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Chapter 3: Holy Chutzpah—The Challenge of a Call

Ben Rohold and Morris Zeidman had good reasons for a sympathetic rapport. Both were raised in Orthodox homes led by spiritually devoted fathers and dutiful mothers. Almost 20 years older than Morris, Ben respected the young man’s keen mind and identified with the struggle of being immersed into a new culture. The free English lessons and a growing bond with Ben Rohold led Morris to a spiritual awareness that changed his life.

At 17, Morris became a follower of Jesus and was formally admitted into the Hebrew Christian congregation, according to the carefully handwritten 1914 records for the Christian Synagogue. It wasn’t a decision made lightly. Spurned or silently ignored by former friends and neighbours, Morris was no longer welcome among the local fraternity of men from Czestochowa, his landsleit. Others, who recognized him in the street as a meshummad—traitor—would shout the word at him. Elaine recalled him saying that he had to return home one day to change his clothes because they were soaked with spittle.

As the young man dealt with the rejection, developing a genuine, maturing faith, Ben Rohold and John McPherson Scott began to appreciate his potential. Morris was working in the machine shop when Scott asked him to come by St. John’s Church early one evening, prior to the mid-week meeting. A gathering of elders was waiting with Rev. Scott in the vestry. To the young man’s surprise, the men circled around him. He received “the laying on of hands”—formal prayers setting him apart as one who might be called to ministry. Kneeling with them, he prayed for leading from the Holy Spirit, and eventually, he would sense a genuine call. It would mean an uphill battle for years to come, beginning with the task of completing high school at night in a new language and acquiring sufficient marks to attend college, then seminary.

Elaine, reflecting on that decision almost a century later, said, “I think it was holy chutzpah. Those were lonely years, because Messianic Jews are neither fish nor fowl. They are ostracized by their fellow Jews and oddities to fellow Christians.”

Perhaps the feeling of isolation made the growing bonds between Morris and Rev. Scott all the more crucial. Scott remained a mentor until his untimely death in 1920. Five years later, the building that had been known as “The Christian Synagogue” was formally renamed: “The Scott Institute.” Clients simplified that to “the Scott,” and decades later it made sense for Morris and Annie to adopt the name for their independent mission. It’s an enduring legacy to Scott’s inspirational vision and commitment to bless the Jewish people.

The last page of Rohold’s 1918 book, Missions to the Jews, has a photo of Morris in his full Boy Scout leader’s uniform, surrounded by young men from the mission’s Scout troop. Without referring to him directly, the closing paragraphs are written with a prescient faith:

During the past ten years we have sought by every means possible to reconcile Israel with their Messiah, their only and brightest hope. We turn from the past to the unknown future in perfect confidence that He will continue to bless us.¹

That picture would have meant a great deal to Morris; after all, he was probably leading this same group of boys when he first met the interesting Miss Martin.

***

There are numerous sepia-toned pictures of Morris and Annie from the early years of the 20th century showing their mutual affection. One of Elaine’s favourite photos has the pair in matching “Ivy League” jackets and ties. It was, as she would confide, “a love match,” despite a rather rocky start. Yes, they did maintain a certain Victorian decorum, but they always called each other “dear,” and in front of the children Annie called him “Zeidy,” a youthful nickname. (Another affectionate name—“Zeidle”—shows up in his correspondence.²)

It’s hard to know exactly how the ice melted, but Annie eventually severed the relationship with her original beau. (Family lore says that he didn’t take the news very well.) The years immediately ahead brought a series of tests to help forge their persevering faith and mutual trust. Those qualities would shape the character of their relationship and form the bedrock of an effective ministry.

After graduating from night school, Morris entered the University of Toronto around 1919, the year when his name first appears on the Mission payroll. In a fragment of a report to Scott’s committee dated that year,³ Rohold affirmed his protégé’s potential as a ministry leader:

Mr. Zeidman has done wonderfully well since I am away. He is sound in his message and as a young man, is remarkably good in ability, earnestness and zeal, and we ought to encourage him in every way possible.⁴

Morris studied for three years at University College, earning a degree in Honours Orientals. (Hebrew and Arabic classes were less of a problem than English: final grade, 40 percent.) In the fall of 1921 he entered the Presbyterian seminary, Knox College, and academics were not his most daunting problem. He’d overcome challenges that would have discouraged anyone less convinced of God’s call on his life.

