San Diego Journal :: Article

The second installment of our travel writer’s experience with a community of Jews by Choice in Guatemala.

By Judith Fein 

He's got dark hair, and active eyes. He’s articulate. smart and passionate. He’s Guatemalan his name is Benito Arreaga, and he leads one of the most unusual Israelite congregations I’ve ever encountered. “I grew up with Christian and Catholic teachings."‘Benito told me at a luncheon party one afternoon in Guatemala City. “But 16 years ago I realized I had to go back to the ways of the Torah.”

“What made you realize that?” I asked him. ‘In 1990 I had a mystical experience with God,” he answered. “I was sleeping, and God took my spirit with him to the church I was attending and Yeshua started asking me ques­tions about Christianity. I couldn’t answer them. He told me I had to leave the church and he would show me where to go.

“So it was a sort of ‘Lech lecha’ experience?” I asked, referring to God’s call to Abraham to go forth and leave behind all that he knew before. “Yes,” said Benito. “It was like that. I trust­ed God and He showed me where to go.

TEKIAH: The Shofar is sounded on Yom Teruah, the feast of the Trumpets.

Victor Reyes was with me. We started studying tanach and Torah and doing par­shas—one each Saturday. After five years of study, we were really conflicted because we didn’t know who we were. We were not Jewish and not Christian. My uncles were pastors in the Christian church, and the other side of my family were Catholics. They gave me a lot of trouble. At one point, there was almost no one I was speaking to. But when Hashem calls you, you go.”

I leaned forward, wanting to catch every word Benito was speaking. It was an honor that he was trusting me with his story.

By this time, there was a group of us,” Benito continued, “but we were fragment­ed. Some felt that we were becoming too jewish. By 1995 we were keeping all the commandments and the holidays. We stud­ied Torah all the time. I sent my girls to Jewish school. We knew that we were Israelites who had lost our identity over time, but our souls had kept the teachings.”

“We celebrate Yom Teruah, the Feast of Trumpets, which is the same festival as Rosh Hashana, and falls on the first day of the month of tishrei. We also observe Yom Kippur, Succoth, Shavuot, Pesach, Purim and Hanukah.”

People have told me you are Evangelicals but that doesn’t seem accu­rate,” I offered.

Correct,” Benito said. “We are not Evangelicals and we are not Jews. We are Israelites. We are a mixture of the northern tribes of Israel and Jews. The name of our synagogue is Shevet Ephraim.”

My mind was reeling. I thought of the Samaritans I had met in northern Israel, the Lemba Jews in South Africa. They all claimed to be descended from the ancient tribes. It was intriguing to me. I wanted to get a taste of what Benito and his congre­gants did.

Do you use the priestly blessing?” I asked him.

Yes,” he answered. “We bless all the kids on Shabbat. The boys and girls separately. And in the synagogue we use the Aharonic blessing of the whole congregation.”

Can you show me how you do it?” I asked.

Again, Benito nodded. He would be happy to show me, but first he had to put on a talit. Then he beckoned a young boy who was at the party.

He stretched out his hands and began to intone “Yivarechecha"   It was a stirring moment.

Has your family finally accepted your choice in life?” I queried.

Benito nodded. “My mom joined our syn­agogue and so did my sister and dad. My two brothers are still fighting with me. My mother and sister and I (and my wife) keep kosher. There’s no kosher butcher here, but when we can get the foreleg we remove the nerve, the way the Torah tells us.”

“Do you have a mikvah?”

“Yes. For both men and women. The men use the mikvah before Pesach, Yom Kippur, Yom Teruah, Shavuout ... and other times when they need it, like after a death or during a troubled period, or when they have converted or been circumcised. All the men in our congregation have had the brit milah.”

“It’s really amazing you have done this on your own,” I said. “How many members does your congregation have?”

“Three hundred, but now we are divided into two congregations. It’s not that we split off from each other... it’s because of space. There are also 200 of us in El Salvador.”

“And who is the leader or rabbi?” I inquired.

“I am,” said Benito. “Actually, we have a service this afternoon at 4:30 for Yom Teruah. Why don’t you come?”

I put aside my other plans and went to Benito’s synagogue with great curiosity, but without any expectations. It was in a subur­ban neighborhood and it took place in a large structure with sliding glass doors that opened onto a backyard. In a separate area, the kids were running around and playing. I entered the structure and saw Benito standing at a pulpit, his back to the congre­gation. He spoke in Spanish, addressing God, crying, imploring, begging God to show grace and mercy to His people.

There was a very large congregation, with men on one side and women on the other. People were crying out to God as they prayed. They were obviously moved, deeply in prayer, communicating with Hashem. The women wore hats and the men were all adorned in taletot and they moved back and forth—shuckling—as they davened. It was passionate, direct, forceful.

I stood there, riveted. I felt as though I were in a tent in the desert, thousands of years ago. I couldn’t take my eyes off the people, crying, moaning, calling out to God.

A series of sharp sounds pierced the air. One man held a long, spiraled shofar, and blew it perfectly. A Hebrew song came over the loud speaker system.

What was happening in Guatemala? What made these people, who were raised Catholic, turn to ancient Israel and forsake all they had been raised with and known before?

The world is unaware of the exciting, burgeoning Hebrew movement in Guatemala. It was only my first day in the country, but I knew I would be coming back there again, called by my heart to learn more about my Latino brethren and their search for God, truth and Torah.