I was born into a Jewish family, and raised in the Jewish faith. Dad’s parents were Orthodox Jews who had emigrated from Russia in the early 1900’s.  Mom’s grandfather, David, for whom I was named, was a cantor, a devoutly religious man.  Nevertheless, I was taught very little about religion.  I was proud of my heritage, but I never read the Bible, except for a few of the Psalms and the first few chapters of Genesis.  When I entered college at the age of 18, I had no understanding of God, often doubting His existence.

    My first close encounter with God Almighty occurred during my second year of college.  My sister and her husband were expecting their first child in June.  In the month of April, on the first day of Passover, my sister went into premature labor, and the baby was delivered by Cesarean section. They named the baby Peter, but due to complications, he lived for only three days.  During that time, I prayed to God, asking Him to not let anything happen to either my sister or to her baby.  I didn’t really know how to pray.  I reasoned that if enough people prayed about a situation, God would hear those prayers, and everything would be okay.  I decided, therefore, that if anything bad were to happen, it would mean that God didn’t really exist.  

     I was in my dorm  when Mom called to tell me the news:  my sister was fine, but her baby didn’t make it.  After hanging up the phone, I stood there for a moment in the hallway.  Through clenched teeth, amid streams of tears, I uttered out loud, “There is no God!”  Immediately, I felt the building shake!  I had never experienced an earthquake, but I was sure I was feeling one now.  I grabbed onto the phone booth looking down at the floor, thinking that it might soon begin to crack.  Then it stopped – just as suddenly as it had started.  I knew this was no earthquake.  It was God shaking me up.  It was His way of showing me how wrong I was to deny Him.  I begged for His forgiveness, vowing to never deny His existence again.

    The following year, my sister and brother-in-law were blessed with a healthy son, and later a beautiful daughter.  It was not until years later when I came to realize the significance of what I had experienced that day in the dorm.

    I’d been battling depression for a long time, and over the years I tried various antidepressant prescriptions, but to no avail.  I sat in front of the TV set one afternoon in late August, aimlessly flipping the remote control, trying to fill my mind with anything that might relieve me from my state of depression.  Finally, I had had enough.  Dropping the remote to the floor, I cried out, “God, I can’t help myself anymore!  You have to help me!  Show me the truth about Jesus.  Send me to a place that teaches the TRUTH.  I can’t go on blind faith.  I have to know the truth!”  I asked God to show me whether Jesus really is the Messiah or whether the Jewish people are right in believing He hasn’t come yet.  I got down on my knees and sobbed.  Afterwards, I felt somewhat relieved.  I believed that God had heard my plea.

     Later that day, I phoned an acquaintance that I had been out of touch with for some time.  Helen began telling me about a church she had been attending for the past several months.  She sounded very excited as she went on and on about this church, and about how her life had been completely changed. When I told her that I had been thinking about finding a church to attend, she invited me to go with her.       

     The church Helen attended was a Pentecostal-apostolic church.  This meant nothing to me, since I was a Jew who knew only that Christians believe Jesus is the Messiah, and the Jews believe the Messiah has not yet come.  I had no understanding of why there are so many different denominations or how the Protestant churches differ from the Catholic Church.  I only knew that I was hungry for knowledge and for truth, and that I did not want to worship in blind faith.    

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