(Editor’s Note: This is my testimonial of faith. This is the first chapter of four. I provide links to the other chapters at the bottom)

Christians talk about their “testimonial” which is their story about knowing Christ. Even writing it down seems awkward to me. I never really understood the need to share such a personal thing with strangers. I have spent most of my life being asked “So, what EXACTLY do you believe?” and I have become very skilled over the years at dodging this question. I don’t like talking about it. My spiritual beliefs are about as personal to me as sharing stories about my first sexual experiences. I just don’t feel it is anybody’s business but mine and God’s. However, my journey is unique and it cannot be summarized in a few cliches or throw away statements about God. Perhaps my sudden need to share my story has something to do with my desire to solidify my beliefs in a way that I can share with my children. Perhaps it has more to do with my own on-going struggles with faith. I’m not sure but since this is a long story I will do this in several postings. Here is Chapter 1.

In The Beginning….
My mother is Jewish. My father is Christian. I was raised in a mixed-faith family. This was very unusual for my generation. My father found a lot of hypocrisy in the church and lost interest as a young adult. My mother also felt the Temple did not speak to her. She didn’t believe all the fairy tales and the difference between what was said in Temple and the actions taken by those who attended bothered her. They both abandoned their faith early in their lives. My mother’s rule was that we celebrated any holiday that revolved around a good meal or presents. As a result we mainly celebrated Easter, Passover, Hanukkah, and Christmas. My parents believed in God and the ten commandments. They also believed in psychic phenomenon, physics, and that ghosts were real (in a sense). I grew up surrounded by amazingly diverse, creative and intelligent people. I LOVE that about my childhood and I could not be more grateful that my parents created that environment. However, that really left us kids to find our own spiritual path.

In the meantime there was prejudice around me constantly. As soon as people found out that I hadn’t been baptized, that I didn’t believe in the divinity of Christ, or that my mother was Jewish I was treated differently. Friends would openly tell me that we could be friends but I was going to hell and they were not. When I got older and started dating I felt this from parents. Every boy I dated got the same speech from his parents “she’s a nice girl, but you wouldn’t want to marry her because your children would go to hell”. I was always viewed as a bad influence. When I would tell my parents they did what good parents do – they defended me. They would gently explain that religion is filled with hypocrisy and judgment and no group is worst than Christians. And I witnessed it every day. It is so much easier to stand in judgment then to see a heart that is actually seeking answers. The irony to this is that if any set of parents or friends had actually taken the time to talk to me with respect and love they probably could have converted me but they didn’t. By the time I was 16 I was attending churches by myself, always leaving with more questions than answers. Not one Christian took the time to reach out to me, they only wanted to judge me. When I entered college I only knew one thing — God existed and he loved me.

I Meet My First Important Person
I studied religion in college and became quite knowledgeable in regards to the history of religion. I loved it and grew passionate about why we believe what we believe. I was still trying churches and since most of my friends were Catholic that is usually where I ended up. Although no church has shown me the face of hypocrisy more than the Catholic church. (I love the folks who sit in the back and read the newspaper). After college I began attending the First United Methodist Church. I loved it there. They were kind people who really tried to reach out to me and make me feel comfortable.

I met with the Pastor and delicately described my situation. He was a rather short man with a 1960’s mustache and glasses. He had a kind demeanor, the sort of personality you would expect from a Pastor. I sat next to him on a low couch and as I nervously twisted my fingers and with a broken voice I said “my mother’s Jewish and I will never join your church.” He said nothing seemingly comfortable with what I said. I continued, “I’m proud of my heritage and that my relatives fled Nazis and other tormentors and I could never give up being Jewish. It would be an insult to their sacrifice”. I couldn’t look at him. I was anticipating the wrath, the judgment, the hatred that I had felt so many times before, but this time it didn’t come. He gave a soft chuckle and said “Beth, we have several Jewish members at our church. Knowing God and knowing Christ is a journey and we all must walk our own path. I can only take you where you are. It’s okay if you can’t join but we still want you to come and worship with us.” I loved that man for saying that. We had a couple of small conversations after that and then he left for a new church. Five years later David and I would stand in that same church and get married. I’ve always been happy that we were married in my first church home. I left that church and Michigan for Texas in 1998 and I then knew three things; there was a God, he loved me and I wasn’t alone in trying to find him.