometimes like to poke fun at ourselves with funny stories. One of the most popular of these was seen in Shalom Aleichem's well-known play and motion picture, Fiddler on the Roof. The basis for Aleichem's story, as well as the anecdote, comes from the fact that, in the ghettos of Europe, the rabbis served as judges in addition to their religious duties.
In the story, Moisha and Jake came one day to the rabbi to settle a dispute. First the rabbi listened to Moisha's long complaint against Jake. When he finished, the rabbi said, "Moisha, du bist gerecht" ("You are right").
Then the rabbi called in Jake and listened to his viewpoint of the controversy. When he finished, the rabbi said, "Jake, du bist gerecht."
It seems that it is the custom for rebbetzin, rabbis' wives, to listen to all such complaints through the keyhole. Thus, when the discussions were over and the two men had gone, the rebbetzin came into the room and spoke indignantly. "They can't both be right!"
The rabbi stopped a moment to rethink his decision, then answered, "You know, Rebbetzin, you, too, are right."
In the Talmud it is written, "As a hammer splits the rock into many splinters, so will a scriptural verse yield many meanings." An honest Bible scholar will inevitably realize the truth of this saying.
The bet hamidrash method of studying Torah may sound strange to those who are accustomed to accepting their teacher's viewpoint as final authority without personally investigating his statements. A yeshivah student would not necessarily agree with the divergent points of view, but he was expected to accept them as being the honest views of the ones who expressed them. Each person had to decide for himself which of the expressed viewpoints was true for him.
This bet hamidrash method of study would continue throughout the Sabbath in the small Bronx synagogue where my father and I attended, until just before the evening havdalah, the services which marked the end of the Sabbath.
Then, even though no rabbi was present, the dialogue on the weekly portions would be loudly discussed around a table heavily laden with delicious Jewish food. These discussions were hot and heavy, and to an outsider they might have appeared disorganized. Within Jewish Orthodoxy, scenes like this, portrayed in the motion picture, Yentl, still continue.
Being a Jewish boy in those days wasn't easy, especially where I lived. Jewish children were often the butt of crude and cruel jokes and even violence. I soon learned to stay away from goyim, Gentile boys or men. On more than one occasion they would catch me and treat me shamefully, sometimes burning my face with the glowing end of a cigarette. As I writhed and cried out in pain, they laughed and made slurring remarks about Jews. The first time they called me a "Christ killer," I asked my father about it.
He shook his head. "No, son, we are no more Christ killers than they are. The Romans crucified the Gentile's Jesus, not the Jews."
Though Pops, as I always called him, was very careful in his speaking about the goyim, I realized that he, too, feared and perhaps even hated them. Most of the Jewish community honestly believed that all Gentiles were "Jew haters" and were to be avoided. Consequently, neither my father nor any of our Jewish friends did business with Gentiles if they could help it.
These early experiences solidified my attitudes toward the Gentiles, attitudes which continued throughout my life until recent years. It seemed to me then that Jews and Gentiles had nothing in common. It seemed that the only similarity was that we were both human. However, even at that point the Gentiles seemed to have some doubts about us, as they often called us "swine" and accused us of having horns on our heads like animals.
We dressed differently. Both Jewish men and women dressed mostly in somber black year around, while Gentiles made quite generous use of color in their dress.
We ate differently. All the Jewish people I knew at that time were careful to eat kosher, which meant they had to buy their foods and meats from kosher, "clean,"
Jewish stores and markets. It seemed to us that Gentiles had little regard for God's commandments regarding food.
Our concept of God was different. From the time I was very young I was taught that Christians worshiped three Gods, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, instead of the one Lord, whom the Jewish people worshiped. And the Christians worshiped on Sunday instead of on the Sabbath, the day we believed God had ordained for rest and worship.
Even our schools were different. Jewish schooling was centered around Torah, while the few Gentile children with whom I had casual contact appeared to have absolutely no regard for God's Word. In fact, they seemed to be totally ignorant of anything that had to do with God.
So, from my earliest childhood and youth, I was led to believe that Jews and Gentiles had nothing in common, and we Jews were to have nothing to do with "them."
As a Jewish boy and young man, my every awareness was of the Lord. My thoughts were constantly centered upon the fact of his presence in my life. In the truest sense of the word, it was not just faith in his presence, but distinctly more than that. His presence was a foregone conclusion. I was aware of the fact of his presence.
This belief was the result of the prayers that my father taught me to pray when I awakened, before eating or drinking, and upon seeing God's wonders in the universe. Every thought and every action was inextricably connected with God's presence.
That same awareness of the Lord was present in my bet hamidrash method of study and learning. I was taught that the Lord not only cared about my learning, but that he commanded me to study and learn Torah, and the accepted method of so doing was through bet hamidrash.
Throughout my life I realized that in the Hebrew language, every letter and every word is important. Every one has a meaning and a purpose. None is superfluous. Many centuries ago, a form of Jewish mysticism arose called Kabbalah, which gave a numerical system of interpreting Scripture. To the Kabbalist, each letter of the Hebrew alphabet has an eternal numerical value. Kabbalists have computer-like minds, with the ability to total the numerical values of each Hebrew word, sentence, and paragraph. Thus, as they study, they compare a word, sentence, or paragraph with other similar words, sentences, or paragraphs found in other parts of the Torah. This enables them to clarify the section under discussion. Therefore, what might appear to be a very difficult passage of Scripture to the average biblical student would be very simple to them.
During my early years of study, the bet hamidrash principles of Torah study became so deeply ingrained in me that I could never forget them. The word Torah usually refers to the first five books of the Bible and is often translated "the Law." It is best translated, however, as "instruction" or "teaching," God's revealed will for our lives.
To this day, I can hear the voices of my rabbis and teachers as they expounded. "Remember," they said over and over again, "Torah is our textbook. Only Torah. When we study Torah it is both our text and our commentary."
To this day, when I study the Bible, I depend upon the Bible to be its own comprehensive and reliable commentary.
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