Today is Good Friday 2013. It's March 29th--I don't know what date Good Friday was in 1973. I also don't know the exact date the Jewish festival of Passover fell in 1973. So proclaiming this day as "the 40th anniversary" is not precisely accurate. But it's as good a day as any to tell the story.
This is a blog about my children. It started as a blog about my trip to India to find Pax's grave. It progressed to becoming a blog that talked about both of my children, and my recent experiences, memories and reflections as I now walk through life as a bereaved parent.
This next story pre-dates my children, but as it has a lot to do with my own identity, it reflects upon my children. Their lives would have been different if this had not been part of my story.
That's the intro. Now to the event that I recognise as reaching its 40 year anniversary this day (approximate).
I was born in England. (Southend, if you've been reading my blog!) My father came from Poland during WW2 and served in the British army. My mother was born in England, but her parents had emigrated from Russia, I believe at the turn of the 20th century. Both sides of my family are therefore not exactly "British" in the Anglo-Saxon sense.
My family is Jewish and, as a child, I grew up in an orthodox household. We kept "kosher" dietary laws, we didn't do work on Sabbath, etc., etc.
As a teenager, I rebelled against just about anything there was to rebel against.--My family's religion, society's "establishment", the education system, etc., etc. But it wasn't just rebellion for rebellion's sake. I was a truth-seeker. I was looking for a path in life that would give me personal happiness but also a sense of improving the world, changing the world, making a difference. The last thing I wanted was to follow the conventional path: 1) School 2) University 3) Job 4) Marriage 5) Mortgage. (Funny enough, despite my efforts to the contrary, I have managed to get all of those onto my life's CV. University course was taken following a "gap year" that lasted more than 30 years!)
I'm going to miss a lot of details here and fast forward to December 1972, London. I met two young evangelists with whom I argued about Jesus, God, religion, the religious establishment. Two young men whom I never met again, and to this day I don't know "who" they were. I doubt whether they remember me. I wasn't exactly won over during our conversation. They left me with lots to think about, and a tract. A small piece of paper with perhaps only 300 words on it. A simple explanation of Jesus as the Messiah, and an invitation to invite him--through prayer--into my heart and life.
Long story short, in my own way and time, I did pray this prayer. I started reading the Bible, attending informal meetings, and began to claim "Christianity" as my religion. I was a zealous, excited new convert.
But I can't pretend I really understood. I had a simplistic understanding of "God the Father and Jesus his Son." It was a new belief for me, one that I didn't really relate to my previous religious upbringing .
Passover came around. My family followed the Jewish tradition of holding a ceremonial meal, commemorating the deliverance of the children of Israel, led by Moses, out of Egypt.
We were reading the passage concerning the plagues. The final plague was a terrible one; the death of the firstborn. God's people were commanded to take and slaughter a lamb, and then to paint some of the blood of the lamb on the lintels and doorways of their houses. If they had faith and believed God's command, the angel of death would "pass over" their house. He would not visit; their firstborn would be safe.
At that moment, as we sat around the family dining table, reading the passage, I can say I suddenly understood who Jesus is. He is the lamb of God. All that went before was a type, a symbol if you like. But the true lamb of God was slain on the cross--on the day we recognise as Good Friday--and when we accept him, and take his spiritual blood on the doors of our hearts, it is guaranteed that the Angel of Death will pass over. Not in the physical sense--for the parallel is a parallel, not an exact replica--but spiritually, we are promised eternal life.
"God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that whoever believes in him should not perish, but have eternal life." (John 3:16)
I was very excited to come to this realisation. And so that is the date from which I can count I became a believing Christian. Although I had already prayed and received Jesus months earlier, I didn't know what that meant. I still don't know all of what it means, but I do understand the Lamb slain for us.
And that's why I count this as my 40th anniversary.
I can't end this without a footnote: I wish wish wish with all of my heart that the "angel of death passing over" was literal, because if it was, my children would still be here. Then again, so would every Christian who had ever lived, and the world might be a bit overcrowded! No, it seems that physical death is part of the plan. Easter holds the promise that death is not the end; it's a promise I cling to, although I cannot pretend to understand or be sure. But it's a hope. "Hope deferred makes the heart sick", the scripture says, but continues, "but the desire when it comes is a tree of life." May the Tree of Life be real, and may its healing leaves be a balm to all of those, like me, who have been bereaved of those they love the most.
