Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 36

Hate the author’s worldview, but still like the book?

Moving my books from one location in another is a literal labor of love. I don’t know the exact number, but I’d say I own at least a couple hundred. In the first two years I lived in Colorado, I moved around four different times, and each time I condensed my shelves beforehand to make the process a little easier. But in order to determine which books stayed in the “Keep” pile and which got packed in the “Donate to used book store” pile, I had a lot of rereading to do. I’m hoping to buy my first home this year (!) so now the process repeats.

It’s pretty amazing how the same book can read completely differently after several years. In many cases, this is a good thing. I probably wasn’t mature enough to fully understand the depth of To Kill a Mockingbird when I read it in ninth grade. Rereading it a few months before the release of Go Set a Watchman was an eye-opening revelation of just how much I had missed; how much symbolism flew right over my head. Many of the classics I’ve reread have that effect on me.

Not Catcher in the Rye, though. Holden Caulfield is still the whiny little booger I thought he was when I read him in 11th grade, but I think I understand him a little better now. Aren’t we all the hypocrites we love to hate at times?

Then there are the books that rocked my world the first time I read them at ages fifteen through eighteen. Many are a sore disappointment to reread at twenty-seven. It’s worth noting that I was far more conservative as a teenager and in my early twenties, whereas today I’m a bit more moderate. I’m rather proud of myself for placing Adam and Eve After the Pill by Mary Eberhardt (a book for a Catholic audience) right next to Jessica Valenti’s Full-Frontal Feminism (definitely not intended for a conservative audience. Or maybe it is. But Valenti herself is far from that end of the spectrum). Fifty Women Every Christian Should Know also shares a shelf with Fifty Jewish Women Who Changed the World. I’m still proud of the diversity of thought that exists on my shelves. But rereading some of these books makes me uneasy to keep them, as if the space on my shelf represents endorsement.

Feminine Threads by Diana Lynn Severance, for example, is a book about Christian women from the time of Jesus until the twentieth century who left their mark on the church. It sounds like it should be good reading for a history buff and theology nerd…except Severance couldn’t educate me about these unknown and underrated women without slamming feminism as the reason everything is wrong in the church. There’s disagreeing with an author, and then there’s being so repulsed by an author’s refusal to even try to see things from the other side that makes me want to throw the book across the room.

It saddened me to put that one in the “Donate” pile. Adam and Eve went, too. Not sure what I was expecting with that one, but again, a book that misinterprets feminism and renders it incompatible with faith is just not a book for me. I should also note that Valenti’s book isn’t exactly kind to the conservative views of sex and contraceptives, but there’s something about her spunky tone that makes it not bother me as much. There are some circumstances in which it doesn’t bother me to be offended, because sometimes it’s the only thing that teaches you empathy for people on the other side of an issue.

Still, I feel a bit hypocritical about getting rid of those books. Can’t I enjoy some parts of the book while disagreeing other parts? To what extent do I have to share an author’s worldview in order to enjoy their work? If it entertains or educates me in some way, then what does it matter?

I don’t want to be someone who only reads books that support her already existing worldview. I like being challenged. But I don’t like being generalized and talked down to.

Now, Jesus Feminist by Sarah Bessey sits next to Valenti’s Full Frontal, which just makes me giggle.

Filed under: Feminism, Religion, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Feminism, Writing

Discounted ebook – for a cause

With all the publicity from Kesha’s rape allegations against her producer, it’s time to discount this book again, because not even judges in a court of law understand the reality of the “imperfect rape victim.”

The reality is, most rape victims are not perfectly chaste, unsullied damsels who suddenly lose their honor. They might drink or do drugs. They might have active sex lives with multiple partners. They might party and go home with the wrong person. More often than not, they might even be in intimate relationships with their assailants, or otherwise know them personally. None of this makes them deserving of assault.

We don’t typically shame people who have been mugged for carrying large purses. We don’t shame drivers hit by speeding drunks for being on the road in the first place. We don’t throw out allegations of burglary simply because the homeowner left his door unlocked. But rape is the only crime in which the victim is somehow at fault, rarely the rapist.

