Stewart Weinisch and Shoshannah Weinisch 's testimonies

**billiefan2000** · September-2nd-2011, 06:24 PM

Stewart Weinisch: The Name I Couldn't Mention
August 28, 2011

I was only five years old and had no idea what was going on as our family crowded into my grandparents' living room on the day before Yom Kippur. I can still remember how my father picked up a chicken, tied up by its feet, and swung it over our heads, the chicken cackling and feathers flying all over the place. It was hard to think of anything but the noise and the feathers, but we all dutifully chanted three times, "This be my substitute, my vicarious offering, my atonement. This hen shall meet death, but I shall find a long and pleasant life of peace." My father took the chicken into the kitchen, and the next sounds we heard were "cackle—thud—uggh!" That was it.1

Another memory, not quite so graphic, was nevertheless vivid. My father had been appointed to carry the Torah from the children's service, held in a building around the corner, back to the main synagogue. I was so proud, trotting alongside my dad to keep up as he carried the Torah, held tightly against his chest with his tallit (prayer shawl) wrapped around it. I remember thinking, Those scrolls must mean a lot to my father. So the Scriptures always held a fascination for me.

I attended an Orthodox synagogue in the Bronx, where I received religious training five days a week throughout my adolescence. I was proud to be a Jew. But about a year before my bar mitzvah I had my first taste of anti-Semitism. We lived about a mile from the synagogue, and my father and I were walking there for the evening Rosh Hashanah service, when some kids started calling us names and threw things at us as we made our way to the synagogue. I knew those kids and was perplexed by their behavior. They'd never done this before.

"Why are they calling us names?" I asked. My dad was so upset he didn't want to talk about it. Finally, he turned to me and said, "Christians hate Jews, and we don't have anything to do with them. Yeshu is cursed in our sight." I didn't know who Yeshu was; I just knew my dad was vehement. And that was the end of the discussion. He never let me bring up the topic again.

A few months later, the father of one of my best friends died. Some of the guys I hung out with wanted to attend the funeral together and asked me if I would go. They were all standing in front of the Catholic church, and I told them I couldn't go in. They went in while I stayed outside. Ten minutes later, I made up my mind that he was my friend, and it didn't matter to me what religion his family practiced. I took a deep breath, walked into the church and tiptoed down the aisle to where my friends were sitting. As I eased my way into their row, I accidentally kicked one of the kneelers and the whole church echoed with the thud. Everyone turned around and stared at me. I was mortified. Convinced that God was judging me, I vowed I would never again darken the door of this or any other church!

On the day of my bar mitzvah, as I gazed at the Torah ark, I sensed something was missing— in me. I had a lot of religious training, but I didn't know who God was. Then and there, I promised God, "Someday I will find the truth about who you are and what you require of me." Within a few months, however, I forgot my promise. Although I still attended synagogue, God was the furthest thing from my mind.

When I was fifteen, a good friend came over to my apartment and asked if he could read something to me from his Bible. I told him to go ahead. He read the 53rd chapter of Isaiah to me. "Who do you think it's talking about?" he asked. "I have no clue," I replied. He said, "I think it's the Messiah, Jesus." When I realized he was trying to push Jesus on me, I threw him out of my house and told him never to speak to me again.

A couple of years later, I again had to confront Jesus, the one my father refused to speak about. I was dating a woman who challenged me to study the Bible with her. Over the next year, we spent most of our time together reading the Bible. Because I had grown up believing the New Testament was cursed, we focused only on the Hebrew Scriptures. I began to compare the Hebrew Bible with the Old Testament in the Christian Bible and found that the translations were very similar except for the prophecies about the messiah.

After a year of reading the Scriptures, I decided to break my childhood vow and visit a church. The pastor spoke about how Abraham was the "father" of Jews and Christians, specifically the father of all those who believe in Y'shua (Jesus). I thought about this "faith" and realized in my heart this was something I didn't have.

Soon after, I looked at the New Testament for the first time. My friend (the one I threw out of my house) had given me a little green New Testament. I had wrapped it in some old dirty socks and pushed it to the back of my drawer. Now I retrieved it. Upon reading the very first verse, "A record of the genealogy of Y'shua the Messiah [Jesus the Christ], the son of David, the son of Abraham ..." I somehow knew that if the Jewish people were going to have a Messiah, it had to be Jesus! Not long after that, I asked Y'shua to come into my heart.

At first I didn't tell anybody. I thought, I must be the only Jew on Earth who believes this. Then I remembered that every now and then, one of the Jews for Jesus had given me pamphlets in Manhattan. I had a pile of them that I never read, stored up next to that Bible, and for some strange reason, every time I got another one, I kept it there. There were other Jewish people who believed that Jesus is the Messiah!

