A Twentieth-Century Jew and His Experience With Jesus
By Steve Cohen
Many flowery words would never adequately express the love I have for my father and
mother, so I will simply say, "This is dedicated to dad and mom, Robert and Barbara Cohen.
Mother, may you be comforted by God in your solitude after dad's death in 1990."
I am eternally grateful to Alan and Kathy Rither. Because of their faithful prayers,
testimony and witness, I have begun my spiritual journey in Y'shua.
I give thanks to God for my wife Jan. She has done an excellent job mothering our five
children: Micha, Sarah, Noah, Seth and Elizabeth. Her faithfulness is a blessing and her
many sacrifices have helped make possible our involvement with Jews for Jesus .
When I first asked Ruth Rosen if she would be willing to help me out with the writing of
this text, I am not sure that she knew how big of a help she would be to me and to this
project. Thank you Ruth for giving so selflessly. And also, a big thank you to Janet Reed
whose copy-editing was terrific. And, of course, to Steve Lawson for bringing this to print!
Finally, I praise God for Moishe Rosen's leadership, steadfastness and encouragement to
me. In 1976, Moishe told me, "All I have to give is an opportunity." I continue to see the
opportunity to serve. Thank you for making this project possible through Jews for Jesus.
-- Steve Cohen, March 1995
I had just been accepted into law school and was contemplating my move to Tacoma,
Washington. Dry days are rare in the Pacific Northwest; yet, I was standing on a sunny
Seattle hillside overlooking Lake Washington when a big black Lincoln Continental pulled
up within a few feet of me. A man in a dark suit emerged and strode purposefully toward
me. I had never seen him before nor have I seen him since. He informed me that he had a
message for me. A message, he said, from God: "You are to study the Bible and become a
believer in Jesus because your mission in life is to bring the gospel to other Jewish people."
His message delivered, he turned, walked back to his car and before I could answer, he
drove away. I was certain he must be meshugge (Yiddish for crazy). First, he didn't know
me. Second, my "mission," if you could call it that, was to become a lawyer. Third, and most
important, who ever heard of a Jewish person believing in Jesus? Certainly not I!
My name is Steve Cohen, and despite what I once considered a ridiculous notion, I am a
Jew who eventually decided to be, most definitely, for Jesus. Let me tell you my story.
I grew up in Pasco, a small town in eastern Washington. My parents owned a jewelry store,
but lest you begin picturing wealthy ladies and gentlemen poring over glittering gold and
gem-studded trinkets, let me tell you that our store was a far cry from Tiffany's. In fact, it
was difficult for my folks to keep the small business afloat. I helped out at the store, and
though money was scarce, perhaps we were "well off" because our financial struggle was a
family affair.
We were not strict in practicing the Jewish religion, but my parents did their best to rear my
brother, Dennis, and me with high moral standards. The nearest Reform temple, Beth El,
was about half an hour away in Richland. The nearest rabbi was in Seattle, a five-hour drive.
My parents were not willing to invest the time to take us back and forth, so we grew up with
little biblical knowledge. Still, we were unquestionably Jews.
Pasco was no place to shop for traditional Jewish foods, but occasionally we ordered "care
packages" that Brenner Brothers Deli bussed in from Seattle. We treasured the salami, the
pastrami, the rye bread and the lox, savoring every bite. Of course at Passover, there was
matzoh (unleavened bread), which we didn't exactly savor but were glad to have because it
was a link to our people and our heritage. One compensation for a week without regular
bread was the delicious matzoh brie (matzoh dipped in beaten eggs and fried like French
toast -- we smothered ours with fresh strawberry jam). But for those who know New York,
Zabar's it wasn't.
My parents found other ways to reinforce our Jewish identity. In particular, my father was
careful to teach me that our people have suffered much persecution in the past and that he
wasn't going to tolerate prejudice in the present. I vividly recall the time he took to task the
manager of a department store across the street from our family store. The man had derided
our people terribly, and Dad, normally one to avoid confrontation, stood up to him in my
presence. Dad helped me realize the importance of taking pride in our heritage. I grew up
feeling proud of what our people had accomplished and contributed to society; yet, I
wondered about religion.
I recall watching the Billy Graham crusades on television. I loved to listen to George
Beverly Shea sing, and I admired Dr. Graham for the moral lessons he brought. However,
as soon as he began inviting people to commit their lives to Jesus, I switched channels. I
knew that was not for me, since I was Jewish. I didn't have much knowledge of my own
religion, but I did know that I was not supposed to believe someone else's!
It bothered me that I didn't know more about Judaism, and I sensed that something was
missing in my life. When I was sixteen years old, I lashed out at my mother, blaming her
and my father for the void where I thought my religious background ought to be. Why else
would I feel empty inside? I generally excelled at whatever I put my head and hands to -- I
was first chair clarinetist at each level of school, first on the tennis team and always on the
honor roll. Yet, I wasn't satisfied and reasoned that it must be God or religion that was
missing from my life. My mother's response was, "In two years you'll go away to college.
Then you can get all the religion you want."
My grandparents made it possible for me to attend college, and I chose the University of
Washington. I hadn't the foggiest idea of what to do with my life -- I went to college
because it was the thing to do, and I felt that I was expected to go.
My father told me that he had joined a Jewish fraternity when he was in college and
suggested that it would be good for me to join one, too. I pledged Zeta Beta Tau, imagining
the house would provide some of the religious experience I had missed in my upbringing. I
was dismayed to find myself in the midst of a close-knit group of friends who already knew
one another and were geared for social, not spiritual, interaction.
One of my closer friends at the fraternity was Ken Packhouse. Neither of us enjoyed
gambling into the early morning hours or the partying that typified most fraternities,
including ours. When I recall how much Ken and I seemed to have in common, it seems
ironic how our paths eventually and radically diverged. After graduation, he went to Israel
and became a scholar at a Jewish organization called "Aish Ha Torah," while I -- well, even I
would not have believed the path I would one day follow.
I spent the summer of 1968 in Dusseldorf, Germany. I could speak German, having studied
the language since ninth grade, and my grandmother had ties to the "old country." I worked
the first half of the summer at a chemical plant called Henkel, a job I got through a student
exchange program. I spent the rest of the summer hitchhiking throughout Europe, visiting
famous synagogues and cathedrals during my journey. It was quite an adventure, especially
the day that the Soviet Union invaded Czechoslovakia. I was in a youth hostel in
Copenhagen at the time, as were many Czechoslovakian people for whom the invasion was
reminiscent of World War II.
I returned to Seattle in time for the fall term and the Jewish High Holidays. I accepted the
invitation of a fraternity brother to attend services with his family. When his mother asked
me how I'd spent my summer, I described my adventures. She almost had a heart attack!
She was a Holocaust survivor, and the mention of Germany stirred up traumatic memories
of the Nazi regime. "How could you go to that country and work with those people?" she
shrieked. I couldn't believe that a fellow Jew would treat me as though I'd somehow been
responsible for the horrors of the Holocaust -- simply because I didn't share her hatred of
all German people.
The Holocaust is an atrocity with which all of my people are familiar to some extent. In fact,
I chose to give a speech about it in my public speaking class. We all were assigned a tenminute
speech on the subject of our choice, and I had decided on anti-Semitism for my
topic. I went down to the local chapter of the B'nai B'rith Anti Defamation League to do
some research. There I saw the anti-Semitic statements Martin Luther made in his 1543
treatise, On the Jews and Their Lies.
My speech was a clumsily crafted attempt to show how "so-called Christians" were the
main perpetrators of hatred against my people. I was excruciatingly nervous as I picked up a
piece of chalk and drew a large cross on the blackboard. Then I carefully added lines
perpendicular to each arm of the cross, creating a swastika intended to illustrate my point as
I pronounced my judgment, "What Luther began in 1543, Hitler tried to finish in 1943." I
continued my speech in what seemed to be the longest ten minutes of my life. I was so
nervous in front of those twelve classmates that I decided I would never be a public speaker!
Meanwhile, my second year of fraternity life proved to be no better than the first. Our house
seemed to differ from the others only inasmuch as we served no pork and our grade point
averages were generally higher. I found next to nothing of God there. Disillusioned, I
moved out of the fraternity house and into an apartment with a friend named Will.
By that time, I had set a goal: I would become a criminal attorney. However, I had to take a
slight detour in pursuing my goal because the Vietnam War was raging and my draft
number was low. I did not want to join the military, nor did I want to be drafted. I enjoyed
airplanes and flying, so in 1970 I enlisted in the Air Force Reserves, hoping to qualify for
flight school. I didn't know that 20/20 vision was required, and I failed to qualify on that
basis.
So what was available? The only opening at the time was aircraft maintenance. I didn't know
the proper side of a wrench or screwdriver, much less how to repair aircraft. Nevertheless, I
took the position, as it seemed to offer the least amount of danger, while allowing me to
continue the pursuit of my goals.
I was inducted in April of 1970 and went to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas
for basic training. There I met Alan Rither, a graduate of the University of Washington, a
lawyer -- and a Christian. We became fast friends during basic training and purposed to
maintain that friendship back in Seattle. Then came technical school training. I was assigned
to Sheppherd Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas, for a course in the basics of aircraft
maintenance on the C-130 turbo prop airplane.
After the thirteen hottest weeks of a Texas summer, I returned to Seattle where I was
assigned to McCord Air Force Base in Tacoma for Reserve duty. Once we returned to
Seattle, we were obligated to attend one weekend a month and two weeks during the
summer. Ironically, there were no C-130s assigned to our base. I would watch the C-141s
come in, but there was little I could do other than help guide aircraft to the appropriate
"parking spot." I recall sitting in the cockpit many Saturdays that fall, listening to University
of Washington Huskies' football games on the pilot's headphones.
Alan and I continued our friendship as we had planned, and he had a built-in opportunity to
speak with me about Jesus at least once a month. We'd usually have lunch together, and I'd
listen politely when he spoke of his faith. I was interested to learn what he, as a Gentile,
thought about God and the Bible. I didn't take anything he said personally, figuring his
beliefs were fine for him but had nothing to do with me, a Jew.
One day Alan invited me to his home. The first thing I saw was a painted brass ornament
hanging on his door. It was a greeting: "Shalom, peace to all who enter here." I was
impressed and was even more so when I walked into his apartment and sensed just how
peaceful it really was. There truly was something different about him. I intuitively knew that
his "something" was what I had been missing since I was a teen.
When Alan began to tell me about Jesus, I tried to deflect the conversation to something
with which I felt more conversant: cosmology, the study of the universe.
I had spent the last two years of my undergraduate work as an assistant to Professor Stuart
Carter Dodd, a true genius. I immersed myself in his pantheistic theory of the universe that
he laid out so masterfully, but little did I comprehend the implications of his theory!
Professor Dodd's main premise was that the "stuff" of the universe is constantly and
randomly evolving and devolving into different levels of organization.
Alan listened patiently as I plodded through "facts," theories and mathematical equations ad
nauseam. Finally, Alan broadsided me with a question I had never asked myself during all
my studies, "Where did all the stuff in the universe come from, anyway?"
I had never questioned the presumption that the "stuff" had always existed. Alan pointed out
that Professor Dodd had deified matter rather than acknowledging the existence of the
Creator. He also challenged me to see that the intricate design of the universe belied the
theory of random interaction leading to higher levels of organization. I found myself
thinking that it took more faith to accept Dodd's ideas than to accept the fact that there is a
God who created the universe.
During this time when I was rethinking and beginning to search, I was involved in another
kind of search as well. I was single -- and looking for a life partner. I had no idea how
abruptly that search would end.
On February 24, 1971, I went on my very first, and last, blind date. My roommate, Will, had
a girlfriend, Kate, who had a roommate: Janice Anne Isbell. Jan was my blind date, and
before she said a single word, I knew she was going to be my wife. After our date, I think
she knew, too. Will and Kate eventually broke up, but Jan and I were together to stay. Two
years later we married.
In the interim, August of 1972, I was accepted into law school in Tacoma, Washington. The
day before I moved to Tacoma, I was standing out on a sunny Seattle hillside overlooking
Lake Washington and the university district. It was then that the big black Lincoln
Continental drove up, and a stranger approached me. His dark suit might as well have been a
Western Union uniform, because he politely delivered his message then left, his purpose
apparently accomplished. He did not attempt to explain the message that he claimed God
had for me: "You are to study the Bible and become a believer in Jesus because your
mission in life is to bring the gospel to other Jewish people." It was too bizarre for me to try
to correct him, and I certainly was not going to tell a total stranger that he must've gotten his
wires crossed because I intended to be a lawyer.
