Called to Controversy (17 page)

“No, no!” Moishe quickly explained. “That's idiomatic. I didn't feel the hand of God physically. I just meant I had an inner conviction, a strong sense that God had a certain direction for my life.” The psychiatrist's initial assumption was not lost on Moishe. He realized that in just a year he had picked up a great deal of church jargon. He determined that he would never talk to anyone who wasn't a Christian in a way that he himself would not have understood before he became acclimated to Christian culture.

Moishe continued to explain his plans to go to Bible school and become a missionary. The doctor asked routine questions and concluded that Moishe probably had a condition that he described as a low-grade depression, which he did not regard as serious, nor did he suggest any treatment. He wrote a brief letter certifying that in his professional opinion, Martin Meyer Rosen was of a sound mind, with no indication of insanity. Moishe often joked that no matter how often people accused him of being a
meshuggener
(crazy person), he had written proof of his sanity.

Meanwhile the job at the cemetery continued to go well. Moishe not only kept his sales relatively high, but he had many opportunities to tell people about Jesus. Yet none of them were Jewish. Jews didn't buy in Fairmount Cemetery because Denver had a Jewish cemetery, and members of the community would not have considered it proper to be buried elsewhere.

More and more, Moishe found himself thinking about Gart Brothers Sporting Goods Store. Nearly all the employees were Jewish, and Moishe cared about many of them. Not that he begrudged gentiles or strangers the opportunity to hear the gospel, but he longed to tell his own people about the Messiah. He recalled, “There were only a few months left before I would be leaving Denver. I couldn't stand the thought of leaving without doing my best to be a witness to the people at Gart Brothers. So I decided I better humble myself.” He got his job back, but he knew he had to keep his sales up to stay on the job. He did, and he had that job until the family moved to New Jersey.

Moishe never stopped thinking of himself as a Jew, not only by birth and upbringing, but also by culture and heritage that no one could take from him. But he was a Christian by faith and specifically a Baptist. He learned that it was common among Baptists to get a preaching license when one went away to study for the ministry. Accordingly, Moishe asked to speak to the pastor and the deacons at his church. He gave his testimony, explained his calling, and asked if they would license him. To Moishe's surprise and disappointment, the board concluded that since they didn't know if he could preach or not, it would not be proper to license him at that time. “But,” Pastor MacDonald told him, “should you choose, after your education to come back, we would be happy to hear you preach. If your education and preaching are satisfactory, we will do better than issue you a license. We will ordain you.”

Though disappointed, Moishe recognized that it was a fair decision and offer. The pastor promised to correspond with Moishe while he was in Bible college, and he kept that promise.

At the end of August 1954, Moishe and Ceil stored a few pieces of furniture with a friend and loaded up the family's 1949 Hudson with the rest of their worldly goods. Then they set out on the two-thousand-mile trek to New Jersey. It was exciting, yet that adventure might easily have come to an abrupt and tragic end. Moishe explained,

I had been informed that our Hudson automobile was in excellent working order. We got to Columbus, Ohio, and checked into one of those old-fashioned motels. They rented out one-room cottages and on either side of each cottage there was a carport.

I have always been a somewhat cautious person. That night I inspected the car, checking all the fluids under the hood and noting the air pressure in the tires. The temperature had been hovering near a hundred degrees each day of the trip. Who knew from air-conditioning? The heat did not seem to bother us much. But that night I had difficulty sleeping. It was like my own voice was speaking to me and saying. “Tires, look at the tires.” Well, I was in my pajamas, but I got dressed and went out with the flashlight to check all around the tires. I did not find anything wrong, so I went back to bed. Just as I was dropping off to sleep, I heard it again: “Tires, tires, tires, tires.”

Once again I went outside, and this time instead of looking at the outside of the tires, I got under the car with a flashlight and shined it on the inside of the tires. . . . There it was: a big bulge on the sidewall of my right front tire. The following day we would have entered the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which had no speed limit at that time. I couldn't help but think that in the hundred-degree heat that front right tire would have blown at the worst possible time. “Thank you, Jesus,” I said. I knew that it had not been my voice but God's.

The next morning I went to get a new tire and the man who looked at the old one marveled that I made it from the motel to the tire shop. Tragedy averted, and that is what I can say about many of the “God-incidences” in my life. I can't say that things like that happened on a regular basis and I have always been reluctant to use the words “God told me, or God showed me.” But he certainly showed himself able and willing to watch over our family that evening.

*
Dr. Grounds later became the president of the seminary.

*
Decades later, Moishe patterned some of his signature sermons, including “The Centurion,” on MacDonald's style of preaching.

PART TWO
Prelude to Jews for Jesus

THIRTEEN

Patience is the virtue we want most . . . for those around us.

—MOISHE ROSEN

P
ink mashed potatoes?” Moishe pronounced the word “puhtaydas.” His upper lip curled back of its own accord as he bent down to sniff his dinner.

He looked at Ceil expectantly, as though she might be able to identify the foreign substance. She dipped her fork tentatively into the mixture, and delicately took a bite, if something that required no teeth could be called a bite.

She lifted an eyebrow and swallowed. “I have no idea,” she shrugged. “It doesn't taste like anything.”

“It's hash,” a second-year student across the table informed them briefly.

“It's what?!” Moishe looked at him in disbelief.