This book is a work of passion and grief because my rapist was never charged, but hopefully it’s also an entertaining and enlightening look at the most common forms of assault, why accusations are rarely taken seriously, and why they should be. Even if you don’t read the book, take a look at some of the reviews on Amazon. One book won’t save the world, but it seems to have influenced a few people, and that is the best kind of “royalty” I could ever receive.

You can download the book here.

Filed under: Feminism, Rape Culture, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Feminism, rape culture, Writing

Plagiarism, copyright infringement, and the rights of authors

Catniss is far more concerned about stealing my attention than my ideas

The first edition of Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter contained a handful of quotes from authors whose books were influential in my spiritual journey. Some authors’ works were in the public domain, such as that Saint Augustine, but others, like Lauren Winner’s memoir Girl Meets God, were not. I hold a bachelor’s degree in English Literature and was certainly not ignorant of plagiarism: I cited each quote with the correct author and the work it was from, in MLA format, no less. What I didn’t know about was copyright infringement, which complicates the rights of authors and artists in ways I did not expect.

Unfortunately, I didn’t learn about the dangers of copyright infringement until after publication. I reasoned that the authors I quoted would never stumble upon my little self-published book; but that would mean I couldn’t promote it as much as I would like. What if the sister of a friend of the publisher of Winner’s book somehow got hold of it, and then came after me for not asking permission to use her quotes? Though Winner herself might be flattered (I hope) and have no problem with my attribution, ultimately the decision would not be up to her; she’d have to answer to her publisher, which holds the rights to her book.

The anxiety was too much; I ended up removing the book from the market (it had other issues besides improper use of quotes anyway, like never seeing the eyes of a proper editor. The second edition is the one worth reading!).

Now with the advent of social media and blogging, everyone is an author in their own right, and the rights of authors are much more complex. Is posting a screen shot of a tweet I did not originally publish a form of plagiarism? In fact, I can’t count the number of screen-shot Tweets I’ve seen shared on Facebook lately, in which users poke fun at Donald Trump and make quips about political hypocrisy. Did my Facebook friends request permission from the original Twitter users before sharing? Most likely not. Or does social media, emphasis on social, imply distribution to as wide an audience as possible?

I would assume the latter, but you never know. As an author, I’m possessive of my words, so I understand the potential controversy. But when it comes down to it, so long as my name is attached (and preferably linked to the source from which it came), then I have no complaints.

Not everyone feels that way. Now, when I quote words from other bloggers on my own blog, it’s mostly bloggers I know personally who wouldn’t mind the plug. I try to use my own photos as much as possible (helpful hint: in the world of blogging, pictures don’t always have to match the post content, so much as grab readers’ attention. It’s for this reason that I’ve started using photos of my kittens on almost every post, no matter what I’m writing about).

Technology, as we know, is never stationary for long. The Internet is constantly advancing; shape-shifting, even. As this continues, the definition(s) of plagiarism and ownership will only grow more complicated. Dictionaries are not so quick to catch up with the times, either, for those who swear on Webster as the ultimate guide to reason:

Pla·gia·rism

[ˈplājəˌrizəm]

NOUN

the practice of taking someone else’s work or ideas and passing them off as one’s own.

In·fringe·ment

[inˈfrinjmənt]

NOUN

the action of breaking the terms of a law, agreement, etc.; violation:

“copyright infringement” ·

the action of limiting or undermining something:

“the infringement of the right to privacy”

Cop·y·right

[ˈkäpēˌrīt]

NOUN

the exclusive legal right, given to an originator or an assignee to print, publish, perform, film, or record literary, artistic, or musical material, and to authorize others to do the same:

“he issued a writ for breach of copyright”

ADJECTIVE

protected by copyright:

“permission to reproduce photographs and other copyright material”

VERB

secure copyright for (material).

Again, the dilemma resurfaces: did I have the right to quote Webster? Did I need written permission for use on this blog?

Think about it too hard, and it makes your head start to hurt. There are plenty of other careers to choose from that don’t have this kind of legal danger, yet this is the only one I want. The good news is, I’m far from the only one who’s confused about the rights of authors in this technological world.

This is anything but sound legal advice, but ultimately I believe that intent must be a factor in determining whether a fundamental literary right has been broken. The student who purchases a research paper from a paper mill and writes his own name at the top is not the same kind of guilty as the student who quotes a scientist by name, but forgets to include the title of the article in which he found the quote. Similarly, I would say my intention in quoting Lauren Winner was not to pass off her work as my own, but to compliment her for her insight. But as soon as I realized it just wasn’t that simple, I resolved never to do it again.