Meanwhile, Alan continued to pray for me and tell me about Jesus on our Reserve
weekends. We would sit together and discuss what had happened in the preceding month. I
told him of my struggles with law school. He responded by taking out his pocket Bible and
reading verses that were meaningful to him. He always managed to bring the conversation
back to Jesus. Frankly, I did not know enough about the Bible to counter him. I wanted to
be around Alan because, while I felt overcome by life's difficulties, he seemed able to
overcome them. He had finished law school, and I was in my first year. We both were in the
Air Force Reserves, a situation that involved its own set of quirks and challenges. He was
newly married, and while Jan and I were not yet wed, we had committed to one another with
a view toward marriage. Through everything, Alan radiated joy amid adversity, while the
same sorts of adversity made me downright grumpy.
I could no longer dismiss what he was saying as having nothing to do with me, and perhaps
for that reason, I started to challenge his beliefs. When that had little effect, I finally told
him, "I'm Jewish. Jewish people don't believe, nor do we need to believe in Jesus!" I
assumed that would be enough to stop him from talking to me about God, but I had no idea
that he would continue talking to God about me!
Alan later admitted that he had prayed daily for God to make me miserable in what he
described as my spiritual complacency so that I would have to consider whether Y'shua (the
Jewish way to say Jesus) was the promised Messiah.
In December of 1972, two months before our wedding, Jan's parents invited us to spend the
holidays with them in Grand Coulee, Washington. They asked me to join them at their
church for a Christmas Eve candlelight service. I had never been to a church before, but I
certainly didn't want to offend my future in-laws, so I agreed to come. With no idea what to
expect, I sat in the very back row.
The service began at 11:00 p.m. We each received a small candle with a bit of paper
wrapped around it to prevent hot wax from burning our hands. The service was a strange
new experience for me, but there were some familiar elements. I'd sung some of the carols
for the annual Christmas program when I was in grade school. Later, in high school and
college, these same carols were standard fare for the concerts we gave. Still, I felt out of
place. After all, this was their holiday, not mine.
Jan's mother led the choir, and Jan and her sister sang a lovely duet. At the end of the
service, all electrical lights were extinguished. The only point of light to break the darkness
of the sanctuary was a small candle burning brightly on the altar. The pastor invited the
whole congregation to stand with him in a circle. He lit his candle from the altar and shared
that fire with those standing near him. As the fire was passed from one person to the next, I
was touched by the warmth, the glow, the joy that was so evident in that place. But I
remained in the back, hidden in darkness.
I continued "in the dark" for some time, and in May of 1973, when I got my grades, God
answered Alan's prayers that I be shaken out of my complacency. I had failed! Flunked
out of law school! What a blow! I was at a complete loss, for I had invested so much of the
previous three years toward my goal of law school, and that goal had vanished into thin air.
Why?
One evening in late May, I was looking out my bedroom window where a lantern shone
brightly in the backyard. I thought to myself or to whomever might be listening: "If there
really is a God, prove it! Make that light in the backyard go out." Poof! The light was
extinguished in an instant. Well, we were in the midst of a thunderstorm, so I reasoned that
it was just a coincidence. Nevertheless, I waited about five minutes and then thought, "OK, if
you're really there, make it come back on." Immediately, light from the lantern pierced the
darkness. I was floored and asked for no more signs that night!
That weekend, Jan and I went to several garage sales in the area, and I bought a small Bible
for $3.00. It was bound in white leather and looked like a Bible that might have been given
to someone as a wedding gift. I didn't realize at the time that God was wooing me.
I began reading the Gospel of Matthew -- my very first foray into the New Testament. From
the first page, I discovered what no one, not even Alan, had ever told me: Jesus was Jewish!
He attended synagogue, read the Hebrew Scriptures, celebrated the Sabbath, Passover and
the other festivals -- and he was speaking to Jewish people about the God of Abraham,
Isaac and Jacob!
I was impressed. Still, everything I knew about my religion and my upbringing warned me
that I was on dangerous ground as I could not be Jewish and believe in Jesus.
The next six months seemed to be the worst of my life. I could not seem to do anything
right. I went through six jobs in those six months, and after losing each job, I had to tell Jan
the bad news. It was as if the rug were being pulled out from under my life.
Alan invited me to hear the attorney general for the state of California address a large group
of men during a lunch hour. I went because I still had an interest in law, but he was not there
to speak about our legal system. He came to tell about God's justice system -- how He
offered atonement for sin though death of the Messiah, Jesus. I stayed for lunch, but I was
nervous being around all those Christians. As soon as the attorney general finished
speaking, I left as quickly as I could. The presence of the Lord was so real -- I couldn't take
it. I was confronted with my own sin and need for forgiveness, but I didn't want to yield. It
was becoming more and more difficult for me to dismiss Jesus.
Jan was the organist at a church in Tacoma. I attended some of the inquirer's classes and
asked some rather obnoxious questions as I tried to challenge the others' faith. They
responded with kindness.
Alan kept sending books to read, tracts to consider and tapes to hear, and he kept praying
for me. Once he asked me, if the promised Messiah of Israel were standing right in front of
me, how would I recognize him? After all, there have been many false Messiahs throughout
history, and even in our day there are a couple who have been hailed as the Messiah: Rev.
Sun Myung Moon, the head of the Unification Church, and Menachem Schneerson, the
former head of the Lubavitch sect of Judaism.
I knew that the Messiah had to fulfill certain prophecies, and Alan's question made me
realize that I was ignorant of those prophecies. I could not make a case for or against Jesus
as a false Messiah if I didn't acquaint myself with the evidence that would prove the identity
of the true Messiah. If I learned those prophecies, God would make it clear to me whether I
ought to follow or reject this Jesus. I dug into the Jewish Bible and explored the case Alan
had been making for Jesus as the Messiah. I found I could not rule out Jesus!
Now it seemed I was worse off than before. By December of 1973, I was battling with what
seemed indisputable evidence for the messiahship of Jesus. It would turn my life upside
down if I accepted what the Scriptures seemed to indicate, but on the other hand, if I rejected
what was true, I would be going against God.
On December 23, 1973, Alan and his wife, Kathy, came to our home for dinner. Alan
brought with him a couple of cassette tapes of the testimony of a Jewish believer named Art
Katz. He previously had given me Art's book,Ben Israel. I had found the written testimony
extremely challenging, and as the four of us listened to the tapes, I was more convinced than
ever that Jesus was truly my Messiah. Alan told me that he wanted to know for certain that I
would spend eternity with him, so he extended me a personal invitation to receive God's gift
of eternal life.
Instantly the battle intensified. Doubts flooded my mind even as a sense of peace flooded
my heart. I glanced around the room and my eyes fell on the two candles burning in our
living room. The darkness and light were vivid reminders of that candlelight service, when
from the darkness in the back of the church, I'd witnessed the joy of those lighting their
small candles. I remembered the night of the thunderstorm and how God seemed to provide
me with a sign from the streetlight. I remembered, too, that Jesus was said to be the light of
the world. So I took a bold step. I asked God for one more confirmation."If you really want
me to follow Jesus as my Messiah, make one of the two candles go out," I silently prayed.
Alan immediately rose from his chair, walked over to the candles, blew one out and returned
to his chair.
The battle was over, yet I had no idea of the battle that was ahead. All I knew was that at
11:20 p.m., the moment of my repentance and commitment to Christ, I experienced a peace I
had never known before. It was the same peace that I saw radiate from Alan's face. I keep a
picture taken that night in my Bible. It reminds me of God's faithfulness in the midst of my
stubbornness and self-centeredness. A year later, I learned that even as I had asked God for
yet more proof, Kathy was also praying, "Lord, Steve needs a sign. I don't know what it is,
but please give him that sign so he knows this is for real."
But what does a Jew who believes in Jesus do? The next night was Christmas Eve 1973. Jan
and I went to the church where she was organist. Again, it was a candlelight service. This
time, I sat right up in front. The pastor, Rev. Robert Anderson, invited Jan and me to his
home for a late supper after the service. We cheerfully accepted.
A whole new world started opening up to me. I attended the new believer's class where I
asked questions, lots of questions. I felt I had so much catching up to do. A couple of
weeks after I came to faith in Jesus, I was sitting in Sunday school, asking the rest of the
class, "How do you begin to tell others about Jesus? How do you tell them what He means
to you?"
I was astonished when a woman who had been a member of that congregation for years
stood up and declared, "I am a Lutheran, and we don't do that sort of thing," and then she sat
down! How could this be? If Jesus is the Messiah, then we needed to tell everyone about
Him.
I've since learned that she was not speaking for all Lutherans. Yet, over the years, I have also
learned that Jews are not the only people who have to break with tradition in order to follow
Y'shua. Many Christians need to break with their tradition of not sharing their faith in order
to obey Jesus' command: All authority has been given to me in heaven and on earth. Go
therefore and make disciplesof all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and
of the Son and of the HolySpirit, teaching them to observe all the things that I have
commanded you; and lo, I am withyou always, even to the end of the age. (Matthew 28:18-20)
All who are followers of Y'shua should be committed to carrying out that Great
Commission to the end that others will come to know what we have discovered: Jesus really
is the Messiah promised long ago. There is so very much at stake -- eternal separation for
those who are outside of Christ.
As I continued to grow in my faith, I had many more questions about the Bible. One day I
asked Pastor Anderson about Jonah and the whale (or Behemoth as some call it). His next
comment startled me: "Well, we don't believe that actually happened. This is simply a story
to give us moral guidance. We don't have to take everything in the Bible literally."
I was profoundly disturbed by that. "If we don't take the Jonah text literally, where do we
draw the line?" I argued, "Couldn't one extend this line of reasoning and conclude that the
resurrection never happened?" But as kind and gracious as that pastor was, he was not
going to change his views of Scripture because of the questions of a new believer.
I was sad, because I knew that I would be leaving that congregation sooner or later. It turned
out to be sooner, as Jan received an invitation to become organist at another church in
Tacoma. The pastor, Gary Grafwallner, was creative, outgoing, young at heart and had a real
desire for people to know the vitality of a personal relationship with God. Through the grace
of God, I grew in my faith and knowledge of Scripture. Jan and I started taking Hebrew
lessons at a local synagogue. In order to keep up with it, I offered a beginner's class to the
members of the church. I kept a couple of weeks ahead of them as we worked our way
through the first chapter of Genesis.
I also frequented a local Christian bookstore. The owner had befriended me and helped me
see the wide range of reading possibilities. I gravitated toward the reference books like the
biblical dictionaries, but Jan and I were living on very limited resources, so most of the time
I was "just looking." I began to wonder if there were any other Jews who believed in Jesus,
so I left my name at the bookstore and asked the manager to let me know if she could put
me in touch with any.
In the spring of 1974, I contracted pneumonia and was housebound for six weeks. Day
after day, my main event was navigating down the long flight of stairs to get our mail, then
struggling back up the stairs in order to crawl back into bed. I had no energy for anything
except reading, and read I did. The Lord used those six weeks to immerse me in His Word,
which I drank in with increasing thirst. Each page filled me with the joy of knowing Him
and a realization of the responsibility imparted along with that knowledge. Just as I was well
enough to get out of the house, I received more reading material from an unexpected source.
A woman named Gina Brewington had been visiting Christian bookstores with a recently
published work, Jews for Jesus. The store owner gave Gina my name and number, and the
next thing I knew, she was at my door with a copy of the book in hand.
That book introduced me to a band of Jewish ex-hippies and antiwar dissenters who
believed in Jesus. I was astonished to read how they turned tactics once used to protest
against the establishment into tools to proclaim the gospel. They told about Jesus out on the
city streets with a lively style of gospel literature. They sang newly written Jewish gospel
music, and they used drama to preach on busy street corners. Moishe Rosen was the
founder of the group, and he did not retreat from those who opposed it s message.
My admiration was due in part to the fact that I had learned from my father to avoid conflict
at all costs. I remember a visit from my Oma (grandmother) and how she told Dad that the
couch would look better "over there." He moved it. When he was making his delicious lentil
soup, she complained that it was usually too salty, so he used less salt, contrary to his own
tastes. Then Oma's visit was over. Dad moved the couch back, and the next time he made
the soup, he added the usual amount of salt. Dad hated confrontation and avoided it by
compromising whenever possible. That may have been acceptable in dealing with couches
and soup, but I gathered from this book that when it came to proclaiming the gospel,
compromising is not an option. Far too much is at stake!
Soon after she'd given me the book, Gina called to inform me that Moishe Rosen was
coming to Seattle for a speaking engagement. I told her I would be there. Moishe had
several people with him, and I was in a room with other Jewish believers in Jesus for the
very first time.
