Yeshua ha-Mashiach

Jen and I stood beside the row of fountains eagerly awaiting our two companions. The serenity of Rabin Square stood in stark contrast to the buses, taxis, and motorcycles zipping past at an unchecked clip. Just a few feet from where we stood, the late Israeli Prime Minister had been gunned down by an assassin seeking revenge for the agreements reached in the Oslo Accords of 1993.

And on the other side of the street was our first destination: Magic Burger.

As the sun neared its final descent toward the horizon, Stefan emerged from a group of school kids off to our right, his signature French-Irish grin evident from a mile away.

"Where were you?" I asked.

"Sitting on the bench beside the stage," he replied in his thick accent. "I'm working on being a spy."

"You really want to be an American don't you?"

Jen laughed.

"I did watch Mission Impossible this afternoon," he replied, still beaming from ear-to-ear.

Jen shook her head in disbelief at the living embodiment of the anti-French Frenchman. Always up for an adventure with his American classmates, I had invited Stefan to join me for what was sure to be a very interesting experience. We moved beyond the fountains and into the shade until Stacy arrived. Stefan dove straight into his daily retinue of twenty questions.

"So what are we doing exactly?"

I shrugged. It was difficult to say. For most people, including many Christians, the concept of a Messianic Jew was a complete oxymoron. I had never met one and certainly did not know what lay in store for us after dinner.

"Is this gonna be like mass, you think?" he inquired.

"No. It's going to be a Bible study," Jen answered. "There will be someone playing a guitar, some worship, prayer requests, scripture reading and stuff like that."

Stefan nodded, his grin briefly evaporating, before returning in preparation for his final question of the moment.

"Is it okay if I didn't bring a Bible?"

I reassured him it would be fine as Jen elaborated on her experience the previous week. Jen is a native of Hong Kong and was raised a Christian since she was a small child. She's in our level A Hebrew class attempting to learn her fourth language. She's already well versed in Cantonese, Mandarin, and English. And her English is impeccable. You would think she grew up in Peoria.

As Jen explained to Stefan, a lifelong Catholic, the concept of a close-group Bible study and the dynamics of this particular group, I found myself amazed at the dynamics of our own group. A Christian from Hong Kong, a French-Irish law student, and an Alabama boy "fresh off the farm" meeting at Rabin Square in preparation for a night studying the Bible with Messianic Jews in the heart of Tel Aviv.

Who wrote this script again?

Our last companion crossed the street carrying the tell-tale gait of a D.C. resident. It was a practiced pace that was hurried without looking hurried. Stacy, whose real name will remain anonymous for security reasons, was a fellow student in Group A who had initially invited me to this get-together the previous week. A North Carolina native, she had spent a few years working in the Justice Department under Attorney General Alberto Gonzales during the Bush Administration.

She is attempting to pick up Hebrew in preparation for a Master's Degree at Hebrew University in conflict resolution and international media affairs. As best as I understand it, Stacy is attempting to figure out how the media can be used to win the Long War.

Like myself, another cog in the wheel for Mr. Obama's "overseas contingency operations." Another chess piece added to the board.

After a great dinner at Magic Burger, where I was able to take in my first non-kosher meal in three weeks, we grabbed our bags and slinked back into the evening cityscape. Stacy led the way through a nearby residential neighborhood where we made a series of elaborate turns that culminated in front of a relatively nondescript building. We moved down an outside alley, took a right inside an open doorway and made our way up two levels into a pitch black hallway. Stacy, Jen, and I whipped out our cellphones to provide illumination. It was at this point that my thoughts drifted toward Jen's homeland and the struggles Chinese Christians deal with on a daily basis, always hiding and meeting in secret for fear of being discovered by the authorities and brutally persecuted.

But this was Israel. This was the oasis in the desert, the lone light in a sea of turmoil. Surely there was little need for Believers to hide their presence here?

