The site boasted all the facilities needed to fulfill the missionary’s vision: specialized rooms for the clinic and dispensary, activity space, reading rooms and a good-sized meeting hall for the Hebrew Christian congregation formed in 1913. It became one of the leading mission sites in North America. Doors were open from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m. every day but Monday (the workers’ rest day). Rohold’s 1918 book includes a series of excellent black and white prints of the building. A candid photo of congregants in their meeting room shows the words, “To the Jew first” (Romans 1:16) on the front wall.16 Unfortunately, the impressive brick building is now gone, and the site has been absorbed into the campus of the Hospital for Sick Children, but this is where Annie and Morris first crossed paths—and swords.
January
By Elaine Z. Markovic
Look out that window
Through your sadness.
See those bare branches,
Not a hint of leaf
Or even bud;
And yet,
We know
That by the end of March
Small promises will appear
That foretell an abundant
New life.
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,