They showed slides of the first Jews for Jesus New York City Summer Witnessing
Campaign. I saw colorfully clad people who were performing street theater. I saw what
appeared to be a birthday party for one of the campaigners -- in the form of a parade down
Fifth Avenue! The song written for that occasion became the standard birthday song among
Jews for Jesus staff (sung to the tune of "L'chaim" from Fiddler on the Roof):
Today is Martha's birthday, to Martha we wish a long life (long life!)
Not only was she born back then, but she's been born again --
Praise Y'shua for life.
All the prophets have foretold us that the Son would come to set His people free So Y'shua
came among us so that we could live throughout eternity. What's today?
Today is Martha's birthday, to Martha we wish a long life Not only was she born back then,
but she's been born again Praise Y'shua -- for life!
The more I saw, the more I felt that these outspoken and seemingly uninhibited people were
doing something I admired, but something that was definitely not for me. Yet, I recalled the
messenger on the hill who had told me that my mission in life was to bring the gospel to
other Jewish people. For the first time I wondered, could it be true?
A few months later, Gina phoned yet again to inform me that the Liberated Wailing Wall
was coming to Tacoma. This was the first Jews for Jesus "mobile evangelistic team." They
present Jewish gospel music, drama and testimonies. Jan and I fell in love with the music.
After the presentation, the team requested that anyone traveling to eastern Washington
contact them, as one of the members needed a ride to see some friends that weekend. Well,
it was Thanksgiving weekend, and we'd planned to see Jan's parents in Grand Coulee,
Washington, so we offered to help. Steffi Geiser, our two small dogs, Jan and I piled into
our tiny Fiat 128, and off we went. Steffi told us about the very beginnings of the ministry
and invited me to come to California and see what was happening for myself. I couldn't go
because I was working in a photography studio. Three weeks later, the owner decided to
close the store, and once again, I was out of work.
Being in the Air Force Reserves, I could fly anywhere that military aircraft went for free, as
long as there was space available. There were regular flights between Tacoma and Alameda
Naval Air Station in Oakland (less than an hour's drive from the Jews for Jesus office). I
put on my uniform, went to the base, hopped a DC-9 military hospital plane, and about two
hours later, I was in California.
My parents were living in Reno, so I thought I would take a quick excursion to see them.
When I called and told them where I was and what I was doing, however, they told me I was
not welcome to visit them. They were definitely displeased with my new faith.
Susan Perlman and Tuvya Zaretsky drove me to the Jews for Jesus office, which at that time
was just north of San Francisco in a suburb called San Rafael.
Tuvya took me to lunch, and I asked him how his family responded to his faith. I began to
realize that the joy we have in our Messiah is neither understood nor shared by our families
who don't yet know Him. I had no idea of the storm that was building in my family, but the
week I spent in San Francisco was pivotal in my life. I met vibrant Jewish believers who had
dedicated themselves to making a difference for the kingdom of God. They were delivering
a straightforward gospel message to Jews and Gentiles, regardless of pressure to keep quiet
about their faith.
In 1975, there was very little Jewish Christian fellowship in the Seattle area. Jan and I
reasoned that if we wanted a gathering, perhaps others did also. We convened our own
fellowship group in the home of Dr. Richard and Polly Perkins. They lived sixty miles
away from our Tacoma home, but it was worth the drive to meet with other Jewish believers.
The fellowship group allowed us to help one another grow in our faith, understand our
Jewish heritage and encourage one another to be witnesses to our unsaved friends and
family. That little group of fifteen to twenty people continued for many years after we left
the Seattle area.
I had a tremendous desire and concern for my family to know Jesus. In June of 1975, I
drove to Spokane, Washington to see my brother, Dennis. He listened intently as I
explained the gospel to him. Art Katz, the Jewish Christian whose testimony had been so
helpful to me, was speaking at Gonzaga University that evening, and Dennis accepted my
invitation to hear him. After the meeting was over, my brother went up to speak with Art --
and he came back a new believer in Jesus! What I wrestled with for two years, my brother
received in just two hours.
My Aunt Jo believed that all roads lead to God and wondered why we would be so
exclusive as to say that Jesus is the only way. My paternal grandmother asked, "So, am I
supposed to call you Monsignor now?" As for my parents, they thought my faith was
simply a fad. Just as people tire of clothing and hair styles, they expected me to tire of my
"new religion."
I continued to have contact with the staff of Jews for Jesus between 1974 and 1976. At one
point, Moishe Rosen came to Portland, Oregon and I drove down to see him. When I
arrived at his hotel, he invited me to accompany him to the airport, where he handed me a
stack of broadsides (Jews for Jesus-style gospel tracts), pointed to a place of high
pedestrian flow and asked me to hand out the pamphlets to whomever would take them.
I had done this a couple of times before and enjoyed seeing people take and read the
literature. Then a uniformed airport patrol officer approached me. He had a gun and a
badge, and seemed to be twice my size. He asked if I had a permit to hand out the literature.
I knew that I was out of my league, so I responded, "I'm here with someone else. He is in
charge." Then I went to tell Moishe what had happened.
He gave me the option of standing with him and continuing to hand out the literature side by
side, or standing nearby as an observer. He calmly explained that if I continued to hand out
the literature, I would probably be arrested. I had no idea what being arrested entailed or
how long I might be detained. What would I say to my boss -- I can't come in for work
because I was arrested for handing out Christian literature in the Portland airport? I
chose to observe.
I watched as the guard confronted Moishe, who stood his ground until he was told that he
was under arrest. Then he left peacefully with the officer, shackled in handcuffs. They took
him to a holding area and released him a while later. Eventually the ACLU took the case and
lost. Another group from the ACLU represented his appeal and won. That Portland airport
arrest became a foundational building block in case law that eventually led to a unanimous
Supreme Court decision in another case upholding freedom of speech. That decision ruled
in favor of Avi Snyder, a Jews for Jesus branch leader who was arrested for handing out
tracts at the Los Angeles International Airport.
I had lost out on a chance at making case law because I backed down in Portland. I never
forgot that lesson during my five different arrests, which took place much later in Toronto
and Boston. But those stories are for another time.
In 1976, Jan and I applied to serve as full-time missionaries. We were accepted and we
began the adventure of our lifetime. My maternal grandmother met with Jan and me just
after we joined the missionary staff. Not one to beat around the bush, she asked, "So nu,
how much are they going to pay you?" Well, back then, we had a combined income of $800
a month, plus mileage for the van. When she heard that, her jaw dropped. "But that is less
than the rent I pay on my apartment," she said. "How are you going to live?"
But I could respond with a cheerful smile: "Don't worry, Oma, God is going to take care of
us!" Little did she know that two years later we would return to visit her, and she would be
astonished by our joy and peace and how God indeed had taken care of us. At that time she
would remark, "You know Steven, you and Jan have something that none of my friends with
all their possessions have. You have peace with God -- and money cannot buy it!"
But in the meantime, our ministry was to begin with a cross-country trip. The ministry could
not provide a van for us at that time, and we really couldn't afford one ourselves. We sold
our little Fiat as a down payment and then went looking for a loan. I explained to our banker
that God was calling us into a full-time ministry, and we needed to borrow $10,000 to
purchase a new van. When he found out we would be receiving $400 a month salary each
and that we were leaving the state to begin touring, he laughed. Despite our good credit
standing, he -- and several other bankers after him -- declined the loan. They just couldn't
see that God's provision for those who follow His leading as a valid basis for the loan!
Yet, the day before we left Tacoma, a dealer agreed to write us the loan. He promptly sold it
to the bank that had first refused us. (Nine months later, we had paid off the entire loan.
Fifteen months later, the van was stolen right off the streets of Queens, New York. But three
days before it was stolen, a supporter had given Jews for Jesus $10,000 to buy a new van.
Indeed, God does provide!)
We set out in our new van and headed for Chicago. There we joined the rest of the Jews for
Jesus for an intense outreach called a witnessing campaign.
That particular campaign, called Operation Birthday Cake, coincided with the bicentennial
celebration of the founding of our country. Jan and I were assigned to a team of people who
traveled to Philadelphia, New York City, Washington D.C. and Boston. We participated in
what was to be one of the longest witnessing campaigns in the history of Jews for Jesus!
When it was over, Jan and I went on a tour from August, 1976 to May, 1977. We simply
drove wherever we could get a hearing, setting up church presentations with whomever was
willing to have us. We visited places like Black Duck, Minnesota; Lemmon, South Dakota
and George, Washington. These travels provided us the opportunity to do evangelism in
cities where Jews for Jesus did not have an outreach and to make friends and build a base of
support for our ministry. To this day, some of the friends we made on that tour continue to
uphold us.
On the last Sunday of January, 1977, I scheduled an evening presentation at a church in
Richland, Washington. We prayed that my parents would come and hear our presentation
of Christ in the Passover and Jewish Gospel music.
They had invited us to visit them before the service. It was Super Bowl Sunday, and it was
the middle of the third quarter when we arrived. It was cold outside, but it seemed even
colder inside their home that afternoon. It was the only time I can ever remember that my
mother didn't offer us a thing to eat. It was then and there that my father made his
announcement: "You broke with Jewish tradition by believing in Jesus as your Messiah. It
has become obvious that this is not a passing fad, since you have dedicated your life to
telling others what you believe. Therefore, we do not want to have anything further to do
with you. Do not write, do not call, and do not visit us -- ever again! If you write, we will
throw away your letters. If you call, we will hang up. And if you come to visit, we will close
the door on you."
We left with tears in our eyes and drove to a nearby restaurant. I was a missionary to my
people, yet I could not reach those I loved most. That evening service was extremely
emotional for me. It was the first of many nights when I asked others to join me in praying
for my parents: "Lord, raise up someone else who is not ashamed of the Gospel to reach
out to my parents." The wonderful people of that church shared our pain that night, and
many continued praying for my family. A few people from that congregation still write to
inquire after my parents.
In May of 1977, Jan and I were assigned to the New York branch of Jews for Jesus. We
rented an apartment in Flushing, a neighborhood in Queens, and began reaching out to the
Jewish community there. An ancillary part of our ministry is helping Christians who want to
witness to Jewish friends. In the spring of 1978, Jan and I were invited to speak at a small
church in East Brunswick, New Jersey. It was a Saturday afternoon meeting, and we were to
take ten minutes to make our presentation and answer a few questions. I recall wondering,
"Why are we driving all this way to speak to a handful of people for ten minutes?" (Time
would tell. Nine years later, I received a letter from a woman who had attended that 1978
meeting. She tracked us down to let us know that a Jewish family that she had witnessed to
as a result of that meeting had all come to faith in Jesus. The entire family had just been
baptized and joined their church.)
One of my assignments in 1978 was to do weekly outreach on the campus of Queens
College in Queens, Long Island. This commuter campus had a population of more than
10,000 Jewish students. Our first event was an open air concert by the Liberated Wailing
Wall. A sizable crowd gathered; some were stirred up with interest and others with hostility
toward the gospel. I met some of the believers on the campus who wanted to learn about
ministry to the Jewish community. We became friends and spent the school year together
doing various activities: broadsiding, seminars, films and open discussions on the
messiahship of Jesus.
It didn't take long for some of the Jewish students to organize opposition to our evangelism.
Sometimes it took less than ten minutes for a crowd to surrounded me, taunting, tearing up
literature and generally trying to stop others from hearing what I had to say.
Every week, I felt a sense of uneasiness, sometimes even dread as I prepared myself for yet
another attempt at outreach. Yet, without fail, the moment I stepped onto the campus, peace
flooded my heart -- a peace that passed all understanding. God was in control. I was just
doing my duty, and that duty was to care, to pray and to spend two hours a week on that
Queens College campus, trying to reach out to the students.
The day the Holocaust commemoration took place at Queens College, I did not wear my
usual Jews for Jesus T-shirt, and I didn't bring our usual gospel broadsides. I came in street
clothes and brought dozens of copies of a now out-of-print Jews for Jesus booklet written
to denounce anti-Semitism. Even without the T-shirt and tracts, a near riot broke out. Three
security guards flanked me, as more than 400 people surrounded us. Their anger rose to
near boiling, but Jews for Jesus had trained me to respond only if people speak one at a
time, and amazingly, they responded when I insisted that they take turns speaking.
A voice shouted from the midst of the crowd, and I told the man who was trying to break in
that he would have to wait. He turned out to be the president of the college. He'd heard the
commotion, left his office and was attempting to bring the campus back to normalcy. When
he identified himself and asked me to accompany him to his office, I knew he was trying to
diffuse the situation and remove me from possible danger.