The question we must all ask ourselves is what connotes fair use and unfair use of literature. Furthermore, are authors aware of the risks they take in putting their work out into the world for public consumption? After registering their work for copyright, what more is there to do?

Thankfully, books and blogs are time-stamped. Books mention the year of publication on the copyright page, but blogs are much more specific in labeling the exact date and time, which could come in handy if it were necessary to prove who published what first. Ideally, any time a work is published or created, it is automatically copyrighted. It is intellectual property even if it is not recognized as legal property.

Still, it’s hard to imagine “stealing” that which is not tangible. Plagiarists aren’t stealing physical books, but words and ideas. It is not a kind of theft in which one places the stolen thing in their pocket and hides it so it can never be found. It’s a curious thing to debate whether one can truly own a particular pattern of words, which can be so powerful, and yet cannot be seen or touched.

Properties and possessions can disintegrate over time, yet words can endure for as long as humanity persists, and eventually end up in public domain, free for creative use on coffee mugs, refrigerator magnets, posters, and bumper stickers. Who does copyright benefit then? Until a consensus is reached, the question of intellectual ownership will remain a gray area: a pretty unsettling thought. Luckily, that fear does not keep me from writing and sharing my work. My writing is my business, and my name is my brand. And should someone try to pass off my work as their own, I doubt their accompanying cat pictures will be nearly as cute as mine :D

Filed under: Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, Controversy, Indie Author Life, memoir, plagiarism, self-publishing, Writing

Faith like an aching muscle

I’m 90% certain I’ve found a new church. Though I once believed I’d never settle on a  denomination, I feel increasingly at home within Anglicanism (though my pending membership does not mean full endorsement of everything Anglican leaders believe and do).

At my last church – nondenominational, as far as I know – I felt like an audience member watching a stage performance, but here I feel like a participant in history, singing centuries-old hymns and reciting the Nicene Creed. The repetition of the service is a common pet peeve of the liturgical tradition, and I’m aware that after a while it may become mindless routine. But stability is exactly what I’m searching for after being triggered so badly at that last church, which was reminiscent of the cult-like functions of my college ministry and experience in seminary.

I took the initiative of emailing the Anglican priest of this new church with a brief run-down of my spiritual journey, and asked if this was a safe space for skeptics. His response was warm and affirmative, and I can breathe a little easier.

This is the start of Year Two without Dad, Year Two of marriage, and my second-to-last spring semester of graduate school. I try to keep my days as stable as possible, but my body has not been getting that memo. As ridiculous as it sounds, I’m convinced I’ve been having “hot flashes,” which is likely a side effect of increasing my anxiety medication (ironic, no?). I sweat no matter what I do, regardless of temperature, to a point where I’ve started carrying extra clothes in my car. I almost lashed out at a student who asked the professor if he could turn up the thermostat in class. After getting sick from driving with my windows down in twenty-degree weather, I called my doctor, and now my medicinal regimen has once again been altered, taking a toll on my moods and energy levels. How can a person still feel tired after ten hours of sleep?

Maybe there comes a point when medicine is not enough. I’m actually quite proud of myself for joining a bible study on Tuesday nights, discussing theology with other humans. I’m hoping that engagement on a small, intimate level will bring a kind of healing beyond what prescription pills can do. There are people who believe that Dad lived as long as he did because he had such a positive attitude about life, which at the time I thought was bogus, but now I’m willing to test its validity. It didn’t work for him in the long run, but he did get eight more years than what his doctors predicted. I’ve switched from mapping a five-year plan to a month-by-month plan: small goals for small change to pave the way for bigger changes.

Optimism is new to me, and feels like sucking in my belly to zip pants that are too tight. You might call it a muscle that needs regular exercise. Faith, too, is another kind of muscle. Hopefully, like physically working out, it’s something I can get better at even if I don’t like the process very much.

Filed under: Other stuff, Religion Tagged: cancer, Christian culture, Christianity, depression, evangelicals, grief

When all you can do is manage

“Some things cannot be healed; they can only be carried.”