Morris’s father in Poland had passed away in the years following the war. With so many unresolved differences between them, the feelings of grief would have been deeply felt. The sudden death in 1920 of his fatherly mentor, Dr. Scott, was another tragic personal loss. None of this could be read in his demeanor. Student friends remembered Morris as a cheerful colleague, an unfailing optimist.

He needed that positive attitude to cope with a growing number of health issues. Not too long after his baptism, Morris’s appendix was removed; then he was diagnosed with an intestinal problem, a so-called “tuberculosis of the bowel,” the term used for a persisting colitis. The disease wasn’t well understood for much of his life, and he endured regular painful flare-ups. When some old acquaintances said that he was under divine judgment, Morris ignored them.

Early in his second year at Knox there were new complications. During an operation to remove his adenoids, a blood vessel was accidentally severed. With his life hanging in the balance, friends and classmates rallied around him in prayer, anxious to do more. Fortunately, one had his rare blood type: Hugh Macmillan, future missionary to China and Formosa (Taiwan), who would become a lifelong friend. Years later, Morris would joke about being born Jewish but having “pure Scottish blood” flowing in his veins. Macmillan also made much of the story. While overseas, he described the transfusion to his Chinese audiences as a graphic illustration of receiving new life in Jesus by the grace of God. After returning to Canada, Rev. Macmillan had a distinguished pulpit career and served as moderator for the Presbyterian Church in Canada.

In the anxious days of waiting for news from the hospital, Miss Macdonald, a beloved elderly prayer warrior, spoke with assurance that Morris would indeed be healed, “but he would have to tread softly for the rest of his days.” Her words proved true. Complications from colitis would reoccur for the rest of his life, though Morris rarely gave himself the luxury of slowing down. An extended recuperation took place north of Toronto in the town of Hillsburgh. Years later, he would return to the same area to relocate the new Mission’s summer camp program.

While Morris was ill, his younger sister, Gitel—later known as Gertrude—arrived from Poland. Morris had sponsored her immigration and saved up to pay for her passage to Canada. She was only 14 years old, and she eventually settled in with the family of his New Testament professor, William Manson. Her affectionate relationship with the Mansons could have ended when Dr. Manson received a faculty appointment to Edinburgh University. Instead, she was officially adopted and moved with them to Scotland.⁵

Annie had her own share of complications. Her father didn’t restrain his anger at her Jewish suitor, and there were unmerciful tirades. As the marriage plans were finalized, she took refuge in the home of a sympathetic local family. The painful rift between father and daughter never healed. William Martin’s sudden death in Scotland a few years later was a shocking loss.

Just as Morris was entering his studies at Knox, Ben Rohold was invited to take on a new work in Palestine in an undeveloped area of the port city Haifa, at the foot of Mt. Carmel. He corresponded with numerous colleagues for many months before he finally accepted. Reluctant to leave one of the leading positions in North America, he had important reasons to consider the offer. The new British mandate was supposed to be laying groundwork for the Jewish state promised in the 1917 Balfour Declaration. His extraordinary managerial gifts and languages, combined with an extensive knowledge of both the British and Middle East cultures, made him uniquely capable of assisting in the restoration of a new Jewish homeland.

Rev. and Mrs. Rohold had been promised a functional mission property in Haifa on what was later to become HaGefen Street. Unfortunately, as Rohold explained in a long letter to Morris, they arrived to find horrendous living conditions. Months were spent working on the buildings while they lived out of two miserable cellar rooms. They endured as always and eventually planted a highly effective work with a medical clinic and reading room ministry, similar to the one developed in Toronto. Over the next decade, Rohold became highly esteemed in the region, often representing the interests of the Jewish community to the British authorities. He worked diligently to forge ties with the local Greek church authorities and even acted as a mediator for Moslem and Druse villagers. At the founding of Hebrew University in Jerusalem, Rohold was an invited guest.⁶