Yet, I had only been on the campus for forty-five minutes. I was startled to hear myself say,
"Dr. Segal, I would be more than happy to come to your office. However, I need to stay
here a full two hours just as I always have over the past few months. I would be happy to
make an appointment so we can talk later." Much to my surprise, he stayed and served as a
sounding board for the next hour and a quarter. Reporters from all five student papers were
there, and the following week their front pages covered the "event" and raised the issue of
Jews believing in Jesus as the Messiah.
The articles continued throughout the year. Most were distortions of who we were and what
we were saying, but some were fair. The opposition actually boosted our cause and raised
the issue of the Messiah even higher. The articles and editorials drew many of those sitting
on the fence into the discussion.
I didn't see one person come to faith in Jesus while I was on the campus. A few years later
at a Jews for Jesus event, a young lady introduced herself to me as a former Queens College
student. She had watched me from afar and had observed all the opposition and commotion.
She never approached me, never even took one of my tracts, but she did pick up literature
that others had flung to the ground -- and she read it. That literature spurred her on to
question her Christian friends. They presented the Gospel -- and she received God's gift of
salvation.
In August of 1978, Jan and I were transferred to Omaha to teach personal evangelism and to
take classes at Omaha Lutheran Bible School. I wondered why we were leaving the heart of
the largest Jewish population in the world to move to a place that had maybe 5,000 Jewish
people. However, the Lord used our time there. We learned from some godly professors
and built relationships.
We returned to New York City in 1980; only this time, we were a threesome. We were
happy to be back in New York and happy with our healthy baby boy, Micha.
Over the next decade, Jan and I had all kinds of adventures and opportunities to serve God
through the ministry of Jews for Jesus. We ministered for a time in Toronto, Canada, as
well as in Boston, Massachusetts.
Our lives were busy and full, and our family grew! Micha was joined by Sarah, Noah, Seth
and eventually, Elizabeth. I wished my parents could see them all, but our occasional
attempts to break the wall of silence always met swift rejection. Then, in 1990, my brother
told me the news.
My father had cancer. He told my brother that he had no intention of seeking medical
treatment of any kind. Dad had seen his father and sister suffer grievously through surgical
and chemical treatments for their cancers, and he would not do the same. When the pain
became unbearable, he intended to end his own life.
I'd had no direct communication with my parents since 1977. I'd been praying for fourteen
years that the Lord would raise up someone else to reach them with the gospel. That prayer
became an urgent plea because my father was running out of time.
I set up a chain of prayer through Jews for Jesus staff and supporters. I invited some of my
closest supporters and friends to write a short note or a postcard to my parents letting them
know they were praying. I never knew when a phone call would come, telling me of my
father's fate.
I'll never forget May 22, 1990. I'd just finished speaking at a pastors' conference on Cape
Cod, near Boston. I had urged people to involve themselves in reaching out to all and asked
them to pray specifically for my family: for reconciliation, healing and, most importantly, for
their salvation. The moment I closed with prayer someone strode forward to hand me an
urgent message from Dennis. He had tracked me down to tell me that our father had
swallowed a bottle of pills in an attempt to take his life that morning. Dad failed in that
attempt, but time was running out. I drove straight to the Boston airport and flew across
country.
Ten hours later I was in my hometown of Pasco, Washington. Dennis met me at the airport
with a message from my parents, telling me to get on the next plane to Boston because I was
not welcome in their home. All they wanted from me was that I leave them alone.
Well, there were no planes out that night, so Dennis and I went to a motel. We talked,
prayed and even laughed as we reminisced about our childhood. The following day, I knew
I couldn't take the next plane to Boston. I had to try to see my father. Eternity was hanging
in the balance.
I called my old friend, Alan Rither. I met him at his office, and he took time off to bring me
to his home where we prayed together. And at 4:00 p.m. on May 23, 1990, I did something
I hadn't done in fourteen years: I rang my parents' doorbell. The lights were out, the front
gate was padlocked, and there were no vehicles in the driveway. I assumed that they had
chosen to leave until after I had returned to Boston. Still, I rang the bell, knowing I had to
try. Even though there was no response, I stood there. A couple of minutes passed, and the
garage door swung open. Out walked my brother, looking utterly mystified. "I don't
understand it, with all that has happened in the past, they have decided to see you now!"
I entered into the living room, and my father struggled out of his chair. Cancer had ravaged
his body. I remembered Dad with jet black hair and eyes that danced with merriment. Now
he was aged beyond his years and wracked with pain. No words were spoken as I crossed
the room. With tears in my eyes and his, we hugged for the longest time. God had answered
my prayer for reconciliation.
I can't tell the story without thinking about the parable of the Prodigal Son. In our case, it
was more like the Prodigal Father! And the fatted calf? Well, we didn't keep livestock in the
Cohen home, but we had the next best thing -- Chinese food! The restaurant that we used to
go to when I was young was still in business, so I ordered a take-out feast.
I offered a brief prayer of thanksgiving for the food and for the reconciliation and asked for
healing for Dad. When I finished, I couldn't miss the tears streaming down my mother's
face. Prayers were not a part of our family life, but she was greatly touched by this one.
We were a family again! We sat around the dining room table, and I told of the many cities
in which we'd lived, the adventures and, of course, I showed pictures of our five beautiful
children. I told them what a wonderful mother Jan is and how Micha had started to learn
Hebrew in anticipation of his bar mitzvah. I described how we light Sabbath candles in our
home and celebrate Jewish festivals like Passover, Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur, and, I
explained, at the same time our children were enrolled in classes at our church.
My mother was astonished. Her comment was, "You know what Steven? It seems like your
faith in Jesus has made you even more Jewish!"
I replied, "Mom, if Jesus is the Jewish Messiah, what could be more Jewish than following
Him? If He is not the Messiah, then even the Gentiles are wasting their time following
Him." My parents did not demonstrate any openness to the gospel message. However, they
did comment on the thoughtfulness of more than thirty friends and supporters of mine who
had written to let my parents know of their prayers concerning my father's illness.
By the end of our visit, Mom and Dad said I was welcome to come back, but they did not
want me to bring up the issue of Jesus in their presence.
It was clear that Dad was out of the woods for the time being, so I returned to Boston. My
prayers for another person to witness to him continued. Over the next six months, we were
able to have what seemed to me like little miracles -- phone calls with my parents. We could
talk about anything, except what was most important -- Y'shua.
Jan and I were preparing to move to Ft. Lauderdale right after Thanksgiving, 1990, and it
was about that time that Dad decided to go into a hospital. He chose St. Vincent's Hospital
in Portland, Oregon, where I had been born. My cousin was working there and could help
him get the care he needed. I flew out to see him one last time.
I spent four days with my father. He was on a morphine drip to control the pain, but other
than this, there was little that could be done. I helped him shave, shared meals with him and
we spoke of what life would be like for the family after he died. Still, he would not hear
from me about the life-giving message of Jesus.
I returned to Boston, where I had to arrange for our move to Florida and work on our
annual conference of Jewish believers in Jesus, which we call an Ingathering.
We arrived at the Ingathering, where I received an emergency message -- but it was not
about my father. It was just one week before we were to move, and the mortgage for the
people who were buying our Boston home fell apart. Meanwhile, we had put all our
available cash into a non-refundable deposit on a home in Florida.
I was convinced that only the Lord could intervene in this set of circumstances: my father
was near death, we were in the midst of a move, the mortgage brokers for our new home
would not approve us until they had written evidence that our house in Boston was sold and
if we didn't get our mortgage within two weeks, we would lose our down payment, which
was basically everything. Yet, I felt a total peace in the midst of everything.
We returned from the Ingathering and finished packing in preparation for the movers. They
still were scheduled to come the day after Thanksgiving so we could move to Florida, where
we might or might not have a home.
On Thanksgiving morning, at 1:30 a.m., Jan and I were jarred awake by the telephone. The
only reason I could imagine for someone to call at that hour was to give us bad news. I was
immediately relieved to hear that it wasn't my brother, but rather it was my cousin, Susan.
Susan had come to faith in Jesus in the late 1980s. She and I sometimes talked about the
Lord and what God was doing in her life. She and my Dad were close, so I occasionally
asked her to speak to him about Jesus. Susan was somewhat apprehensive; she didn't know
what to say or how to go about it. I asked her to trust God and simply tell Dad what God
had done in her life, explaining the simple gospel message. It was hard to know if she
would follow through on my request.
It was the early hours of Thanksgiving Day when Susan called to tell me that she had done
it -- she told the gospel to my father. She repeated her message word for word so I could
hear it. "Uncle Bobbie," she had said, "God loves you very much. He sent Jesus, our
Messiah, to die for you so that you could have eternal life. Wouldn't you want to receive
God's free gift of eternal life?"
Her voice dropped down to a whisper, "And do you know what, Steven? He said, 'Yes.' I
prayed with him right there in the hospital room to receive God's gift of salvation!"
"Praise the Lord," was all I could say, and I was so overwhelmed that it's a wonder I could
even say that much!
The next morning I had my last conversation with Dad. I called him to rejoice in his coming
to faith and to let him know how much I loved him and how glad I was to know that I would
see him in heaven. He was so very tired, thus the conversation was brief. At the end of our
call, Dad assured me that though he only a few days left on earth, he knew he would spend
eternity with the Lord. I was so very thankful on that Thanksgiving Day!
The following day the movers came and took away all our belongings, yet we still had no
place to go. After the movers left, I took a shower, which is why I didn't hear the phone ring.
But even with the running water, I heard the children shouting and jumping up and down.
The call had been from the real estate agent. He had no idea how, but the buyer had
managed to get a new mortgage application approved in just four days! The sale of our
home would go through, a couple of days late, but it would go through in time for our
closing in Florida. God took care of it all!
During the three-day journey from Boston to our next ministry station in Ft. Lauderdale, we
were out of touch with the world. When we arrived in Ft. Lauderdale, I called my mother to
let her know that we were safe. Her first words were, "Have you spoken with your brother
yet?" I hadn't. She hesitated, then said, "I had hoped he would be the one to let you know
that your father died on Monday."
Mother was doing her best to maintain her composure. "Your father did not want a funeral
service. I told him that since we were not religious, I would honor his wishes." It was then
that I told mother about Dad's commitment to Christ. Her response was, "If that helped him
in his last days, then so be it." Later on, an attending nurse who was at my father's bedside
when he died told me, "Minutes before your father died, he sat straight up in bed with a
glorious smile on his face and said, 'I'm starting my journey home to God now.' Then he lay
down in peace and entered into the presence of the Lord."
We closed on the house in Ft. Lauderdale the next afternoon. With keys in hand, I called
the movers to let them know where to bring the furniture. They gave me the "bad news" --
they had lost our furniture. I'm sure those movers never expected my response. I just
laughed. After all we'd been through, the misplaced furniture hardly seemed devastating. I
told the movers we had sleeping bags and cooking utensils, and when they found our things,
they should give us a call.
We quickly settled into our work, thankful for all that God had done in bringing us to that
point.
I had once dreamed of becoming a lawyer, but God gave me the privilege of telling people
that though we have broken His laws, He has provided a gracious means of reconciliation.
Who could ask for more? And oh yes, even to this day I find confirmation that I am doing
what the Lord wants. Sometimes I'll look up as I am driving late at night, I'll wonder...and
the streetlight will flicker almost as if to remind me of how God has been so real, so
personal in my life.
If you are not a believer in Jesus yet, please ask God to show you if it is true that our
Messiah has come. Be willing to consider the evidence of Scripture. Y'shua has stood the
test of time for nearly 2,000 years, and I am fully persuaded that any Jew or Gentile who
truly desires to know God's truth will discover it in the person of Jesus.
If you are already a believer, please don't be afraid to tell those who so deeply need what
you have found in Jesus. God used the persistence of one caring, praying Christian to bring
me to my Messiah. My prayer is that through you, many will also come to know what we
know: peace through the Prince of Peace.
"For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ, for it is the power of God to salvation for
everyone who believes, for the Jew first and also for the Greek." (Romans 1:16)
Steve Cohen has a B.A. in sociology from the University of Washington and an M.A. in missiology with
concentration in Jewish evangelism/Judaic studies from the Fuller School of World Missions in
Pasadena, California. He may be reached at scinfl@aol.com.
He says, "It is with much gratitude for all that I have received through caring Christian friends that I
hope to encourage others to continue reaching out with the Good News of Jesus to Jews as well as
Gentiles. I find tremendous encouragement in 1 Corinthians 15:58, and I hope that you will, too:
'Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord,
knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.'"
The Cohens moved to St. Louis in August of 1996, leaving 20 years of missionary service with Jews for Jesus
to begin The Apple of His Eye Mission Society. This web site: www.aohems.org is dedicated to
their service these many years.
©1995 Purple Pomegranate Productions. All rights reserved. Purple Pomegranate Productions is a
division of Jews for Jesus. Copyright Information.