This is a blog about my children. It started as a blog about my trip to India to find Pax's grave. It progressed to becoming a blog that talked about both of my children, and my recent experiences, memories and reflections as I now walk through life as a bereaved parent.
This next story pre-dates my children, but as it has a lot to do with my own identity, it reflects upon my children. Their lives would have been different if this had not been part of my story.
That's the intro. Now to the event that I recognise as reaching its 40 year anniversary this day (approximate).
I was born in England. (Southend, if you've been reading my blog!) My father came from Poland during WW2 and served in the British army. My mother was born in England, but her parents had emigrated from Russia, I believe at the turn of the 20th century. Both sides of my family are therefore not exactly "British" in the Anglo-Saxon sense.
My family is Jewish and, as a child, I grew up in an orthodox household. We kept "kosher" dietary laws, we didn't do work on Sabbath, etc., etc.
As a teenager, I rebelled against just about anything there was to rebel against.--My family's religion, society's "establishment", the education system, etc., etc. But it wasn't just rebellion for rebellion's sake. I was a truth-seeker. I was looking for a path in life that would give me personal happiness but also a sense of improving the world, changing the world, making a difference. The last thing I wanted was to follow the conventional path: 1) School 2) University 3) Job 4) Marriage 5) Mortgage. (Funny enough, despite my efforts to the contrary, I have managed to get all of those onto my life's CV. University course was taken following a "gap year" that lasted more than 30 years!)
I'm going to miss a lot of details here and fast forward to December 1972, London. I met two young evangelists with whom I argued about Jesus, God, religion, the religious establishment. Two young men whom I never met again, and to this day I don't know "who" they were. I doubt whether they remember me. I wasn't exactly won over during our conversation. They left me with lots to think about, and a tract. A small piece of paper with perhaps only 300 words on it. A simple explanation of Jesus as the Messiah, and an invitation to invite him--through prayer--into my heart and life.
Long story short, in my own way and time, I did pray this prayer. I started reading the Bible, attending informal meetings, and began to claim "Christianity" as my religion. I was a zealous, excited new convert.
But I can't pretend I really understood. I had a simplistic understanding of "God the Father and Jesus his Son." It was a new belief for me, one that I didn't really relate to my previous religious upbringing .
Passover came around. My family followed the Jewish tradition of holding a ceremonial meal, commemorating the deliverance of the children of Israel, led by Moses, out of Egypt.
We were reading the passage concerning the plagues. The final plague was a terrible one; the death of the firstborn. God's people were commanded to take and slaughter a lamb, and then to paint some of the blood of the lamb on the lintels and doorways of their houses. If they had faith and believed God's command, the angel of death would "pass over" their house. He would not visit; their firstborn would be safe.
At that moment, as we sat around the family dining table, reading the passage, I can say I suddenly understood who Jesus is. He is the lamb of God. All that went before was a type, a symbol if you like. But the true lamb of God was slain on the cross--on the day we recognise as Good Friday--and when we accept him, and take his spiritual blood on the doors of our hearts, it is guaranteed that the Angel of Death will pass over. Not in the physical sense--for the parallel is a parallel, not an exact replica--but spiritually, we are promised eternal life.
"God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that whoever believes in him should not perish, but have eternal life." (John 3:16)
I was very excited to come to this realisation. And so that is the date from which I can count I became a believing Christian. Although I had already prayed and received Jesus months earlier, I didn't know what that meant. I still don't know all of what it means, but I do understand the Lamb slain for us.
And that's why I count this as my 40th anniversary.
I can't end this without a footnote: I wish wish wish with all of my heart that the "angel of death passing over" was literal, because if it was, my children would still be here. Then again, so would every Christian who had ever lived, and the world might be a bit overcrowded! No, it seems that physical death is part of the plan. Easter holds the promise that death is not the end; it's a promise I cling to, although I cannot pretend to understand or be sure. But it's a hope. "Hope deferred makes the heart sick", the scripture says, but continues, "but the desire when it comes is a tree of life." May the Tree of Life be real, and may its healing leaves be a balm to all of those, like me, who have been bereaved of those they love the most.
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