جارٍ تحميل الأرشيف الحي.
لم تُترجم هذه الصفحة بالكامل بعد. يظهر بعض النص أدناه أو كله بلغة English، وهي لغته الأصلية.
Let's Be Honest
واصِل الاستكشاف
مرتبطة بالمقطع الكتابي أو بموضوعات مشتركة.
Today we're beginning a new series called Let's Be Honest, where we dig into the world's largest and most influential religious systems. We start with Judaism.
Before we dive in, I want to offer a word picture that we'll return to throughout our time together: the difference between a thermometer and a thermostat. This might be the most important theological distinction you've never thought about before.
A thermometer tells you the truth about what's happening—it can diagnose a fever, but it can't fix it. A thermostat, on the other hand, actually does something. It reads the temperature and then adjusts the environment.
This is the contrast we need to understand when we think about the Law in Judaism.
Judaism is built on something truly beautiful: covenant—an unbreakable agreement between God and mankind. God entered into a relationship with Abraham, the father of Judaism, that would endure regardless of circumstances, even when Israel fell short. It's a profound picture of God's unshakable love for His people.
"And I will establish my covenant between me and you and your offspring after you throughout their generations for an everlasting covenant to be God to you and to your offspring after you."
Christians believe God blessed the entire world through this covenant with Abraham and Israel, because of its culmination in Jesus.
As part of this covenant, God gave His people the Torah—the first five books of the Old Testament—along with the Law, which was always designed to be a blessing, a gift, not a burden. It was a marker of God's care, a way for His people to live devoted to the one true God.
For centuries, Jewish identity was wrapped up together—national identity, moral behavior, civil obedience, and ceremonial cleanliness all rolled into one. But it can help us to understand the Old Testament Law in three separate categories:
The Law was a gift—a roadmap, an annual calendar of reminders and celebrations, a way God showed His deep commitment to His people.
Over centuries, something happened: what started as interpretations became additions. By the time Jesus arrived, alongside the written Torah there was an oral tradition—eventually called the Mishnah, or "the fence"—thousands of extra rules and interpretations built as a fence around the Law.
The heart behind this was good. The thinking was something like: if these rules hurt us and hurt God's heart, what if we add rules around the rules so we never break the core commands? But over time, people began treating man-made rules as if they were God's rules. In the process, the thermometer of the Law became a thermostat.
The Law was never meant to be the answer—it was supposed to point to the need for an answer. The tool designed to find sin started being used to try to fix sin. It's powerful at diagnosis, but powerless to heal.
People became convinced that if they could just follow the rules perfectly enough, and build enough fences to protect themselves, they could make themselves right with God. This is a kind of spiritual desperation all of us can feel.
And if you're a follower of Jesus, you've probably built your own version of this too—thinking things like I didn't pray enough this morning, so now I can't find a parking spot, or I wasn't reading my Bible, so I'll do poorly on this exam. That's the Mishnah at work in our own hearts.
I didn't come to this topic strictly as an observer. My mother was born and raised Jewish—a first-generation American, the daughter of Russian Jewish immigrants who came to the U.S. in the early 1940s and built a life from nothing.
She grew up in a conservative Jewish home, observing holy days and the Sabbath, embedded in a Jewish community. What she absorbed—subtly, like many of us do regardless of religion—was the idea: the better you are at following the rules, the better standing you have with the God who set them.
But she always held onto hope that the Messiah would come—that there would be a path bigger than her own obedience, something the Law itself could not provide. When she heard a Christian pastor describe Jesus as that Messiah in her early twenties, it clicked in a way it never had before. She decided to follow Jesus.
Jesus didn't just solve the problem of her moral performance—He brought an internal transformation she'd never experienced through the Law. She received salvation as a free gift, by grace alone through faith alone in Christ. After a lifetime—generations—of feeling that access to God was tied to her ability to obey, she was finally free. Her worth was no longer achieved; it was received.
But it came at a cost. Her parents, only having her as their child, felt it as betrayal for years. Friends distanced themselves. She felt profoundly alone and had to start over. Years later, God restored many of those relationships—but not without early pain.
For her, the Law had been a thermometer: it showed she was sick but couldn't heal her. When Jesus showed up as the thermostat, offering real inner change, grace, and freedom, she could never go back to pretending the thermometer alone was enough.