A Twentieth-Century Jew and His Experience With Jesus
By Steve Cohen
Many flowery words would never adequately express the love I have for my father and
mother, so I will simply say, "This is dedicated to dad and mom, Robert and Barbara Cohen.
Mother, may you be comforted by God in your solitude after dad's death in 1990."
I am eternally grateful to Alan and Kathy Rither. Because of their faithful prayers,
testimony and witness, I have begun my spiritual journey in Y'shua.
I give thanks to God for my wife Jan. She has done an excellent job mothering our five
children: Micha, Sarah, Noah, Seth and Elizabeth. Her faithfulness is a blessing and her
many sacrifices have helped make possible our involvement with Jews for Jesus .
When I first asked Ruth Rosen if she would be willing to help me out with the writing of
this text, I am not sure that she knew how big of a help she would be to me and to this
project. Thank you Ruth for giving so selflessly. And also, a big thank you to Janet Reed
whose copy-editing was terrific. And, of course, to Steve Lawson for bringing this to print!
Finally, I praise God for Moishe Rosen's leadership, steadfastness and encouragement to
me. In 1976, Moishe told me, "All I have to give is an opportunity." I continue to see the
opportunity to serve. Thank you for making this project possible through Jews for Jesus.
-- Steve Cohen, March 1995
I had just been accepted into law school and was contemplating my move to Tacoma,
Washington. Dry days are rare in the Pacific Northwest; yet, I was standing on a sunny
Seattle hillside overlooking Lake Washington when a big black Lincoln Continental pulled
up within a few feet of me. A man in a dark suit emerged and strode purposefully toward
me. I had never seen him before nor have I seen him since. He informed me that he had a
message for me. A message, he said, from God: "You are to study the Bible and become a
believer in Jesus because your mission in life is to bring the gospel to other Jewish people."
His message delivered, he turned, walked back to his car and before I could answer, he
drove away. I was certain he must be meshugge (Yiddish for crazy). First, he didn't know
me. Second, my "mission," if you could call it that, was to become a lawyer. Third, and most
important, who ever heard of a Jewish person believing in Jesus? Certainly not I!
My name is Steve Cohen, and despite what I once considered a ridiculous notion, I am a
Jew who eventually decided to be, most definitely, for Jesus. Let me tell you my story.
I grew up in Pasco, a small town in eastern Washington. My parents owned a jewelry store,
but lest you begin picturing wealthy ladies and gentlemen poring over glittering gold and
gem-studded trinkets, let me tell you that our store was a far cry from Tiffany's. In fact, it
was difficult for my folks to keep the small business afloat. I helped out at the store, and
though money was scarce, perhaps we were "well off" because our financial struggle was a
family affair.
We were not strict in practicing the Jewish religion, but my parents did their best to rear my
brother, Dennis, and me with high moral standards. The nearest Reform temple, Beth El,
was about half an hour away in Richland. The nearest rabbi was in Seattle, a five-hour drive.
My parents were not willing to invest the time to take us back and forth, so we grew up with
little biblical knowledge. Still, we were unquestionably Jews.
Pasco was no place to shop for traditional Jewish foods, but occasionally we ordered "care
packages" that Brenner Brothers Deli bussed in from Seattle. We treasured the salami, the
pastrami, the rye bread and the lox, savoring every bite. Of course at Passover, there was
matzoh (unleavened bread), which we didn't exactly savor but were glad to have because it
was a link to our people and our heritage. One compensation for a week without regular
bread was the delicious matzoh brie (matzoh dipped in beaten eggs and fried like French
toast -- we smothered ours with fresh strawberry jam). But for those who know New York,
Zabar's it wasn't.
My parents found other ways to reinforce our Jewish identity. In particular, my father was
careful to teach me that our people have suffered much persecution in the past and that he
wasn't going to tolerate prejudice in the present. I vividly recall the time he took to task the
manager of a department store across the street from our family store. The man had derided
our people terribly, and Dad, normally one to avoid confrontation, stood up to him in my
presence. Dad helped me realize the importance of taking pride in our heritage. I grew up
feeling proud of what our people had accomplished and contributed to society; yet, I
wondered about religion.
I recall watching the Billy Graham crusades on television. I loved to listen to George
Beverly Shea sing, and I admired Dr. Graham for the moral lessons he brought. However,
as soon as he began inviting people to commit their lives to Jesus, I switched channels. I
knew that was not for me, since I was Jewish. I didn't have much knowledge of my own
religion, but I did know that I was not supposed to believe someone else's!
It bothered me that I didn't know more about Judaism, and I sensed that something was
missing in my life. When I was sixteen years old, I lashed out at my mother, blaming her
and my father for the void where I thought my religious background ought to be. Why else
would I feel empty inside? I generally excelled at whatever I put my head and hands to -- I
was first chair clarinetist at each level of school, first on the tennis team and always on the
honor roll. Yet, I wasn't satisfied and reasoned that it must be God or religion that was
missing from my life. My mother's response was, "In two years you'll go away to college.
Then you can get all the religion you want."
My grandparents made it possible for me to attend college, and I chose the University of
Washington. I hadn't the foggiest idea of what to do with my life -- I went to college
because it was the thing to do, and I felt that I was expected to go.
My father told me that he had joined a Jewish fraternity when he was in college and
suggested that it would be good for me to join one, too. I pledged Zeta Beta Tau, imagining
the house would provide some of the religious experience I had missed in my upbringing. I
was dismayed to find myself in the midst of a close-knit group of friends who already knew
one another and were geared for social, not spiritual, interaction.
One of my closer friends at the fraternity was Ken Packhouse. Neither of us enjoyed
gambling into the early morning hours or the partying that typified most fraternities,
including ours. When I recall how much Ken and I seemed to have in common, it seems
ironic how our paths eventually and radically diverged. After graduation, he went to Israel
and became a scholar at a Jewish organization called "Aish Ha Torah," while I -- well, even I
would not have believed the path I would one day follow.
I spent the summer of 1968 in Dusseldorf, Germany. I could speak German, having studied
the language since ninth grade, and my grandmother had ties to the "old country." I worked
the first half of the summer at a chemical plant called Henkel, a job I got through a student
exchange program. I spent the rest of the summer hitchhiking throughout Europe, visiting
famous synagogues and cathedrals during my journey. It was quite an adventure, especially
the day that the Soviet Union invaded Czechoslovakia. I was in a youth hostel in
Copenhagen at the time, as were many Czechoslovakian people for whom the invasion was
reminiscent of World War II.
I returned to Seattle in time for the fall term and the Jewish High Holidays. I accepted the
invitation of a fraternity brother to attend services with his family. When his mother asked
me how I'd spent my summer, I described my adventures. She almost had a heart attack!
She was a Holocaust survivor, and the mention of Germany stirred up traumatic memories
of the Nazi regime. "How could you go to that country and work with those people?" she
shrieked. I couldn't believe that a fellow Jew would treat me as though I'd somehow been
responsible for the horrors of the Holocaust -- simply because I didn't share her hatred of
all German people.
The Holocaust is an atrocity with which all of my people are familiar to some extent. In fact,
I chose to give a speech about it in my public speaking class. We all were assigned a tenminute
speech on the subject of our choice, and I had decided on anti-Semitism for my
topic. I went down to the local chapter of the B'nai B'rith Anti Defamation League to do
some research. There I saw the anti-Semitic statements Martin Luther made in his 1543
treatise, On the Jews and Their Lies.
My speech was a clumsily crafted attempt to show how "so-called Christians" were the
main perpetrators of hatred against my people. I was excruciatingly nervous as I picked up a
piece of chalk and drew a large cross on the blackboard. Then I carefully added lines
perpendicular to each arm of the cross, creating a swastika intended to illustrate my point as
I pronounced my judgment, "What Luther began in 1543, Hitler tried to finish in 1943." I
continued my speech in what seemed to be the longest ten minutes of my life. I was so
nervous in front of those twelve classmates that I decided I would never be a public speaker!
Meanwhile, my second year of fraternity life proved to be no better than the first. Our house
seemed to differ from the others only inasmuch as we served no pork and our grade point
averages were generally higher. I found next to nothing of God there. Disillusioned, I
moved out of the fraternity house and into an apartment with a friend named Will.
By that time, I had set a goal: I would become a criminal attorney. However, I had to take a
slight detour in pursuing my goal because the Vietnam War was raging and my draft
number was low. I did not want to join the military, nor did I want to be drafted. I enjoyed
airplanes and flying, so in 1970 I enlisted in the Air Force Reserves, hoping to qualify for
flight school. I didn't know that 20/20 vision was required, and I failed to qualify on that
basis.
So what was available? The only opening at the time was aircraft maintenance. I didn't know
the proper side of a wrench or screwdriver, much less how to repair aircraft. Nevertheless, I
took the position, as it seemed to offer the least amount of danger, while allowing me to
continue the pursuit of my goals.
I was inducted in April of 1970 and went to Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas
for basic training. There I met Alan Rither, a graduate of the University of Washington, a
lawyer -- and a Christian. We became fast friends during basic training and purposed to
maintain that friendship back in Seattle. Then came technical school training. I was assigned
to Sheppherd Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas, for a course in the basics of aircraft
maintenance on the C-130 turbo prop airplane.
After the thirteen hottest weeks of a Texas summer, I returned to Seattle where I was
assigned to McCord Air Force Base in Tacoma for Reserve duty. Once we returned to
Seattle, we were obligated to attend one weekend a month and two weeks during the
summer. Ironically, there were no C-130s assigned to our base. I would watch the C-141s
come in, but there was little I could do other than help guide aircraft to the appropriate
"parking spot." I recall sitting in the cockpit many Saturdays that fall, listening to University
of Washington Huskies' football games on the pilot's headphones.
Alan and I continued our friendship as we had planned, and he had a built-in opportunity to
speak with me about Jesus at least once a month. We'd usually have lunch together, and I'd
listen politely when he spoke of his faith. I was interested to learn what he, as a Gentile,
thought about God and the Bible. I didn't take anything he said personally, figuring his
beliefs were fine for him but had nothing to do with me, a Jew.
One day Alan invited me to his home. The first thing I saw was a painted brass ornament
hanging on his door. It was a greeting: "Shalom, peace to all who enter here." I was
impressed and was even more so when I walked into his apartment and sensed just how
peaceful it really was. There truly was something different about him. I intuitively knew that
his "something" was what I had been missing since I was a teen.
When Alan began to tell me about Jesus, I tried to deflect the conversation to something
with which I felt more conversant: cosmology, the study of the universe.
I had spent the last two years of my undergraduate work as an assistant to Professor Stuart
Carter Dodd, a true genius. I immersed myself in his pantheistic theory of the universe that
he laid out so masterfully, but little did I comprehend the implications of his theory!
Professor Dodd's main premise was that the "stuff" of the universe is constantly and
randomly evolving and devolving into different levels of organization.
Alan listened patiently as I plodded through "facts," theories and mathematical equations ad
nauseam. Finally, Alan broadsided me with a question I had never asked myself during all
my studies, "Where did all the stuff in the universe come from, anyway?"
I had never questioned the presumption that the "stuff" had always existed. Alan pointed out
that Professor Dodd had deified matter rather than acknowledging the existence of the
Creator. He also challenged me to see that the intricate design of the universe belied the
theory of random interaction leading to higher levels of organization. I found myself
thinking that it took more faith to accept Dodd's ideas than to accept the fact that there is a
God who created the universe.
During this time when I was rethinking and beginning to search, I was involved in another
kind of search as well. I was single -- and looking for a life partner. I had no idea how
abruptly that search would end.
On February 24, 1971, I went on my very first, and last, blind date. My roommate, Will, had
a girlfriend, Kate, who had a roommate: Janice Anne Isbell. Jan was my blind date, and
before she said a single word, I knew she was going to be my wife. After our date, I think
she knew, too. Will and Kate eventually broke up, but Jan and I were together to stay. Two
years later we married.
In the interim, August of 1972, I was accepted into law school in Tacoma, Washington. The
day before I moved to Tacoma, I was standing out on a sunny Seattle hillside overlooking
Lake Washington and the university district. It was then that the big black Lincoln
Continental drove up, and a stranger approached me. His dark suit might as well have been a
Western Union uniform, because he politely delivered his message then left, his purpose
apparently accomplished. He did not attempt to explain the message that he claimed God
had for me: "You are to study the Bible and become a believer in Jesus because your
mission in life is to bring the gospel to other Jewish people." It was too bizarre for me to try
to correct him, and I certainly was not going to tell a total stranger that he must've gotten his
wires crossed because I intended to be a lawyer.