Within a week or so, I told my only remaining grandparent, my mother's mother, what I had come to believe. I had never heard my grandmother scream before, but she yelled so loud that she almost popped a vein in her neck as she said, "Never say that name in my presence again!" She must have told my parents, because when I came home from my grandmother's, my father had a similar reaction. My parents forbade me to tell anyone else in the family what I believed. When my father calmed down, he said, "What is this, something new?" I said, "No, it's about two thousand years old." That really set him off once again.

Some years later, I told my mother that Jesus was like the Passover lamb, sacrificed for our sins. She shocked me when she replied, "You know, when I was in junior high school, my best friend told me the same thing." I was amazed that someone had told her this forty years earlier and she still remembered it!

Before long, two things became clear to me: First, I realized it was an all-or-nothing deal—I had to live my life for God—and, secondly, I was going to bring the message of Jesus as Messiah to my people. A friend told me that Jews for Jesus had a Bible study in Manhattan, and I began to attend. Then after a year or two I decided to go to Bible school.

After graduation I began telling other Jews about the Messiah. One day I was handing out tracts on the corner in front of Bloomingdale's. Jews for Jesus had sent a team to the same location. A young woman approached me and asked if I would be willing to move to another corner because I was in her "appointed" area. I offered some words of encouragement and gave her my business card. That was our beginning — but I'll let my wife, Shoshannah, tell the rest of that story.

Stewart Weinisch: The Name I Couldn't Mention - http://www.jewsforjesus.org/publications/issues/19_01/01/

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Shoshannah Weinisch: Jesus was Very Cool!
August 28, 2011

As my husband, Stewart, says, we met while I was on staff with Jews for Jesus in the summer of 1984 in New York City. We were both handing out pamphlets—Stewart with another organization called Chosen People—in front of Bloomingdales on 59th Street in New York City. From that moment I thought, "He is perfect for me." You see I had determined to marry a Jewish man who shared my belief in Y'shua. From such a small marriage pool, God heard my prayer!

A few years later I was living in New Jersey. Although I was not at that time working with Jews for Jesus, I wanted to hand out pamphlets in New York City. My congregation leader suggested I call Stewart, as he was looking for volunteers to do just that. After our first outing, I wasn't sure whether I was more interested in handing out pamphlets or in Stewart! Nonetheless, we continued hitting the streets each Saturday. Finally, after one of our outings, Stewart invited me to dinner and a movie. On that first date Stewart said, "If you can see yourself married to me one day, we can continue to date. If not, this is our last date." It took me a moment to process what Stewart had just said. Then, I admitted I could surely see us together in marriage. We were engaged within a few months. In 1986 we were married in Summit, New Jersey.

From the beginning Stewart and I had foundational things in common. We shared a faith in the Jewish Messiah. We both came from Jewish homes with no intermarriage. And we both had a deep love for our Jewish heritage that included a desire to raise children in a Jewish lifestyle that reflected our faith.

But let me go back now and tell you how a woman raised in a Jewish home came to be telling other Jewish people about Jesus.

I was born in 1953 in Detroit, Michigan. My parents, Jerry Tilleman and Lois Faren Tilleman, were both Jews of European background. Their families immigrated to the United States through Canada in the 1940s. I have three siblings. Debra is the oldest, born in 1951. I followed in 1953, then Mark in 1958 and finally Michael was born in 1960.

For most of my childhood our family lived in Grand Rapids, Michigan. My great-grandfather, Morris Singer, was an Orthodox Jew from Russia. He was my mother's grandfather. I spent all of my summers in Detroit with Grandpa Singer and his widowed daughter, Rose Joffee. Aunt Rose was like a mother to me. I observed my grandpa wrap tefillin and pray each morning, chanting in Hebrew and davening. I would sit quietly across the room in a rocking chair and "daven" in time with him. All I knew was that Grandpa was talking to God. I wanted to talk to God like my grandpa did, so I imitated him. I didn't understand any of it; I just believed God was real.

By her 24th birthday, my mother had four children and wasn't equipped to raise them. Mom did not have parenting skills and did not have the support of her family or community. My dad, Jerry, was a master plumber. He worked out of town a lot, leaving my mother alone with four young undisciplined children. We attended a Reform temple, and three of us four kids went to Jewish education classes each Sunday morning. We attended synagogue regularly until I was confirmed at age thirteen.