That quote from a blog post critiquing the old adage “God won’t give you more than you can handle” dug itself under my skin when I read it. If you think about it through a Christian lens, it fits rather well with the idea of “picking up your cross.” What defines a “cross”? A burden. A struggle. A condition that cannot be improved or dissolved, but must be coped with. It can look like taking care of a difficult relative, living with chronic illness, or making a hard choice that is the right choice.

For me, that “cross” is living with depression and anxiety. Someone once told me I’m calling Jesus a liar by saying I cannot be healed. Would anyone have the nerve to say that to a cancer patient who can’t be healed? The treatments look different, but for the cancer patient and the person with depression, there is little choice but to manage the symptoms and live optimistically, but also realistically. We often credit the cancer patient for “winning the battle” when the illness goes into remission. Those who learn to manage their depression deserve the same credit.

There are two major “crosses” I’m learning to manage: the loss of my father, which is so indescribably deep that it physically hurts, and the trauma left by abuse from my last boyfriend. But I had depression before that, so I don’t really need to cite those things as evidence for its existence. That’s just to explain why the depression has gotten worse, despite being medicated and going to therapy. All lives are difficult in their own way, but trauma for a person with depression is like kicking a dog that’s always been down.

There are days when just getting out of bed feels physically difficult, and when I do, it’s an accomplishment.

There are days when getting out of bed, showering, getting dressed, and leaving my apartment is cause for celebration. I remember texting my husband one day about accepting a colleague’s invitation for coffee. No exaggerating here: it was a pretty big deal for me to say yes, to actually show up and engage. I’d honestly have no problem staying in my apartment with my books and my two cats forever, except I’m told that community is a vital part of being healthy: spiritually and otherwise.

I’ve had to downsize my expectations for healing and celebrate the little accomplishments, but “little things” are no less significant. It’s also necessary to point to that “healing” is not always a lasting condition. You can’t let anyone tell you you’ve lost the race if you get close to the finish line but never actually reach it. Not when you’re running for yourself. The days I am successfully able to be present, with a cup of coffee in my hands and a cat on my lap, bring me closer to that line.

Managing depression and anxiety is not a weak substitute for complete healing. But small acts of self-care lead in that direction, which is the most important thing.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: cancer, Christian culture, Christianity, depression, grief

Why the hell are we not disturbed?

We’ve all encountered them at some point: the evangelists who preach that “unsaved” people will be cast into a lake of fire after death, without so much as a blink. I’m not sure which disturbs me more: the lake of fire part, or the people who accept this teaching without any churning in their stomachs at all.

I’m not saying the hell doctrine is wrong or incompatible with the character of a loving, merciful God, much as I would like to. The reality, I don’t know, and anyone who thinks they know is making that statement out of faith, not fact. But whether hell is real or “loving” is not what I want to talk about, so much as the kinds of people who accept it without a second thought. I think we’re supposed to be disturbed by this. I think we are supposed to be disturbed enough to make a call to action.

For some people, that call to action is to evangelize more. For me, that call to action is to study. I’ve collected so many books about the afterlife lately: Christian and Jewish books alike, and I wish I could say I am closer to reaching some kind of verdict, but I’m not. I have theories, and while I can support these theories with Scripture (hopefully without any misuse of context) I can’t prove them. No one can prove that which can’t be seen in this realm of existence.

Until then, I wish more Christians would let themselves feel disturbed. I wish more Christians were brave and willing enough to admit that this idea of eternal conscious torment does not sit well with what they have been taught about justice. I would love to be part of a group that openly shares these doubts and concerns without fear of judgment or condemnation. Sometimes I think Scripture is purposefully vague for that reason: to motivate fellowship and community. There’s nothing quite like a bond of friendship that starts when one person says to another, “Me too!” or “I thought I was the only one.”

In that sense, I’m less concerned about finding answers than I am about being part of a community where questions and concerns are embraced like this. The ones that condemn doubt as heresy choke my growth and push me away. I’m slightly terrified of that level of certainty.