Centuries earlier, the Apostle Paul—a devout, first-century Jewish leader—experienced something similar when he met Jesus face to face. Writing to the church in Rome, he explained:
"Now we know that whatever the law says, it speaks to those who are under the law, so that every mouth may be stopped and the whole world may be held accountable to God. For by works of the law no human being will be justified in his sight, since through the law comes knowledge of sin."
The Law can't make you righteous—it makes you conscious of how unrighteous you are. It reveals; it diagnoses. But Paul doesn't stop there:
"But now the righteousness of God has been manifested apart from the law, although the law and the prophets bear witness to it—the righteousness of God through faith in Jesus Christ for all who believe."
Jesus is the thermostat—the only one who can actually do the work the Law pointed to but was powerless to accomplish on its own.
I want to be clear: Judaism is not evil. From a Christian perspective, it's incomplete—it was built to point toward its fulfillment in Jesus. I'm not trying to minimize anyone's experience of the Law, their traditions, or their understanding of covenant.
Jewish identity itself exists on a spectrum, from strict Orthodox practice to a more secular or ethnic connection. Some understand Judaism primarily through faith and religious practice (and some converted into it). Others connect to it through heritage and bloodline—regardless of religious belief, if your mother is fully Jewish, you're considered Jewish. Still others are modern Israelis with no particular religious affiliation to Judaism at all.
This is genuinely dynamic and messy. Not every Jewish person supports every decision of the modern state of Israel, and not everyone living in Israel identifies religiously as Jewish. Understanding this nuance helps us have much better conversations.
Throughout this series we'll return to a common question: Is this group saved? Are they going to heaven?
Here's my answer, and it will apply each week: we don't know the eternal standing of any individual person. That's between them and God. It's not my job or yours to determine—it's God's, and He's good at it. That truth should make us humble and careful in how we speak.
What we do know is this: there is a salvation message available to all people, and it's the only one we believe is available—summarized simply:
You are saved by grace through faith in Christ. It's not earned. It's given. Trusting in Jesus, who died and rose again to reconcile us to Himself. That's it.
The problem arises when other paths try to add something to this—"do this, and then this, and then this." As Paul argues in Romans and Galatians, you can have grace through faith, or you can have works-based righteousness, but you can't have both blended together.
Historic Christianity is deeply indebted to Judaism. Nearly every book of the New Testament was written by Jewish people who understood Scripture through their Jewish faith. Jesus was Jewish. The Messiah came through the people of Israel. The God we worship was revealed through generations of Jewish people who journeyed with Him, wrestled with Him, waited for Him.
Without Judaism, there is no Christianity. When we say the Law is incomplete and that Jesus fulfills what it pointed to, we are not saying Judaism is worthless—we're saying it gave us the very foundation we stand on.
As you think about this in the week ahead, consider three attitudes for conversations with Jewish people in your life:
If the conversation turns toward faith and salvation, share what God has done in your life and what you believe the good news of Jesus to be.
I want to be honest about something, especially for Jewish friends who may be listening: Christians have done real damage to Jewish people throughout history. We have mischaracterized you, wrongly tied Judaism to modern Israeli politics, and asked you to co-sign policies you may not even support. We haven't always treated you or your traditions with the respect they deserve.
If that's been your experience, I'm sorry. I'm not trying to convince you your faith is worthless or your traditions are empty—I don't believe that. The Law is a gift from God. It's beautiful. It's perfect. I simply believe it wasn't designed to function in isolation, or in combination with more man-made rules, to get to God on our own.
Here's what I believe: if you're Jewish, Jesus is the fulfillment of what your own prophets and teachers have pointed toward for thousands of years. He offers what the Law cannot give—grace, freedom, healing. My hope is that the faith you were raised with might become the very foundation of a faith through which you're saved—just as it did for my mother.
My mom passed away a few years ago. Until then, she was my safe person, my spiritual mentor, bringing brilliant insight into how her Christianity was informed and shaped by her Judaism.
We have much to learn here, much room to grow. Let's ask God to continue that work in each of us—leading with relationship, openness, and a kindness that says something new to those who may not have heard it in a while. We can hold firmly to truth about who God is through His Son while still loving those who believe differently.