Their 1926 wedding was almost certainly Morris and Annie’s last meeting with the mentor who’d been so important in their lives. In 1929, Rohold became quite ill, until his care required a move to a sanatorium in Egypt, where he died on February 14, 1931. He lies buried in the British Protestant cemetery in Old Cairo.⁷ Belle—by then she was known as Bella—could have returned to Canada, but she proved to be as resilient in her calling as her husband. Mrs. Rohold led the HaGefen Street Medical Mission with admirable efficiency, especially during the critical post-war years, when Jewish refugees flooded in from Europe with extensive medical needs. Bella Rohold died in 1960 and lies buried in the city of Haifa, which honoured the mission in 1977 for its assistance and support of Holocaust survivors.⁸

Ben Rohold’s departure from Toronto was received with a genuine outpouring of affection. He had not only done a remarkable work in Toronto, establishing a strong outreach with its own congregation; he also helped to establish a mission in Winnipeg. Both ministries would bear fruit for many years after his departure. The Toronto Presbytery noted his “faithful, earnest, successful and, we venture to think, unique service on behalf of Israel in Toronto, and other points in Canada…We therefore heartily record our appreciation of the remarkable success which has attended the ministry of Mr. Rohold.”⁹ Without him, the home mission board was uncertain about the future of the institute, and there were changes coming, marked by the growing divisions in the church.

***

As a budding “theolog” at Knox, Morris was keenly aware of the vision promoted by progressive Presbyterians, including his professors and the principal, Rev. Dr. Alfred Gandier. Decades earlier, as rural settlements across Western Canada followed the expanding railways, Canada’s large Protestant denominations—Methodists, Congregationalists and Presbyterians—unified their plans of expansion. Rather than build three churches in every prairie hamlet, they pooled their efforts to allow each settlement to form a single assembly supported by all three denominations. By 1904, the model formed in the west led church leaders to explore a dynamic vision for Canada in the 20th century—a national denomination merged into a “United Church.” After years of debate, a 1924 Act of Parliament allowed them to proceed, setting the date for union on June 10, 1925.

As the deadline loomed, each local Presbyterian congregation voted independently on whether or not to join the union. The process went on over several months, and sizable factions opposed the merger. Morris and Annie followed the fierce debates very closely under the critical eye of Dr. Pidgeon at Bloor Street Presbyterian, who became the first moderator of the United Church. The Methodist and Congregational denominations entered the alliance with almost no assemblies dissenting. In contrast, almost a third (30 percent) of Presbyterian churches voted no. They formed a continuing denomination despite the bitter prospect of court battles over property, even over the church name.

Morris’s choice to remain Presbyterian “required a certain amount of firm determination and faith,” according to the biography written by his son Alex. The resolve came “out of loyalty to the Church that had led him to Christ and to people who, like Dr. Scott had befriended him.”¹⁰ Nevertheless, the decision led to some painfully awkward situations. During his last year at Knox, the students and faculty on both sides—United Church and continuing Presbyterians—shared the college, until another seminary was built for the new denomination. Every day Morris endured the withering gaze of former teachers and classmates.

There had already been some frustrating shifts in the ministry of the Scott Institute. With Rohold gone, the presbytery tried to widen the scope of services with an “all nations” approach. The strategy stalled as few of the immigrant groups felt vested in the facility, while those who were actively using the building began to repel each other. Adding to the confusion was the pending question of which denomination would eventually own the site.

As graduation neared, Morris pondered his future. He’d been serving at the Institute for over a decade. It was an era when graduates were placed by the national church office after convocation. There was the possibility of receiving a call elsewhere, perhaps on a rustic charge in a frontier region. His future, though, was predetermined. He was appointed to lead the Scott Institute as superintendent of the Jewish Mission.

After the wedding, Morris and Annie headed east to New Brunswick. A leisurely two months were spent doing ministry in picturesque St. Andrews by the Sea on the Bay of Fundy. Six months later, the courts confirmed that the Presbyterian Church owned 165 Elizabeth St.

Together, Morris and Annie began taking the work in hand, refocusing attention on Jewish ministry, though Mission attendance had fallen to its lowest ebb. Years later, Annie told an interviewer that their first meeting at the Mission brought out “five Jewish people and a dog.” Having overcome so many obstacles, they might well have thought that the worst was behind them. Indeed, they were briefly entering a period of stability and calm. Briefly.