So what can I be certain about? For the sake of my sanity, I have to be certain that the God I serve is one of grace, mercy, and compassion. I’m quite certain that godly grace, mercy, and compassion look nothing like my own sense of those virtues, because my innate self-centeredness and judgment occasionally blinds me to moments when those virtues are needed. And if I accept by virtue of faith that God is good, then I have to believe that his final judgment proclamations are in fact the right ones. That thought still unsettles me, but if I don’t try to believe it, there’s not enough Lexapro in the world to ease that anxiety.

But then, we run into the issue of what, specifically, hell is. Again, I take it on faith after a period of study that hell may not be a place of literal, conscious torment. But that’s a topic for another post.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, evangelicals, hell, Judaism

The reasons for religious conversion

I stumbled across this blog post yesterday: When People Change Religions, Logic and Reason Aren’t Always in the Picture, inspired by Susan Jacoby’s new book, Strange Gods: a secular history of conversion. Jacoby writes:

People generally think about conversion only in terms of a spiritual journey, when in fact, there are a lot of secular factors involved. Sometimes it is simply that the political winds have shifted. Another factor is discrimination against minorities. That was a huge factor in my father’s family because of anti-Semitism — people perceived being a Jew as a disadvantage. Also, the history of conversion is rife with people who adopt religion or another religion because they think it will help them overcome a personal failing or some compulsion like alcoholism, and in many cases, it does. But the most powerful secular factor promoting religious conversion is religious inter-marriage.

I’m not sure if I’ll read the book, but it sounds interesting, even though Jacoby’s conclusion doesn’t shock me at all. In fact, I recently learned that I’m not the first convert in my family. My great-great-great uncle (I think that’s the right number of “greats”) converted to Christianity around the turn of the 20th century, though it appears to be a business move over a spiritual conviction: Jewish businesses were considered less trustworthy, and a fresh-off-the-boat immigrant couldn’t risk falling into poverty. So there’s a bit of Caplin Trivia for you.

When I joined Campus Crusade for Christ in college, many students were excited at the evangelism prospects I offered: I could use the Old Testament to bring Jews to Jesus. It sounded like a sure plan, except…it wasn’t biblical prophecies that lead me to Jesus. I didn’t start reading the Bible with serious intent until after conversion (for the full conversion story, see my memoir. Or this post, Why I’m not a Messianic Jew). Oh, how disappointing this was for people to hear.

To this day, I’m still not interested in using biblical exegesis to “win” people over. I’m nowhere near knowledgeable enough to say with any degree of certainty or authority what the “proper” interpretations of the prophecies are. I’ve had much better luck explaining the real reasons: my fascination with saints and a personal god meeting us in human form, a radical Jesus who flipped social mores upside down, the promise of redemption from pain and tragedy.

That last point is especially important, because once I left my abusive relationship and started going to counseling for rape trauma, I gave serious consideration to ending my life. I thought my chances of having a healthy, normal relationship were ruined. I couldn’t stand the thought that my ex boyfriend would never see justice, that it could be my fault if he hurt someone else because I never reported him when I had the chance. So when I say the promise of redemption saved my life, I am not kidding.

Clearly, you can’t find a more emotional motive for conversion than that. I wish I could say, as Lee Strobel does in The Case for Christ, that I studied all the evidence and had no choice but to admit the truth. Nope. And even then, that “evidence” fails to convince many people.

I wish I knew more converts. I find conversion stories fascinating even if I don’t always agree with the motives behind them. If you’re someone who changed religions in adulthood, I’d be interested in featuring your story on this blog. Or feel free to share in the comment section.

A parting question for my religious followers: do you agree with Jacoby’s premise that emotion influences conversion more than “facts and reason”? Why or why not?

 

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Campus Crusade for Christ, Christian culture, Christianity, depression, evangelicals, grief, Judaism, rape culture

Comfort rather than answers

It’s been many years since I last read When Bad Things Happen to Good People by Rabbi Harold Kushner, and I think I’m due to read it again. The words will be the same, but my perspective as a reader this time around will be vastly different. Perhaps the worst thing I’d experienced when I last read this book was the crushing disappointment of liking a boy who didn’t like me back.

Interestingly, many of the 1 and 2-star reviews on Goodreads complain about Kushner’s portrayal of a God who seems to sit with us in suffering, but doesn’t promise to make it mean something. Few reviews (at least not the dozen or so I read, there are hundreds of them) complained about the issue of a good God allowing suffering, period. No, it seems many readers of this book were hoping to be assured that none of life’s pains and disappointments would be wasted or pointless. Then again, many reviewers identified as Christians, which explains a lot.

