Since I’m Jewish and believe in Jesus, I’ve sometimes heard people say things like, “Your grandmother or great-grandfather must be turning over in their graves.” That’s hard to hear, but I understand where it comes from.

My family was secular Reform—I grew up in Brooklyn, New York. We belonged to Temple Emanu-El of Canarsie, but that translated to Jewish culture more than Jewish faith. Except for my maternal grandfather: he had been religious earlier in life. But the flu epidemic of 1918 claimed the lives of several of his brothers, and that started his trajectory towards being less observant. At least, that was the family story.

It was my grandfather who likely initiated my Jewish education.

I can tell you this though: it was my grandfather who likely initiated my Jewish education. I remember him teaching me how to make hamotzi (the blessing over the bread) at the dining room table; I also suspect he helped underwrite my Hebrew school attendance and my bar mitzvah. He may have even had a hand in sending me to Jewish summer camps as a teenager.

I’m well aware that when it comes to identifying as a Jew, most of my fellow Jews draw the line at faith in Yeshua. Belief in Jesus—no matter if you maintain kashrut, or lay tefillin2 until the (kosher) cows come home—puts you beyond the pale! But when I came to faith around 19, I told my parents as well as my grandfather. As I explained my views of certain passages in the Tanakh, he was the one who said to me, “If you want to know what it says, study Rashi. He’ll tell you.” Rashi, of course, is the premier Jewish commentator from the medieval period, and he was my grandfather’s authority.

Others in my family had different responses to my newfound belief in Yeshua. My dad said nothing, but he often said nothing. My mom responded with a quip about Catholicism commenting, “At least I hope you’re not a Catholic!”—presumably thinking that Catholicism was like the sun, whereas other varieties of Christianity were merely planets. It was really her way of saying, “I hope you don’t go all the way with this.”

However, “this” was, in my mind, a completely Jewish option; if Yeshua was the Messiah, then all Jews should choose to follow him. But my family didn’t see it that way. Most of them remain firmly secular, avoiding the topic altogether. Although one cousin did weigh in with: “Religion is your thing, like finances are my thing.” I thought that was an interesting take: religious faith is on the same level with investing, stamp collecting, and bowling on Saturdays. Whatever you like.

When Jews come to faith in their Messiah, they are honoring their ancestors.

Even though it would probably make my grandfather—and the rabbi at Temple Emanu-El, where I went to Hebrew school—plotz to say this… when Jews come to faith in Yeshua as their Messiah, they are actually honoring their ancestors.

Many of my forebears came from Romania and Russia. Generations back, they were observant, Orthodox Jews (before it was known as Orthodox Judaism). I’m told that my grandfather’s parents were strongly observant, and the pictures I’ve seen of them lend credence to that.

Among the religious Jews of Eastern Europe, what was one of their great hopes at that time? Not that their son would become a lawyer or doctor—not in the shtetls! Their greatest hope was that the Messiah would come, maybe in their lifetime, maybe at some Passover (announced by the appearance of Elijah). Or maybe some child in that very generation would prove to be the Messiah, the great Redeemer of Israel.

What if, somehow, they had discovered that Jesus was—against all their prior expectations—that promised Messiah? After all, we have accounts of Jews of the 18th or 19th centuries, deeply religious at that, who came to faith in Yeshua. There is even the autobiography of a 20th-century rabbi who came to believe but kept his faith a secret, continuing to serve as a rabbi for many more years.3

I have no idea if any of my ancestors came to that faith in Messiah, but since the very idea of a Messiah is one ingrained in us since the days of the Tanakh, I must conclude that if Jesus is that Messiah, then believing in him honors the hopes and faith of my forefathers and foremothers.

Discovering and living out the fulfillment of their hopes gives them true kavod.

If I had become a gangster, for example (as some American Jews famously did in the early 20th century), that would not have honored them. If I had thought to myself, “Those were just old superstitions, but today we know better,” or “There is no Messiah!” that would not have honored them. But discovering and living out the fulfillment of their hopes? That gives them true kavod, the Hebrew word for “honor.”

I know that my grandfather didn’t plotz when he heard about my faith. He wasn’t happy, but he certainly didn’t keel over. Nor did the rabbi at my campus Hillel, as I argued together with him for the better part of a school year.

I don’t know where my grandfather ultimately came down on the issue of Yeshua. He and I did visit a messianic Jewish gathering in Miami near the end of his life. He was adamant that Jesus wasn’t the Messiah, but he seemed, in the end, to think it all harmless.

But if he did come to embrace faith in Yeshua, I know that if he thought of me, it would have been a day when he would not have plotzed. I hope that he would have felt honored—given kavod, respected—because then he would know that my faith was one that upheld the Jewish hopes of redemption, and a future Redeemer.

Endnotes

1.  Plotz: to fall or keel over from surprise or astonishment.

2. Kashrut: the laws of kosher food. Tefillin: phylacteries.

3. George Benedict, Christ Finds a Rabbi: An Autobiography (Philadelphia: Westbrook Publishing Company, 1945).