The Black Pastor Who Is Becoming a Proud Jew
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8 min read
Ricky Flowers’ journey from pastor to proud Jew—shattering stereotypes, embracing truth, and fighting Jew-hatred with fearless love.
“You know you’re Jewish, right?”
Pastor Ricky Flowers Jr. was talking about basketball with his uncle when his uncle’s comment came out of nowhere.
“My uncle’s the type of guy who just randomly says crazy things, so I didn’t think much of it at the time. But later, when I was processing it, it sort of unraveled everything I thought I knew about myself.”
At the time, Ricky was a pastor at a mega-church, preaching on TV to over 30 million people. He led congregations and youth groups and was walking a path that, to most, seemed like success.
But Ricky felt pulled in a different direction. Something about Judaism always drew him in, even when he was a pastor.
Drawn to Judaism
As a child, his parents, practicing Christians, gave him a Bible and encouraged him to read it consistently. But while reading the Tanach, his focus drifted toward Judaism—not Christianity. He taught himself Hebrew and felt a strange sense of connection. In his final year of preaching, he even stopped saying the word “Jesus” and found himself stuttering whenever it came up.
“The last time I preached on camera, you won’t hear me use the word Jesus. I’d always stutter at that part. So eventually, I just started saying ‘God.’ I could never say the name ‘Jesus.’ Something inside me knew. In fact, my ex-girlfriend’s father once gave me a book on Judaism and said, ‘This just feels like you.’”
The church started to feel more like a business than a sanctuary. Finances were the key motivator, and Ricky felt increasingly disconnected.
“I tithed and gave ten percent to the church because I was a pastor. Then every time there was a holiday or pastor’s appreciation day, I had to donate again. We were expected to give $1,000 for the bishop’s birthday, another $1,000 for pastor’s appreciation... it became a financial burden.”
Then came the final straw: a financial scandal shook the church. Ricky, already disillusioned, stepped away.
“I was so turned off by all of it. When the scandal broke, I was like, ‘Y’all can keep this—I’m out.’”
Homecoming
After leaving the church, Ricky kept searching. He read the Quran, Buddhist texts, Hindu philosophy, and even taught himself to read ancient hieroglyphics. But something deeper kept tugging at him. He decided to call his uncle.
His uncle explained that their great-grandmother had been a Jewish woman from Portugal, who immigrated through the port of Virginia.
“It wasn’t a discovery—it was a homecoming,” Ricky said.
Ricky began observing on his own, keeping Shabbat and kosher. When he told his mother about his new practices, she responded not with judgment, but something unexpected.
“She told me that she used to pray the Shema over me while I was in the womb.”
Looking back, the signs had always been there. His grandfather had strong feelings about pork: “We could eat it on the porch, but once we stepped inside, pork was a no-go.”
“Judaism had always been there,” Ricky reflects, “waiting to be uncovered.”
“Both of my parents are Black,” Ricky says, “but we also have Portuguese roots through my great-grandmother. That’s how I traced my Jewish lineage.”
As he continued to observe Judaism and connect with the Jewish community, he realized he wasn’t alone.
“A lot of people don’t realize how deep Jewish roots run in Black communities,” he says. “I’ve met others with similar stories—especially once I started learning and connecting.”
At 36, Ricky decided to formally begin the process of conversion.
At first, he wanted to remain low-key: “I found a synagogue. I said, ‘I just wanna sit in the back and learn.’ But God had other plans.”
Israel Activist
One morning in Koreatown, Ricky was lying in bed when he heard shouting from a Palestinian rally. He grew upset. “They were talking about killing me, my friends, my people! I have family in Israel. I got so mad—I put on my kippah and my tzitzit, grabbed my Israeli flag, and drove into the middle of the protest, blasting the Israeli national anthem from my car speakers at full volume.
“People were yelling, but then they saw me—Black, wearing a kippah—and they got confused. Some just walked away. The video went viral.”
At a U.C. Berkeley event, Ricky stood in front of a huge sign that read: Black Jewish Zionist.
“People didn’t know what to do with that. They’d stop, stare, and ask me questions—some respectful, some aggressive. The most common question? ‘Do you even have a right to say that?’
“People ask how I can support Zionism as a Black man. I tell them, ‘Zionism is about self-determination. It’s about a homeland. You believe in Black liberation, right? Why don’t Jews deserve the same?’ That usually gets them thinking.
“People want to box you in. They see a Black face and assume you can’t be Jewish or pro-Israel. But I refuse to fit into anyone’s box. My life is proof you can be both—and proud.”
He once wore a sign: “I’m a Black Zionist Jew. Ask Me Anything.” One angry woman screamed at him but ended up hugging him in tears after a 17-minute conversation.
“I tell people: Love isn’t just soft. Love is action. Love is accountability. Love is showing up, even when it’s hard. For me, that means standing with Jews. Standing with Black people. Standing with anyone who’s ever been told they don’t belong.”
When people ask him, "What is Zionism?” Ricky responds, "Do you believe you have the right to exist and walk freely without fear of being attacked for wearing a shirt someone dislikes, or for having a cross on your backpack because you're Christian?" They responded, "Yes, of course." Ricky said, "Well, that's what Zionism is. I believe I have the right to exist, to walk freely without fear of attack or harassment. I believe my family and I should have a place to live without worrying about these things."
Love Is Real
Ricky’s approach comes from love. He is now the face of the organization Love Is Real (a play on the words Love Israel), a group combating Jew-hatred, racism, and homelessness. Despite the heavy issues, the group of 500+ members has experienced little negativity.
They set up booths on college campuses around the U.S. giving away free merchandise and sharing their mission. People stop by not just for t-shirts but for conversation. Most people don’t even realize it’s a Jewish organization. Ricky believes he’s making a huge Kiddush Hashem, sanctifying God’s Name.
Their college campus groups host festivals, concerts and gatherings, making loving Jews fun and hip and inclusive. Ricky believes it’s a more effective way to combat antisemitism.
Not everyone receives the message. One woman spewed hatred at Ricky once he realized he was Jewish. Ricky said, “How can someone say they love, when all they focus on is hatred toward one group?”
Ricky is no stranger to hate. He grew up in a deeply racist neighborhood in Ohio.
“I got hit with a bat when I was eight—split my head open for being Black. I got jumped by the KKK in 10th grade. Cops have pulled guns on me more times than I can count. And now that I’m openly Jewish, I get even more hate than before. The things people say… the looks I get… just for existing,” says Ricky.
“I hear the most heinous things that people are saying, calling me combinations of words I’ve never even heard of before, but I'm so used to it. Growing up in Ohio helped prepare me for what I'm dealing with now. I thought that was going to be the worst of it, but I'll tell you there ain't nothing harder than being Jewish and being Black. I think God put me in this exact position for a reason.
Ricky believes that love is going be the way we beat this. “When I was on the ground yelling at people—it didn’t work. But when you come at people with love, it does all the work for you. It highlights how much the other side isn’t doing that.”
Ricky Flowers is living proof that embracing your truth—with courage, love and conviction—can shake the world for good.
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