“It's hash,” the other repeated. “Corned beef hash.”

Moishe took a forkful. “Feh!” he exclaimed. “They call this hash?”
*

“Yes, we call it hash. Some people like it.” And having finished his portion, the young man rose, picked up his plate and walked away.

Moishe shook his head. “Who could like this?”

As if on cue, three-year-old Lyn leaned over in her high chair, waving her spoon in Ceil's direction.

“Mommy?”

Ceil quickly loaded up a spoon with the pinkish mixture and directed it toward the tot's face.

“Mmmmmmm, nummies!” Lyn opened her little mouth and was soon smiling appreciatively through a face full of “hash.”

Moishe grinned. “It must remind her of the baby food you used to feed her.”

As the two laughed, Moishe's loud and rather unusual guffaw seemed to echo throughout the small dining room. Though not understanding the joke, Lyn shrieked with laughter, wanting to join the fun.

Suddenly the small family found themselves the object of stares, mostly curious, but one or two disapproving. Ceil's smile faded.

“Our Eastern classmates may have a different sense of propriety than we do,” she said.

“Easterners?” Moishe asked, bemused. “You think that's the difference?”

Ceil pursed her lips. There was no sense saying what they both knew. The entire first week had proven that they, the Jewish family from Denver, did not exactly fit seamlessly into the very reserved, conservative Christian culture of Northeastern Bible Institute. She sighed, but then brightened as a short, energetic woman came bustling over to their table.

“Hello, Martin, Celia.” The woman smiled, patted Lyn on the head and said, “Hello, you young whippersnapper.” Then she offered, “Can I take your plates? Or are you still working on the hash?”

Moishe knew Catherine from the alphabetical seating in several of his classes. First came Martin Rosen, then Sylvia Royce, then Catherine Siewell.

Moishe shook his head. “Catherine, I don't see how anyone can eat this stuff.”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Catherine nodded vigorously. In fact, everything about her was vigorous. “It's ghastly.” Her arm shot out as she grabbed a bowlful of a brown, sticky substance from the table. “That's why they have this stuff out all the time, ya know. Here, let me make you some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

Catherine was some ten years older than the Denver couple, which set her apart from the other students. She was a strong, no frills, no nonsense, extremely bright, outspoken, and somewhat eccentric young woman. Her presence cheered the couple considerably, though Moishe didn't have the heart to tell her that he wasn't especially fond of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

“You know, Ceil,” he said thoughtfully. “It doesn't do much good to kvetch about the food. Let's see what we can do to make it better.”

“Ka vetch?” Catherine repeated with alacrity. ‘What's that? Some Jewish word?”

“Yes,” Ceil replied. “It means to complain.” Then turning to her husband she asked, “What have you got in mind?”

“Well, I'll just stop by the grocery store in Caldwell before it closes and I'll pick up a bottle of garlic powder and some Tabasco sauce.”

“It couldn't hurt,” Ceil agreed.

“Garlic powder and Tabasco sauce, well I'll be. You're a hoot, Martin. You'll shake things up around here if ever anyone could.” And laughing robustly, Catherine bustled off, leaving the couple to shake their heads in amusement.

The trip from Denver to Essex Fells had been a wonderful time for the three Rosens. They started out at the break of dawn each morning to beat the summer heat, enjoying the quiet countryside as the sun came up. They usually packed in an hour or two of drive time before stopping for breakfast. Finally, they arrived at the school, ready to begin a new life.

Essex Fells proved to be hot, humid, and lush with greenery. Moishe drove the family car across the tracks of a tiny railroad station straight onto the campus of Northeastern Bible Institue. They admired the main building with its pretty white steeple, and Lyn was especially delighted with the pond on campus and the lovely trees.

The married dorm was just across the street from the main campus. The Rosens settled their belongings in their attic apartment before going on to the Greater Boston area to see Ceil's birth family in Dorchester. That visit was a landmark experience for the young Rosens after the irreversible rupture in their relationship with Ceil's adoptive parents. Whatever connection they'd had with one another had been crushed by the weight of disapproval over Moishe and Ceil's faith in Jesus.

Once Moishe realized that they would be moving back East, he strongly encouraged his wife to attempt a reunion with her birth father. She had occasionally corresponded with her twin brother, Jay—mainly small talk—during his years of military service overseas. Now Moishe and Ceil wrote to Jay, telling him they were moving back east with their little daughter. They also explained that they believed in Jesus as Messiah and Lord and that they would understand if the family wanted nothing to do with them because of their faith.

The response came swiftly; the family would be overjoyed to see Ceil and meet her husband and daughter. With a sense of nervous anticipation, the Rosens drove some two hundred miles to Dorchester, a predominantly Jewish district of Boston.

Moishe and Ceil had outfitted Lyn in a red cape for the occasion. When they arrived at the apartment door, Ceil bent to adjust the little red hood over the girl's blonde curls and prompted, “Okay, ring the bell and say what we practiced.”

Moishe lifted his daughter so that her pudgy little finger could reach the bell. She pushed hard and waited expectantly. Soon the door was opened by a smiling lady, and Linda Kaye Rosen delivered her first of many play lines. With a dimpled, gap-toothed smile just like her daddy's, she announced, “Hello, I'm Little Red Riding Hood, and I've come to visit Grandma!”