Meanwhile, Alan continued to pray for me and tell me about Jesus on our Reserve
weekends. We would sit together and discuss what had happened in the preceding month. I
told him of my struggles with law school. He responded by taking out his pocket Bible and
reading verses that were meaningful to him. He always managed to bring the conversation
back to Jesus. Frankly, I did not know enough about the Bible to counter him. I wanted to
be around Alan because, while I felt overcome by life's difficulties, he seemed able to
overcome them. He had finished law school, and I was in my first year. We both were in the
Air Force Reserves, a situation that involved its own set of quirks and challenges. He was
newly married, and while Jan and I were not yet wed, we had committed to one another with
a view toward marriage. Through everything, Alan radiated joy amid adversity, while the
same sorts of adversity made me downright grumpy.
I could no longer dismiss what he was saying as having nothing to do with me, and perhaps
for that reason, I started to challenge his beliefs. When that had little effect, I finally told
him, "I'm Jewish. Jewish people don't believe, nor do we need to believe in Jesus!" I
assumed that would be enough to stop him from talking to me about God, but I had no idea
that he would continue talking to God about me!
Alan later admitted that he had prayed daily for God to make me miserable in what he
described as my spiritual complacency so that I would have to consider whether Y'shua (the
Jewish way to say Jesus) was the promised Messiah.
In December of 1972, two months before our wedding, Jan's parents invited us to spend the
holidays with them in Grand Coulee, Washington. They asked me to join them at their
church for a Christmas Eve candlelight service. I had never been to a church before, but I
certainly didn't want to offend my future in-laws, so I agreed to come. With no idea what to
expect, I sat in the very back row.
The service began at 11:00 p.m. We each received a small candle with a bit of paper
wrapped around it to prevent hot wax from burning our hands. The service was a strange
new experience for me, but there were some familiar elements. I'd sung some of the carols
for the annual Christmas program when I was in grade school. Later, in high school and
college, these same carols were standard fare for the concerts we gave. Still, I felt out of
place. After all, this was their holiday, not mine.
Jan's mother led the choir, and Jan and her sister sang a lovely duet. At the end of the
service, all electrical lights were extinguished. The only point of light to break the darkness
of the sanctuary was a small candle burning brightly on the altar. The pastor invited the
whole congregation to stand with him in a circle. He lit his candle from the altar and shared
that fire with those standing near him. As the fire was passed from one person to the next, I
was touched by the warmth, the glow, the joy that was so evident in that place. But I
remained in the back, hidden in darkness.
I continued "in the dark" for some time, and in May of 1973, when I got my grades, God
answered Alan's prayers that I be shaken out of my complacency. I had failed! Flunked
out of law school! What a blow! I was at a complete loss, for I had invested so much of the
previous three years toward my goal of law school, and that goal had vanished into thin air.
Why?
One evening in late May, I was looking out my bedroom window where a lantern shone
brightly in the backyard. I thought to myself or to whomever might be listening: "If there
really is a God, prove it! Make that light in the backyard go out." Poof! The light was
extinguished in an instant. Well, we were in the midst of a thunderstorm, so I reasoned that
it was just a coincidence. Nevertheless, I waited about five minutes and then thought, "OK, if
you're really there, make it come back on." Immediately, light from the lantern pierced the
darkness. I was floored and asked for no more signs that night!
That weekend, Jan and I went to several garage sales in the area, and I bought a small Bible
for $3.00. It was bound in white leather and looked like a Bible that might have been given
to someone as a wedding gift. I didn't realize at the time that God was wooing me.
I began reading the Gospel of Matthew -- my very first foray into the New Testament. From
the first page, I discovered what no one, not even Alan, had ever told me: Jesus was Jewish!
He attended synagogue, read the Hebrew Scriptures, celebrated the Sabbath, Passover and
the other festivals -- and he was speaking to Jewish people about the God of Abraham,
Isaac and Jacob!
I was impressed. Still, everything I knew about my religion and my upbringing warned me
that I was on dangerous ground as I could not be Jewish and believe in Jesus.
The next six months seemed to be the worst of my life. I could not seem to do anything
right. I went through six jobs in those six months, and after losing each job, I had to tell Jan
the bad news. It was as if the rug were being pulled out from under my life.
Alan invited me to hear the attorney general for the state of California address a large group
of men during a lunch hour. I went because I still had an interest in law, but he was not there
to speak about our legal system. He came to tell about God's justice system -- how He
offered atonement for sin though death of the Messiah, Jesus. I stayed for lunch, but I was
nervous being around all those Christians. As soon as the attorney general finished
speaking, I left as quickly as I could. The presence of the Lord was so real -- I couldn't take
it. I was confronted with my own sin and need for forgiveness, but I didn't want to yield. It
was becoming more and more difficult for me to dismiss Jesus.
Jan was the organist at a church in Tacoma. I attended some of the inquirer's classes and
asked some rather obnoxious questions as I tried to challenge the others' faith. They
responded with kindness.
Alan kept sending books to read, tracts to consider and tapes to hear, and he kept praying
for me. Once he asked me, if the promised Messiah of Israel were standing right in front of
me, how would I recognize him? After all, there have been many false Messiahs throughout
history, and even in our day there are a couple who have been hailed as the Messiah: Rev.
Sun Myung Moon, the head of the Unification Church, and Menachem Schneerson, the
former head of the Lubavitch sect of Judaism.
I knew that the Messiah had to fulfill certain prophecies, and Alan's question made me
realize that I was ignorant of those prophecies. I could not make a case for or against Jesus
as a false Messiah if I didn't acquaint myself with the evidence that would prove the identity
of the true Messiah. If I learned those prophecies, God would make it clear to me whether I
ought to follow or reject this Jesus. I dug into the Jewish Bible and explored the case Alan
had been making for Jesus as the Messiah. I found I could not rule out Jesus!
Now it seemed I was worse off than before. By December of 1973, I was battling with what
seemed indisputable evidence for the messiahship of Jesus. It would turn my life upside
down if I accepted what the Scriptures seemed to indicate, but on the other hand, if I rejected
what was true, I would be going against God.
On December 23, 1973, Alan and his wife, Kathy, came to our home for dinner. Alan
brought with him a couple of cassette tapes of the testimony of a Jewish believer named Art
Katz. He previously had given me Art's book,Ben Israel. I had found the written testimony
extremely challenging, and as the four of us listened to the tapes, I was more convinced than
ever that Jesus was truly my Messiah. Alan told me that he wanted to know for certain that I
would spend eternity with him, so he extended me a personal invitation to receive God's gift
of eternal life.
Instantly the battle intensified. Doubts flooded my mind even as a sense of peace flooded
my heart. I glanced around the room and my eyes fell on the two candles burning in our
living room. The darkness and light were vivid reminders of that candlelight service, when
from the darkness in the back of the church, I'd witnessed the joy of those lighting their
small candles. I remembered the night of the thunderstorm and how God seemed to provide
me with a sign from the streetlight. I remembered, too, that Jesus was said to be the light of
the world. So I took a bold step. I asked God for one more confirmation."If you really want
me to follow Jesus as my Messiah, make one of the two candles go out," I silently prayed.
Alan immediately rose from his chair, walked over to the candles, blew one out and returned
to his chair.
The battle was over, yet I had no idea of the battle that was ahead. All I knew was that at
11:20 p.m., the moment of my repentance and commitment to Christ, I experienced a peace I
had never known before. It was the same peace that I saw radiate from Alan's face. I keep a
picture taken that night in my Bible. It reminds me of God's faithfulness in the midst of my
stubbornness and self-centeredness. A year later, I learned that even as I had asked God for
yet more proof, Kathy was also praying, "Lord, Steve needs a sign. I don't know what it is,
but please give him that sign so he knows this is for real."
But what does a Jew who believes in Jesus do? The next night was Christmas Eve 1973. Jan
and I went to the church where she was organist. Again, it was a candlelight service. This
time, I sat right up in front. The pastor, Rev. Robert Anderson, invited Jan and me to his
home for a late supper after the service. We cheerfully accepted.
A whole new world started opening up to me. I attended the new believer's class where I
asked questions, lots of questions. I felt I had so much catching up to do. A couple of
weeks after I came to faith in Jesus, I was sitting in Sunday school, asking the rest of the
class, "How do you begin to tell others about Jesus? How do you tell them what He means
to you?"
I was astonished when a woman who had been a member of that congregation for years
stood up and declared, "I am a Lutheran, and we don't do that sort of thing," and then she sat
down! How could this be? If Jesus is the Messiah, then we needed to tell everyone about
Him.
I've since learned that she was not speaking for all Lutherans. Yet, over the years, I have also
learned that Jews are not the only people who have to break with tradition in order to follow
Y'shua. Many Christians need to break with their tradition of not sharing their faith in order
to obey Jesus' command: All authority has been given to me in heaven and on earth. Go
therefore and make disciplesof all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and
of the Son and of the HolySpirit, teaching them to observe all the things that I have
commanded you; and lo, I am withyou always, even to the end of the age. (Matthew 28:18-20)
All who are followers of Y'shua should be committed to carrying out that Great
Commission to the end that others will come to know what we have discovered: Jesus really
is the Messiah promised long ago. There is so very much at stake -- eternal separation for
those who are outside of Christ.
As I continued to grow in my faith, I had many more questions about the Bible. One day I
asked Pastor Anderson about Jonah and the whale (or Behemoth as some call it). His next
comment startled me: "Well, we don't believe that actually happened. This is simply a story
to give us moral guidance. We don't have to take everything in the Bible literally."
I was profoundly disturbed by that. "If we don't take the Jonah text literally, where do we
draw the line?" I argued, "Couldn't one extend this line of reasoning and conclude that the
resurrection never happened?" But as kind and gracious as that pastor was, he was not
going to change his views of Scripture because of the questions of a new believer.
I was sad, because I knew that I would be leaving that congregation sooner or later. It turned
out to be sooner, as Jan received an invitation to become organist at another church in
Tacoma. The pastor, Gary Grafwallner, was creative, outgoing, young at heart and had a real
desire for people to know the vitality of a personal relationship with God. Through the grace
of God, I grew in my faith and knowledge of Scripture. Jan and I started taking Hebrew
lessons at a local synagogue. In order to keep up with it, I offered a beginner's class to the
members of the church. I kept a couple of weeks ahead of them as we worked our way
through the first chapter of Genesis.
I also frequented a local Christian bookstore. The owner had befriended me and helped me
see the wide range of reading possibilities. I gravitated toward the reference books like the
biblical dictionaries, but Jan and I were living on very limited resources, so most of the time
I was "just looking." I began to wonder if there were any other Jews who believed in Jesus,
so I left my name at the bookstore and asked the manager to let me know if she could put
me in touch with any.
In the spring of 1974, I contracted pneumonia and was housebound for six weeks. Day
after day, my main event was navigating down the long flight of stairs to get our mail, then
struggling back up the stairs in order to crawl back into bed. I had no energy for anything
except reading, and read I did. The Lord used those six weeks to immerse me in His Word,
which I drank in with increasing thirst. Each page filled me with the joy of knowing Him
and a realization of the responsibility imparted along with that knowledge. Just as I was well
enough to get out of the house, I received more reading material from an unexpected source.
A woman named Gina Brewington had been visiting Christian bookstores with a recently
published work, Jews for Jesus. The store owner gave Gina my name and number, and the
next thing I knew, she was at my door with a copy of the book in hand.
That book introduced me to a band of Jewish ex-hippies and antiwar dissenters who
believed in Jesus. I was astonished to read how they turned tactics once used to protest
against the establishment into tools to proclaim the gospel. They told about Jesus out on the
city streets with a lively style of gospel literature. They sang newly written Jewish gospel
music, and they used drama to preach on busy street corners. Moishe Rosen was the
founder of the group, and he did not retreat from those who opposed it s message.
My admiration was due in part to the fact that I had learned from my father to avoid conflict
at all costs. I remember a visit from my Oma (grandmother) and how she told Dad that the
couch would look better "over there." He moved it. When he was making his delicious lentil
soup, she complained that it was usually too salty, so he used less salt, contrary to his own
tastes. Then Oma's visit was over. Dad moved the couch back, and the next time he made
the soup, he added the usual amount of salt. Dad hated confrontation and avoided it by
compromising whenever possible. That may have been acceptable in dealing with couches
and soup, but I gathered from this book that when it came to proclaiming the gospel,
compromising is not an option. Far too much is at stake!
Soon after she'd given me the book, Gina called to inform me that Moishe Rosen was
coming to Seattle for a speaking engagement. I told her I would be there. Moishe had
several people with him, and I was in a room with other Jewish believers in Jesus for the
very first time.
