If the Messiah was anything, he was more of an idea than a person. And if he was a person, he certainly wouldn’t be one who suffered or was overwhelmed. He would be strong—strong enough to lead our people out of pain.

The Jewish people have known plenty of pain, and my family line is no exception. Even my name carries a story of persecution with it. I was named after Zigmund, my great-grandfather, who died in the Holocaust alongside most of his family.

Zigmund’s daughter (my bubbe) survived the atrocities as a young woman. She arrived in England in 1939 and settled as a domestic servant for what she supposed was a Christian family. But when the family insisted that she cook bacon, Bubbe refused, explaining that as a Jew she was forbidden. They threatened to have her deported. She fled that same night—was any place safe for her, for our people?

What were the chances that only one religion could be right?

My brother Richard and I grew up in a London that was safer than what our grandmother had known. But still, these memories shaped us. They were part of our story, and they always will be. The pain of the past never truly felt over.

We looked forward to the Messianic Age, but with a vague sense of hope. We held onto a magical feeling that something wonderful was coming. I never understood the Christian idea of Jesus as Messiah, nor did I ever ask any questions about it. That they believed Jesus was God and man at the same time was unknown to me. All I knew was that if God was real, he was too distant, too holy, to be known.

I carried the stories of my family with me into my university and walked the halls a proud Jewish atheist. While studying mathematics, I stayed connected on campus as a member of the Jewish Society. Reason guided me through my studies; reason taught me that I would carry my heritage with me always; and reason said that if there was a God, I did not know him, and I had no path to knowing him.

Some said they did have a path to knowing him—but how could one faith be true? So many world religions say different things. What were the chances that only one of them could be right?

Looking back, I know my questions about faith were genuine. But I hovered over the surface of my questions and avoided any real engagement. When I heard myself trying to speak with others about how all religions were really the same, I realized I was only appealing to harmony for the sake of harmony.

For some, atheism is merely a smokescreen for pain. For me, it’s more that my family story of pain supported my problems with belief. Pain kept me from truly examining the logic of my own atheism. That pain stopped me from considering God, but it was ignorance that kept me from listening to Christians.

Belief versus unbelief was a serious question. I should apply my logic to both sides.

When my good friend became a Christian, I chastised him: “That sounds like a foolish choice.” But when he invited me to attend church with him, I said yes. I had never been inside a Christian place of worship before—I had never had a reason to. But the friendship felt safe, so maybe the church would be safe too.

I did find it a safe place to lift the lid off my internal debate long enough to really take a long look at my doubt. Belief versus unbelief was a serious question, important enough that I should apply my logic to both sides. I was encouraged to read the New Testament book of Mark, a narrative of Jesus’ life. As I read, I asked myself, “Have I found the Messiah?” But a deeper voice within me said, “How can I accept Jesus as the Messiah when the rabbis have been rejecting him for the last 2,000 years?”

He might be the Messiah for the Christians, but not for the Jews. I went to the men’s group at the local synagogue to confirm this. As we sat around a table full of open books, I asked my Jewish brothers what they thought about the prophecies in the Tanakh. But they skirted my questions with the usual “Jesus is not for the Jews.” No one could give me a real answer for why that must be true.

So I examined my own texts—for the first time, I really dug into the Hebrew prophecies about our awaited Messiah. When I came to the book of Isaiah, I found so many specific details, not just about the Messiah’s life—but about his death.

My mathematical mind knew that the probability of the Messianic prophecies being fulfilled in one person was virtually zero. Jesus did fulfill them—all of them. The prophecies do show that the Messiah would be divine. And they do show that he was supposed to lay down his life. My discoveries felt like comparing a fingerprint with a finger and getting an exact match.

Now I know how Jesus experienced pain—as one of us.

Not only that, but Isaiah said that he was “despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (53:3). Jesus was not a stranger to the pain of my people. No, he had stepped right into the most volatile era of our story. He had entered history during that great oppression of our people, the Roman occupation—and not only that, he had submitted himself to suffering at the hands of our oppressors.

The pain of my people is still part of my story. But now I know how Jesus experienced it as one of us.

Yes, the rabbis rejected him as a deceiver. And many of them still do. In fact, some say that even considering Jesus could be seen as the ultimate act of disloyalty for a Jewish person. But perhaps that is because they don’t really know him.

I’ve seen—and I can’t unsee—how Jesus lived and died, how he carried our sorrows. It all adds up, and I can no longer reject him. If there is such a thing as a Jewish deliverer, it can only be him.

Now when I encounter pain in the world, I draw near to God instead of pulling away from him, as I used to do. I understand that he actually knows far more about grief than I do. Knowing that I need to know him—that I cannot bear life’s grief without him—is not weakness; it is wisdom.

He is no longer just the Christian Messiah. He is my Messiah.