The Christian idea of redemption is what ultimately won me over. It doesn’t comfort me very much to think that God might be too weak or otherwise unable to stop my suffering, but it does comfort me to think that perhaps my suffering can be used for a greater purpose. In fact, that is precisely what the Christian God promises to do.

I can see how the Christian readers of this book were left feeling bereft at the end, because to them, Kushner is only telling half the story. Clearly, a book of this genre written by a rabbi is not going to end with the hope of resurrection and defeat of the cross.

But even then, there is suffering this side of heaven that feels pointless. I don’t expect Kushner or any theologian to come up with a convincing reason for that. Yet I pick up books like this one not to be convinced or promised of anything, but to be reminded that life after loss is possible. And Kushner, CS Lewis, and all great scholars of every religious stripe, are just as human as I am.

What books do you read for comfort rather than for answers?

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, grief, Judaism

Accidental Saints: a review

As I wrestle with doubt while gravitating toward the Anglican church, Nadia Bolz-Weber’s books seem like the perfect travel companions. Nadia herself seems like someone who would make a great mentor for my journey. And I’m not saying she’s not, but I didn’t LOVE Accidental Saints like I thought I would.

There are some great insights on the work of loving unlovable people and the messiness of faith, as well as thought-provoking stories, but they are just too short to have much impact. We don’t really get to know any of the people who influence Nadia’s faith, and her conclusions at the end of each vignette feel too hasty.

I do have a few things in common with Nadia. We’re both tattooed (she has way more ink than I do) and not against dropping f-bombs if a moment calls for one. The thing is, I try to save my bad words for heightened, dramatic situations to make strong points. The swearing on literally every other page was off-putting (“The fucking air conditioner took itself way too seriously and I was really fucking cold”) in a “Look at me, I’m so cool” kind of way. It seemed like she was trying to impress me with her not-like-them-ness, but after a few chapters I started wishing she would knock it off already.

She makes every effort to let the reader know that her church opens its doors to anyone, and truly anyone: drug dealers, prostitutes, all kinds of “unlikeables.” Hard to find fault with that. But there’s very little speculation about how such people challenge the notion of what Christians are “supposed” to look like. Nadia’s background is conservative, and the transition from fundamentalist theology to a more progressive one is skimmed over, if not glossed over completely, in both of her books. “God loves you as you are” is a great message, and it’s true that loving people can be challenging, but the spiritual conflict just didn’t feel very deep.

And yet, throughout the book are gems of wisdom like this one:

The sting of grace is not unlike the sting of being loved well, because when we are loved well, it is inextricably linked to all the times we have not been loved well, all the times we ourselves have not loved others well, and all the things we’ve done or not done that feel like evidence against our worthiness. Love and grace are such deceivingly soft words – but they both sting like hell and then go and change the shape of our hearts and make us into something we couldn’t create ourselves to be.

That’s a passage worth reading twice. Overall, I give this book 3 stars.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: censorship, Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, Writing

Why I’m not a Messianic Jew

It’s a struggle for some people to believe that “Christian with Jewish heritage” and “Messianic Jew” are not the same thing. I completely understand why; it wasn’t that long ago that I myself would have failed to see the difference. My mind would be sounding off alarm bells trilling “Traitor! Traitor!” for me to even try and understand the difference. But as my acceptance as an interfaith person grows – that is, someone who still carries with her the markings of a Jewish culture into a different faith – an updated explanation is warranted.

I don’t know too many people who converted from one faith to something totally different. I know people who converted from Catholicism to Protestantism, and vice versa, which is not to be understated, but is still within the larger umbrella of Christianity. People like me are pretty rare. I wish I could say I grew up this way, with one Christian parent and one Jewish one, so my allegiances were always split, but that is not the case. No, I was nineteen years old when I started calling myself a Christian, after years of quietly admiring Jesus and reading books about saints, wishing I could have the faith that they had. More details about the “why” of conversion can be read about in my memoir.