They showed slides of the first Jews for Jesus New York City Summer Witnessing
Campaign. I saw colorfully clad people who were performing street theater. I saw what
appeared to be a birthday party for one of the campaigners -- in the form of a parade down
Fifth Avenue! The song written for that occasion became the standard birthday song among
Jews for Jesus staff (sung to the tune of "L'chaim" from Fiddler on the Roof):
Today is Martha's birthday, to Martha we wish a long life (long life!)
Not only was she born back then, but she's been born again --
Praise Y'shua for life.
All the prophets have foretold us that the Son would come to set His people free So Y'shua
came among us so that we could live throughout eternity. What's today?
Today is Martha's birthday, to Martha we wish a long life Not only was she born back then,
but she's been born again Praise Y'shua -- for life!
The more I saw, the more I felt that these outspoken and seemingly uninhibited people were
doing something I admired, but something that was definitely not for me. Yet, I recalled the
messenger on the hill who had told me that my mission in life was to bring the gospel to
other Jewish people. For the first time I wondered, could it be true?
A few months later, Gina phoned yet again to inform me that the Liberated Wailing Wall
was coming to Tacoma. This was the first Jews for Jesus "mobile evangelistic team." They
present Jewish gospel music, drama and testimonies. Jan and I fell in love with the music.
After the presentation, the team requested that anyone traveling to eastern Washington
contact them, as one of the members needed a ride to see some friends that weekend. Well,
it was Thanksgiving weekend, and we'd planned to see Jan's parents in Grand Coulee,
Washington, so we offered to help. Steffi Geiser, our two small dogs, Jan and I piled into
our tiny Fiat 128, and off we went. Steffi told us about the very beginnings of the ministry
and invited me to come to California and see what was happening for myself. I couldn't go
because I was working in a photography studio. Three weeks later, the owner decided to
close the store, and once again, I was out of work.
Being in the Air Force Reserves, I could fly anywhere that military aircraft went for free, as
long as there was space available. There were regular flights between Tacoma and Alameda
Naval Air Station in Oakland (less than an hour's drive from the Jews for Jesus office). I
put on my uniform, went to the base, hopped a DC-9 military hospital plane, and about two
hours later, I was in California.
My parents were living in Reno, so I thought I would take a quick excursion to see them.
When I called and told them where I was and what I was doing, however, they told me I was
not welcome to visit them. They were definitely displeased with my new faith.
Susan Perlman and Tuvya Zaretsky drove me to the Jews for Jesus office, which at that time
was just north of San Francisco in a suburb called San Rafael.
Tuvya took me to lunch, and I asked him how his family responded to his faith. I began to
realize that the joy we have in our Messiah is neither understood nor shared by our families
who don't yet know Him. I had no idea of the storm that was building in my family, but the
week I spent in San Francisco was pivotal in my life. I met vibrant Jewish believers who had
dedicated themselves to making a difference for the kingdom of God. They were delivering
a straightforward gospel message to Jews and Gentiles, regardless of pressure to keep quiet
about their faith.
In 1975, there was very little Jewish Christian fellowship in the Seattle area. Jan and I
reasoned that if we wanted a gathering, perhaps others did also. We convened our own
fellowship group in the home of Dr. Richard and Polly Perkins. They lived sixty miles
away from our Tacoma home, but it was worth the drive to meet with other Jewish believers.
The fellowship group allowed us to help one another grow in our faith, understand our
Jewish heritage and encourage one another to be witnesses to our unsaved friends and
family. That little group of fifteen to twenty people continued for many years after we left
the Seattle area.
I had a tremendous desire and concern for my family to know Jesus. In June of 1975, I
drove to Spokane, Washington to see my brother, Dennis. He listened intently as I
explained the gospel to him. Art Katz, the Jewish Christian whose testimony had been so
helpful to me, was speaking at Gonzaga University that evening, and Dennis accepted my
invitation to hear him. After the meeting was over, my brother went up to speak with Art --
and he came back a new believer in Jesus! What I wrestled with for two years, my brother
received in just two hours.
My Aunt Jo believed that all roads lead to God and wondered why we would be so
exclusive as to say that Jesus is the only way. My paternal grandmother asked, "So, am I
supposed to call you Monsignor now?" As for my parents, they thought my faith was
simply a fad. Just as people tire of clothing and hair styles, they expected me to tire of my
"new religion."
I continued to have contact with the staff of Jews for Jesus between 1974 and 1976. At one
point, Moishe Rosen came to Portland, Oregon and I drove down to see him. When I
arrived at his hotel, he invited me to accompany him to the airport, where he handed me a
stack of broadsides (Jews for Jesus-style gospel tracts), pointed to a place of high
pedestrian flow and asked me to hand out the pamphlets to whomever would take them.
I had done this a couple of times before and enjoyed seeing people take and read the
literature. Then a uniformed airport patrol officer approached me. He had a gun and a
badge, and seemed to be twice my size. He asked if I had a permit to hand out the literature.
I knew that I was out of my league, so I responded, "I'm here with someone else. He is in
charge." Then I went to tell Moishe what had happened.
He gave me the option of standing with him and continuing to hand out the literature side by
side, or standing nearby as an observer. He calmly explained that if I continued to hand out
the literature, I would probably be arrested. I had no idea what being arrested entailed or
how long I might be detained. What would I say to my boss -- I can't come in for work
because I was arrested for handing out Christian literature in the Portland airport? I
chose to observe.
I watched as the guard confronted Moishe, who stood his ground until he was told that he
was under arrest. Then he left peacefully with the officer, shackled in handcuffs. They took
him to a holding area and released him a while later. Eventually the ACLU took the case and
lost. Another group from the ACLU represented his appeal and won. That Portland airport
arrest became a foundational building block in case law that eventually led to a unanimous
Supreme Court decision in another case upholding freedom of speech. That decision ruled
in favor of Avi Snyder, a Jews for Jesus branch leader who was arrested for handing out
tracts at the Los Angeles International Airport.
I had lost out on a chance at making case law because I backed down in Portland. I never
forgot that lesson during my five different arrests, which took place much later in Toronto
and Boston. But those stories are for another time.
In 1976, Jan and I applied to serve as full-time missionaries. We were accepted and we
began the adventure of our lifetime. My maternal grandmother met with Jan and me just
after we joined the missionary staff. Not one to beat around the bush, she asked, "So nu,
how much are they going to pay you?" Well, back then, we had a combined income of $800
a month, plus mileage for the van. When she heard that, her jaw dropped. "But that is less
than the rent I pay on my apartment," she said. "How are you going to live?"
But I could respond with a cheerful smile: "Don't worry, Oma, God is going to take care of
us!" Little did she know that two years later we would return to visit her, and she would be
astonished by our joy and peace and how God indeed had taken care of us. At that time she
would remark, "You know Steven, you and Jan have something that none of my friends with
all their possessions have. You have peace with God -- and money cannot buy it!"
But in the meantime, our ministry was to begin with a cross-country trip. The ministry could
not provide a van for us at that time, and we really couldn't afford one ourselves. We sold
our little Fiat as a down payment and then went looking for a loan. I explained to our banker
that God was calling us into a full-time ministry, and we needed to borrow $10,000 to
purchase a new van. When he found out we would be receiving $400 a month salary each
and that we were leaving the state to begin touring, he laughed. Despite our good credit
standing, he -- and several other bankers after him -- declined the loan. They just couldn't
see that God's provision for those who follow His leading as a valid basis for the loan!
Yet, the day before we left Tacoma, a dealer agreed to write us the loan. He promptly sold it
to the bank that had first refused us. (Nine months later, we had paid off the entire loan.
Fifteen months later, the van was stolen right off the streets of Queens, New York. But three
days before it was stolen, a supporter had given Jews for Jesus $10,000 to buy a new van.
Indeed, God does provide!)
We set out in our new van and headed for Chicago. There we joined the rest of the Jews for
Jesus for an intense outreach called a witnessing campaign.
That particular campaign, called Operation Birthday Cake, coincided with the bicentennial
celebration of the founding of our country. Jan and I were assigned to a team of people who
traveled to Philadelphia, New York City, Washington D.C. and Boston. We participated in
what was to be one of the longest witnessing campaigns in the history of Jews for Jesus!
When it was over, Jan and I went on a tour from August, 1976 to May, 1977. We simply
drove wherever we could get a hearing, setting up church presentations with whomever was
willing to have us. We visited places like Black Duck, Minnesota; Lemmon, South Dakota
and George, Washington. These travels provided us the opportunity to do evangelism in
cities where Jews for Jesus did not have an outreach and to make friends and build a base of
support for our ministry. To this day, some of the friends we made on that tour continue to
uphold us.
On the last Sunday of January, 1977, I scheduled an evening presentation at a church in
Richland, Washington. We prayed that my parents would come and hear our presentation
of Christ in the Passover and Jewish Gospel music.
They had invited us to visit them before the service. It was Super Bowl Sunday, and it was
the middle of the third quarter when we arrived. It was cold outside, but it seemed even
colder inside their home that afternoon. It was the only time I can ever remember that my
mother didn't offer us a thing to eat. It was then and there that my father made his
announcement: "You broke with Jewish tradition by believing in Jesus as your Messiah. It
has become obvious that this is not a passing fad, since you have dedicated your life to
telling others what you believe. Therefore, we do not want to have anything further to do
with you. Do not write, do not call, and do not visit us -- ever again! If you write, we will
throw away your letters. If you call, we will hang up. And if you come to visit, we will close
the door on you."
We left with tears in our eyes and drove to a nearby restaurant. I was a missionary to my
people, yet I could not reach those I loved most. That evening service was extremely
emotional for me. It was the first of many nights when I asked others to join me in praying
for my parents: "Lord, raise up someone else who is not ashamed of the Gospel to reach
out to my parents." The wonderful people of that church shared our pain that night, and
many continued praying for my family. A few people from that congregation still write to
inquire after my parents.
In May of 1977, Jan and I were assigned to the New York branch of Jews for Jesus. We
rented an apartment in Flushing, a neighborhood in Queens, and began reaching out to the
Jewish community there. An ancillary part of our ministry is helping Christians who want to
witness to Jewish friends. In the spring of 1978, Jan and I were invited to speak at a small
church in East Brunswick, New Jersey. It was a Saturday afternoon meeting, and we were to
take ten minutes to make our presentation and answer a few questions. I recall wondering,
"Why are we driving all this way to speak to a handful of people for ten minutes?" (Time
would tell. Nine years later, I received a letter from a woman who had attended that 1978
meeting. She tracked us down to let us know that a Jewish family that she had witnessed to
as a result of that meeting had all come to faith in Jesus. The entire family had just been
baptized and joined their church.)
One of my assignments in 1978 was to do weekly outreach on the campus of Queens
College in Queens, Long Island. This commuter campus had a population of more than
10,000 Jewish students. Our first event was an open air concert by the Liberated Wailing
Wall. A sizable crowd gathered; some were stirred up with interest and others with hostility
toward the gospel. I met some of the believers on the campus who wanted to learn about
ministry to the Jewish community. We became friends and spent the school year together
doing various activities: broadsiding, seminars, films and open discussions on the
messiahship of Jesus.
It didn't take long for some of the Jewish students to organize opposition to our evangelism.
Sometimes it took less than ten minutes for a crowd to surrounded me, taunting, tearing up
literature and generally trying to stop others from hearing what I had to say.
Every week, I felt a sense of uneasiness, sometimes even dread as I prepared myself for yet
another attempt at outreach. Yet, without fail, the moment I stepped onto the campus, peace
flooded my heart -- a peace that passed all understanding. God was in control. I was just
doing my duty, and that duty was to care, to pray and to spend two hours a week on that
Queens College campus, trying to reach out to the students.
The day the Holocaust commemoration took place at Queens College, I did not wear my
usual Jews for Jesus T-shirt, and I didn't bring our usual gospel broadsides. I came in street
clothes and brought dozens of copies of a now out-of-print Jews for Jesus booklet written
to denounce anti-Semitism. Even without the T-shirt and tracts, a near riot broke out. Three
security guards flanked me, as more than 400 people surrounded us. Their anger rose to
near boiling, but Jews for Jesus had trained me to respond only if people speak one at a
time, and amazingly, they responded when I insisted that they take turns speaking.
A voice shouted from the midst of the crowd, and I told the man who was trying to break in
that he would have to wait. He turned out to be the president of the college. He'd heard the
commotion, left his office and was attempting to bring the campus back to normalcy. When
he identified himself and asked me to accompany him to his office, I knew he was trying to
diffuse the situation and remove me from possible danger.