Then, our family fell apart. My mom left home to make a new life for herself. She was worn out and felt she was a failure as a mother. She just didn't know how to relate to her own children. When Dad was home, he yelled and screamed at mom and at us. Mom just couldn't take the stress anymore and she left us when I was in third grade. So now it was dad and four unruly children. Dad continued to work long hours and the four of us were left to care for ourselves. He would leave us money to walk to the grocery store for food. The next five years we moved at least five times, and Dad had a series of girlfriends. Our Jewish education came to an abrupt end, as did our family life. My sister Deb and I were in survival mode. We were charged with cooking, cleaning and caring for our two younger brothers. Mom would visit us once a week for about an hour at the house when Dad wasn't there.

Those five years were tumultuous. Dad had a terrible temper; he was angry and took it out on us. He kept dating women in the hope of finding a replacement "mom" for us, but each relationship ended badly. I am not sure how many times Dad got married. But a few of his wives left quite an impression. There were suicide attempts by one wife, pot smoking in our house by another and fistfights between that wife and myself. It could be a movie on the Lifetime Channel (I will spare you).

These were terrible years filled with fear and a sense of not belonging to anyone. Three of the four of us eventually moved out of our dad's house to live with our mom and her new husband in south Florida. As long as we laid low and didn't make too much noise, we had a roof over our heads and clothes to wear. Through all of this I always prayed to God. I would mostly just cry in my bed and ask him questions. I didn't understand how to live in my circumstances. In high school I started using all kinds of drugs. I managed to graduate in 1972. Then I got in a car with a friend and drove across the country and landed in San Francisco.

For the next eight years I wandered through various jobs, relationships and some college courses. But I was on a spiritual quest. I wanted to know the God my grandpa Singer prayed to. I started going to a Conservative temple, but found it unfulfilling. Then I started reading eastern philosophy and religion. I would go to bookstores, sit in the section where spiritual books were shelved and read anything that grabbed my attention.

One day, I picked up two books someone had left in my apartment, a Bhagavad Gita (Hindu Book of Knowledge) and a Bible that included a New Testament. I lost interest in the Bhagavad Gita but kept reading the Bible. Eventually I found myself in the New Testament. I really thought Jesus was very cool.

Eventually I prayed and asked God to give me a sign if Jesus was the one I had been searching for. The next day a neighbor gave me a book to read, The Late Great Planet Earth. I read that in a day. Soon after that, my landlady talked with me about Jesus. She had never done that before. Within 24 hours of that conversation, a customer at the restaurant where I waitressed was in a conversation with the people at her table about Jesus. I was eavesdropping. She noticed and asked me if I was a Christian. I told her I was Jewish, and she asked me if I had ever heard of Jews for Jesus. It was at that moment I remembered tearing Jews for Jesus posters off of a telephone pole years before. I had told my friend these people were liars, that you can't be Jewish and believe in Jesus. But I gave this woman my phone number and a woman named Martha from Jews for Jesus called me.

I began meeting with Martha weekly. My biggest dilemma was reconciling the idea that my wonderful Grandpa Singer was in hell. But over a few visits we settled it(see "Hurdles to Faith" article). And I knew I had to accept Jesus as my Messiah. I did so on May 20, 1980.

My life drastically changed. I began to attend weekly Bible studies at Jews for Jesus. One of the staff also met with me weekly one on one to teach me the Bible. Then a married couple in the congregation I started attending invited me to live in their house as a part of their family. It was a process, but I stopped using drugs and God did a lot of healing in my life and heart. Within a year, Jews for Jesus offered me a scholarship to attend a Bible college on the East Coast, and I never looked back.

Stewart and I have been married more than a quarter of a century now. We had a honeymoon baby in May 1987, nine months and four days after our wedding —Melissa Ruth. I remember counting her fingers and toes and thanking God for giving us a healthy baby. We lived in the Bronx at that time. Soon after, Stewart was asked to lead a Messianic congregation in Connecticut. Each Friday afternoon we would pack up our sweet Melissa and drive to Connecticut for Shabbat services. I taught the children and led the music while Stewart led the Shabbat service. The congregation began to grow. Soon we moved to Connecticut and our congregation, Joy of Israel, solidified. In 1989 Jonathan Samuel was born in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Our second child was healthy and perfect too! I won't try to recount all my life since then, but our two great kids are grown up now and living independently (maybe they can tell their story one day too), while Stewart and I continue to tell other Jewish people about Y'shua.

I think if I had not come to believe in Jesus I most likely would not be alive today. But I have found in him a very abundant life!

Shoshannah Weinisch: Jesus was Very Cool! - http://www.jewsforjesus.org/publications/issues/19_01/02/