For a while, I did the best I could to shoehorn Jewish practice into my new Christian identity, except my Jewish life before Jesus was surface level at best. What being a “Jewish Christian” meant for me was going to church and continuing to observe Hanukkah and Passover. The larger, more complicated issues of theology were completely lost on me. Through my involvement with Campus Crusade for Christ, I was trained to view the Old Testament as nothing more than a precursor to the New. It was an incomplete story filled with clues that pointed to the coming of a Savior, and to chop it short just before the start of Matthew was akin to driving a car with only three tires. In other words, the Jews supposedly had all the pieces, but were still missing the final piece to make the vehicle run properly.

This was back in the day when being the center of attention mattered so much to me (I don’t know who that person is anymore), so being the “Jewish believer” was a role I didn’t mind playing. Over time, that changed. Friends in my bible study group would ask me for the “insider’s scoop” on how to evangelize to Jews. Little did they know I was not the ideal person to ask, since I wasn’t converted by any “Did you know it’s Jewish to believe in Jesus?” rhetoric.

Many American Jews are familiar with those tactics already, because they are written on pamphlets that get distributed on car windshields in synagogue parking lots, in mailboxes, and are posed by street preachers in Jewish garb – tallits, yarmulkes, tefillin, the whole nine yards – as strangers walk by. While it’s true that Jewish spiritual education is lacking as assimilation increases, Jews aren’t stupid. “Yeshua Ha’Moshiach” is still “Jesus the Messiah.”

There was something infantilizing about those questions I couldn’t put my finger on. My Christian friends seemed to pity the Jews for missing their own Messiah the way many of us can’t find the glasses that are sitting right on our noses, and I was “lucky” to realize the truth: to escape that world of lies. There’s a disdainful attitude all too common in churches that Jews don’t know anything about their own Scriptures, and must be taught it by Christians: “Goy-splaining,” for lack of a better term.

What many Christians don’t realize is that it simply isn’t enough to convince a Jewish person that Jesus is God. The theological teachings of Christianity and Judaism have evolved in opposite directions over the last 2,000 years. Original sin has never been a Jewish concept, and eternal punishment for lack of belief may be the least Jewish of them all (and if you’re curious, as many people are, I still have trouble swallowing this one). Christians are quick to point out that Jesus intended to “fulfill” the Jewish law, so the two religions are theologically compatible as one, but that’s not what happened. Jesus’ intent aside, we now have two distinctly different religions that share origins in Abraham, but that’s where the similarities end. It’s intellectually dishonest to claim otherwise, and those that do indirectly tell me that they don’t know as much about Judaism as they think they do.

Believe it or not, I study more Jewish theology now than I did pre-Jesus. My appreciation for it has deepened now that I study from a distance, but that distance isn’t as far as you might expect. The things that initially drove me away from Judaism are now the things I miss most about it; things I believe the church can benefit from. The lack of unity in Jewish belief used to bother me. You couldn’t look up a single explanation for “Jewish view of an afterlife,” for example, without stumbling on dozens of different answers. Christianity seemed more uniformed by comparison.

Of course, only after I became an insider did I see just now naïve it was of me to assume this. Whereas Christian tend to denounce differing viewpoints as heresy, Judaism has perfected the art of agreeing to disagree. I love the expression “two Jews, three opinions,” with an understanding that you can agree to disagree without losing your Jewish identity. I love the diversity in thought and the freedom to ask questions. I believe this, more than anything else, is the most “Jewish” part of my faith, and it gets me into trouble at times. Christians don’t have the best track record for handling doubts very well. My Jewish background is what enables me to change that.

I started using the expression “Jew-ish” to describe myself, first as a joke, but now somewhat more seriously. My family is not religious but is steeped in Jewish culture. My mom gets me Hanukkah socks every year. She also bought me a blue stocking that says “Happy Hanukkah” and a “Jewish penicillin” soup bowl. These are superficial totems of a Jewish identity, but they are markers of the sense of humor I’ve maintained because of my upbringing. I still feel a sense of camaraderie when I meet other Jews, and because of my decision to be honest about my journey upfront, I’ve been able to continue making Jewish friendships. This would not be possible if I identified as a Messianic Jew, because traditional Jews know that their messiah hasn’t come yet.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Campus Crusade for Christ, Christian culture, Christianity, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, evangelicals, hell, Judaism, Messianic Judaism