Yet, I had only been on the campus for forty-five minutes. I was startled to hear myself say,
"Dr. Segal, I would be more than happy to come to your office. However, I need to stay
here a full two hours just as I always have over the past few months. I would be happy to
make an appointment so we can talk later." Much to my surprise, he stayed and served as a
sounding board for the next hour and a quarter. Reporters from all five student papers were
there, and the following week their front pages covered the "event" and raised the issue of
Jews believing in Jesus as the Messiah.
The articles continued throughout the year. Most were distortions of who we were and what
we were saying, but some were fair. The opposition actually boosted our cause and raised
the issue of the Messiah even higher. The articles and editorials drew many of those sitting
on the fence into the discussion.
I didn't see one person come to faith in Jesus while I was on the campus. A few years later
at a Jews for Jesus event, a young lady introduced herself to me as a former Queens College
student. She had watched me from afar and had observed all the opposition and commotion.
She never approached me, never even took one of my tracts, but she did pick up literature
that others had flung to the ground -- and she read it. That literature spurred her on to
question her Christian friends. They presented the Gospel -- and she received God's gift of
salvation.
In August of 1978, Jan and I were transferred to Omaha to teach personal evangelism and to
take classes at Omaha Lutheran Bible School. I wondered why we were leaving the heart of
the largest Jewish population in the world to move to a place that had maybe 5,000 Jewish
people. However, the Lord used our time there. We learned from some godly professors
and built relationships.
We returned to New York City in 1980; only this time, we were a threesome. We were
happy to be back in New York and happy with our healthy baby boy, Micha.
Over the next decade, Jan and I had all kinds of adventures and opportunities to serve God
through the ministry of Jews for Jesus. We ministered for a time in Toronto, Canada, as
well as in Boston, Massachusetts.
Our lives were busy and full, and our family grew! Micha was joined by Sarah, Noah, Seth
and eventually, Elizabeth. I wished my parents could see them all, but our occasional
attempts to break the wall of silence always met swift rejection. Then, in 1990, my brother
told me the news.
My father had cancer. He told my brother that he had no intention of seeking medical
treatment of any kind. Dad had seen his father and sister suffer grievously through surgical
and chemical treatments for their cancers, and he would not do the same. When the pain
became unbearable, he intended to end his own life.
I'd had no direct communication with my parents since 1977. I'd been praying for fourteen
years that the Lord would raise up someone else to reach them with the gospel. That prayer
became an urgent plea because my father was running out of time.
I set up a chain of prayer through Jews for Jesus staff and supporters. I invited some of my
closest supporters and friends to write a short note or a postcard to my parents letting them
know they were praying. I never knew when a phone call would come, telling me of my
father's fate.
I'll never forget May 22, 1990. I'd just finished speaking at a pastors' conference on Cape
Cod, near Boston. I had urged people to involve themselves in reaching out to all and asked
them to pray specifically for my family: for reconciliation, healing and, most importantly, for
their salvation. The moment I closed with prayer someone strode forward to hand me an
urgent message from Dennis. He had tracked me down to tell me that our father had
swallowed a bottle of pills in an attempt to take his life that morning. Dad failed in that
attempt, but time was running out. I drove straight to the Boston airport and flew across
country.
Ten hours later I was in my hometown of Pasco, Washington. Dennis met me at the airport
with a message from my parents, telling me to get on the next plane to Boston because I was
not welcome in their home. All they wanted from me was that I leave them alone.
Well, there were no planes out that night, so Dennis and I went to a motel. We talked,
prayed and even laughed as we reminisced about our childhood. The following day, I knew
I couldn't take the next plane to Boston. I had to try to see my father. Eternity was hanging
in the balance.
I called my old friend, Alan Rither. I met him at his office, and he took time off to bring me
to his home where we prayed together. And at 4:00 p.m. on May 23, 1990, I did something
I hadn't done in fourteen years: I rang my parents' doorbell. The lights were out, the front
gate was padlocked, and there were no vehicles in the driveway. I assumed that they had
chosen to leave until after I had returned to Boston. Still, I rang the bell, knowing I had to
try. Even though there was no response, I stood there. A couple of minutes passed, and the
garage door swung open. Out walked my brother, looking utterly mystified. "I don't
understand it, with all that has happened in the past, they have decided to see you now!"
I entered into the living room, and my father struggled out of his chair. Cancer had ravaged
his body. I remembered Dad with jet black hair and eyes that danced with merriment. Now
he was aged beyond his years and wracked with pain. No words were spoken as I crossed
the room. With tears in my eyes and his, we hugged for the longest time. God had answered
my prayer for reconciliation.
I can't tell the story without thinking about the parable of the Prodigal Son. In our case, it
was more like the Prodigal Father! And the fatted calf? Well, we didn't keep livestock in the
Cohen home, but we had the next best thing -- Chinese food! The restaurant that we used to
go to when I was young was still in business, so I ordered a take-out feast.
I offered a brief prayer of thanksgiving for the food and for the reconciliation and asked for
healing for Dad. When I finished, I couldn't miss the tears streaming down my mother's
face. Prayers were not a part of our family life, but she was greatly touched by this one.
We were a family again! We sat around the dining room table, and I told of the many cities
in which we'd lived, the adventures and, of course, I showed pictures of our five beautiful
children. I told them what a wonderful mother Jan is and how Micha had started to learn
Hebrew in anticipation of his bar mitzvah. I described how we light Sabbath candles in our
home and celebrate Jewish festivals like Passover, Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur, and, I
explained, at the same time our children were enrolled in classes at our church.
My mother was astonished. Her comment was, "You know what Steven? It seems like your
faith in Jesus has made you even more Jewish!"
I replied, "Mom, if Jesus is the Jewish Messiah, what could be more Jewish than following
Him? If He is not the Messiah, then even the Gentiles are wasting their time following
Him." My parents did not demonstrate any openness to the gospel message. However, they
did comment on the thoughtfulness of more than thirty friends and supporters of mine who
had written to let my parents know of their prayers concerning my father's illness.
By the end of our visit, Mom and Dad said I was welcome to come back, but they did not
want me to bring up the issue of Jesus in their presence.
It was clear that Dad was out of the woods for the time being, so I returned to Boston. My
prayers for another person to witness to him continued. Over the next six months, we were
able to have what seemed to me like little miracles -- phone calls with my parents. We could
talk about anything, except what was most important -- Y'shua.
Jan and I were preparing to move to Ft. Lauderdale right after Thanksgiving, 1990, and it
was about that time that Dad decided to go into a hospital. He chose St. Vincent's Hospital
in Portland, Oregon, where I had been born. My cousin was working there and could help
him get the care he needed. I flew out to see him one last time.
I spent four days with my father. He was on a morphine drip to control the pain, but other
than this, there was little that could be done. I helped him shave, shared meals with him and
we spoke of what life would be like for the family after he died. Still, he would not hear
from me about the life-giving message of Jesus.
I returned to Boston, where I had to arrange for our move to Florida and work on our
annual conference of Jewish believers in Jesus, which we call an Ingathering.
We arrived at the Ingathering, where I received an emergency message -- but it was not
about my father. It was just one week before we were to move, and the mortgage for the
people who were buying our Boston home fell apart. Meanwhile, we had put all our
available cash into a non-refundable deposit on a home in Florida.
I was convinced that only the Lord could intervene in this set of circumstances: my father
was near death, we were in the midst of a move, the mortgage brokers for our new home
would not approve us until they had written evidence that our house in Boston was sold and
if we didn't get our mortgage within two weeks, we would lose our down payment, which
was basically everything. Yet, I felt a total peace in the midst of everything.
We returned from the Ingathering and finished packing in preparation for the movers. They
still were scheduled to come the day after Thanksgiving so we could move to Florida, where
we might or might not have a home.
On Thanksgiving morning, at 1:30 a.m., Jan and I were jarred awake by the telephone. The
only reason I could imagine for someone to call at that hour was to give us bad news. I was
immediately relieved to hear that it wasn't my brother, but rather it was my cousin, Susan.
Susan had come to faith in Jesus in the late 1980s. She and I sometimes talked about the
Lord and what God was doing in her life. She and my Dad were close, so I occasionally
asked her to speak to him about Jesus. Susan was somewhat apprehensive; she didn't know
what to say or how to go about it. I asked her to trust God and simply tell Dad what God
had done in her life, explaining the simple gospel message. It was hard to know if she
would follow through on my request.
It was the early hours of Thanksgiving Day when Susan called to tell me that she had done
it -- she told the gospel to my father. She repeated her message word for word so I could
hear it. "Uncle Bobbie," she had said, "God loves you very much. He sent Jesus, our
Messiah, to die for you so that you could have eternal life. Wouldn't you want to receive
God's free gift of eternal life?"
Her voice dropped down to a whisper, "And do you know what, Steven? He said, 'Yes.' I
prayed with him right there in the hospital room to receive God's gift of salvation!"
"Praise the Lord," was all I could say, and I was so overwhelmed that it's a wonder I could
even say that much!
The next morning I had my last conversation with Dad. I called him to rejoice in his coming
to faith and to let him know how much I loved him and how glad I was to know that I would
see him in heaven. He was so very tired, thus the conversation was brief. At the end of our
call, Dad assured me that though he only a few days left on earth, he knew he would spend
eternity with the Lord. I was so very thankful on that Thanksgiving Day!
The following day the movers came and took away all our belongings, yet we still had no
place to go. After the movers left, I took a shower, which is why I didn't hear the phone ring.
But even with the running water, I heard the children shouting and jumping up and down.
The call had been from the real estate agent. He had no idea how, but the buyer had
managed to get a new mortgage application approved in just four days! The sale of our
home would go through, a couple of days late, but it would go through in time for our
closing in Florida. God took care of it all!
During the three-day journey from Boston to our next ministry station in Ft. Lauderdale, we
were out of touch with the world. When we arrived in Ft. Lauderdale, I called my mother to
let her know that we were safe. Her first words were, "Have you spoken with your brother
yet?" I hadn't. She hesitated, then said, "I had hoped he would be the one to let you know
that your father died on Monday."
Mother was doing her best to maintain her composure. "Your father did not want a funeral
service. I told him that since we were not religious, I would honor his wishes." It was then
that I told mother about Dad's commitment to Christ. Her response was, "If that helped him
in his last days, then so be it." Later on, an attending nurse who was at my father's bedside
when he died told me, "Minutes before your father died, he sat straight up in bed with a
glorious smile on his face and said, 'I'm starting my journey home to God now.' Then he lay
down in peace and entered into the presence of the Lord."
We closed on the house in Ft. Lauderdale the next afternoon. With keys in hand, I called
the movers to let them know where to bring the furniture. They gave me the "bad news" --
they had lost our furniture. I'm sure those movers never expected my response. I just
laughed. After all we'd been through, the misplaced furniture hardly seemed devastating. I
told the movers we had sleeping bags and cooking utensils, and when they found our things,
they should give us a call.
We quickly settled into our work, thankful for all that God had done in bringing us to that
point.
I had once dreamed of becoming a lawyer, but God gave me the privilege of telling people
that though we have broken His laws, He has provided a gracious means of reconciliation.
Who could ask for more? And oh yes, even to this day I find confirmation that I am doing
what the Lord wants. Sometimes I'll look up as I am driving late at night, I'll wonder...and
the streetlight will flicker almost as if to remind me of how God has been so real, so
personal in my life.
If you are not a believer in Jesus yet, please ask God to show you if it is true that our
Messiah has come. Be willing to consider the evidence of Scripture. Y'shua has stood the
test of time for nearly 2,000 years, and I am fully persuaded that any Jew or Gentile who
truly desires to know God's truth will discover it in the person of Jesus.
If you are already a believer, please don't be afraid to tell those who so deeply need what
you have found in Jesus. God used the persistence of one caring, praying Christian to bring
me to my Messiah. My prayer is that through you, many will also come to know what we
know: peace through the Prince of Peace.
"For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ, for it is the power of God to salvation for
everyone who believes, for the Jew first and also for the Greek." (Romans 1:16)
Steve Cohen has a B.A. in sociology from the University of Washington and an M.A. in missiology with
concentration in Jewish evangelism/Judaic studies from the Fuller School of World Missions in
Pasadena, California. He may be reached at scinfl@aol.com.
He says, "It is with much gratitude for all that I have received through caring Christian friends that I
hope to encourage others to continue reaching out with the Good News of Jesus to Jews as well as
Gentiles. I find tremendous encouragement in 1 Corinthians 15:58, and I hope that you will, too:
'Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord,
knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.'"
The Cohens moved to St. Louis in August of 1996, leaving 20 years of missionary service with Jews for Jesus
to begin The Apple of His Eye Mission Society. This web site: www.aohems.org is dedicated to
their service these many years.
©1995 Purple Pomegranate Productions. All rights reserved. Purple Pomegranate Productions is a
division of Jews for Jesus. Copyright Information.