The door opened to reveal a young woman who was clearly ready to go in to labor at any moment. She smiled and greeted Stacy and Jen. Stefan and I followed. Introductions were made and I found out that she and her husband were the hosts for this particular "congregation." We made our way into the living room where a motley collection of Israelis, in their 20's and 30's, were lounging and talking.

Out of respect for them, I will refrain from providing their first names. As I learned from Jen, Messianic Jews are considered to be outcasts in Israeli society. While not persecuted in the same sense that Christians living in an authoritarian environment are, Messianic Jews receive special scrutiny by their peers and are viewed suspiciously or written off as "fake Jews."

In fact, Messianic Jews don't even like being called Christian for fear of the negative connotations associated with centuries of hostility cast upon Jews by Christians in Europe and elsewhere. They prefer the term "Believers" and prefer to call their gatherings a "congregation" instead of a "church."

After a few minutes, Stefan and I took our seats near the living room doorway. More and more people began to file into the room. A woman in an IDF uniform, fresh off her duty station, took a seat near me. On the other side of the room, a young man in an IDF uniform, pulled out his Hebrew Bible.

The leader of the congregation, whom I will refer to as Moshe, called everyone into order as his very pregnant wife placed food and drinks on the center table.

"Let's go ahead and get started. Everyone give a brief introduction, in Hebrew, if possible. And then we'll go in to tonight's lesson."

Moshe, dark-skinned, and still in the IDF Reserves, looked as if he had weathered a few battles over the years, either in the West Bank, Gaza, or Lebanon. But the gleam in his eyes told a much different story, one of compassion and love.

We went around the room introducing ourselves. Stefan was fidgeting a bit beside me. I could tell he wasn't entirely comfortable in the situation. I wasn't either, but I wasn't feeling unwanted in the slightest. My turn finally arrived.

"Shmi Drew. Ani m'America."

"What part?" Moshe asked in Hebrew.

"Ani gar b'Alabama."

"Sabaaba (cool)!" one of the guys said from the other side of the room.

Three weeks into this journey and it never gets old telling people where home is.

Moshe finished up by introducing himself and then, in a rather comical fashion, warning us that the lesson would be conducted entirely in Hebrew. A good way to learn the language if there ever was one.

One of the young guys promptly cut into a guitar solo and began to sing. And as suddenly as if I had been dunked into a tank of water, I felt a powerful presence enter the room. The twenty or twenty-five young Israelis in the tiny room began singing a worship song in their native tongue, the tongue of Abraham. As I later described to Mahal, it was as if I was hearing prayers as the Almighty himself hears them and as He intended them to be.

It was an intensely spiritual moment for me personally. What I knew without a doubt in my heart was that the Holy Spirit was present in the room. I could feel the overwhelming joy emanating from the small apartment in the middle of an otherwise quiet Tel Aviv neighborhood.

Images of biblical prophecy swirled through my mind. Passages in Revelation about the 144,000, 12,000 from each tribe of Israel, seemed to whisper in my ear. And for the briefest of moments, I could have sworn that I was at the confluence of past, present, and future.

The strangest and most comforting sensation overcame me and for the most part all I could do was marvel at the passion that these handful of Believers possessed despite the daily ridicule that many of them undoubtedly receive from their Jewish brothers and sisters.

Stefan seemed moved and had his trademark lopsided grin. He leaned over and whispered.

"I don't understand anything, but this is one of the coolest things I've seen."

I promised him I'd explain the significance of this, as best I could, at the end of the night.

I glanced over to my right as Stacy and Jen sat smiling at the girl occupying the sofa next to them. The girl's arms were raised high above her head as she belted out, beautifully, words none of us understood.

"Like back home," Stacy mouthed.

I gave her a " sort of but not really" expression and tried to pick up on anything, something that I might understand. For a few minutes, the effort was in vain. But as the last song wound its way down and as the young Israeli Believers hit their powerful crescendo, I picked up perhaps the most important words of all:

"Yeshua ha-Mashiach! Yeshua! Yeshua!"

Jesus the Messiah! Jesus! Jesus!