I went to church to talk about anti-Semitism two days after New York Times opinion writer Brett Stephens gave the State of World Jewry Address at the 92nd Street Y in Manhattan. Stephens declared that Jews should no longer fight anti-Semitism. Stephens believes the money spent on convincing people not to hate Jews would be better spent building more impactful Jewish institutions.
When I arrived at the church, the senior pastor came over to say hello. He and I met previously when I spoke at his church on my very first day in Charlotte. I literally taught at his church in the morning and then unpacked the moving truck in the afternoon. When his congregants learned this, they sent me a welcome basket full of Charlotte paraphernalia.
The pastor pointed out that the reading for the day was from the Gospel of John, the most anti-Semitic of the gospels. According to Amy-Jill Levine in A Jewish Annotated Guide to the New Testament, “[T]he Gospel [of John] is highly disturbing in its representation of ‘the Jews’…’The Jews’ are the archenemies of Jesus and his followers; they are oblivious to the truth and relentless in pursuit of Jesus to the point of masterminding his demise. Their behavior towards Jesus and their failure to believe demonstrate that they have relinquished their covenantal relationship with the God of Israel, and show them to be instead the children of the devil.” (p. 168)
The text that was the reading of the day was John 9:1-24, in which Jesus heals a blind man on Shabbat, a no-no in the context of that time. The text says, “His parents…were afraid of the Jewish leaders, who already had decided that anyone who acknowledged that Jesus was the Messiah would be put out of the synagogue” (John 9:22 NIV translation).
The senior pastor at this very large church told me, “We change how we translate this text here. Instead of saying ‘the Jews’ we say, ‘the religious leadership.’” This is a community that is aware of the impact of their sacred text and is already trying to change the conversation.
In a room full of 45 people, I began my talk. I started off by telling them about Brett Stephens and how he said that the way to address antisemitism was not to. After all the time and energy Jews have put into convincing antisemites not to hate Jewish people with no success, why should we continue fighting this fight? And then I launched into my presentation. I spoke of my own experiences with antisemitism, including the powerful, positive response from my community in Brunswick, Georgia, after the Charlottesville attack in 2017. We talked about the complicated history of antisemitism and how in the 1300s and 1400s Judaism became something you cannot convert out of, because it was in your blood; how Jewish became a “race.” We talked about Israel and that while the things happening there have been painful and wrong, they are not genocide, colonialism, or apartheid. We talked about race, privilege, and Christianity. We talked about how Theo E.J. Wilson, a reporter who is Black, went undercover in 2018 to a white supremacist convention and was welcomed there because he expressed a shared hatred of Jews. And about the JP (Jewish Problem) conference in 2024, which brought together white supremacists and Black nationalists. And then with a few minutes left, I shared an article by Rabbi Jeffrey Salkin and a How to be a Good Christian Ally one-pager which CoPilot had created for us for this occasion.
Two congregant comments really stood out to me.
First, a woman demurely raised her hand and quietly said, “Christian Nationalists’ Christianity and our Christianity is not the same.”
I told her, “I know… we know.” What I did not say in the moment and have thought about since then is yes, and…the texts are the same. The history of Christian-driven persecution of the Jews is the same. What they have done with it is different. Very different. If I were to rewrite this moment, I would have asked what responsibility her Christianity places on her to respond to their Christianity.
Second, a man sitting off to the side asked at the very end of my talk, “What do you do with the idea that the Old Testament predicts the New Testament?”
I used the opportunity to suggest, when in mixed company like with me here now, there might be different language to use instead of “Old Testament” such as the Jewish Bible, the Hebrew Bible, or The Torah. I also pointed out that the Hebrew Bible is not a Testament in the way that the New Testament is. Torah, and the Tanach in general (the Torah, the books of the Prophets, and the books of Writings, which is what people mean when they refer to “the Old Testament”) are many things. That includes, but isn’t limited to, being the covenant of the Jewish people with God through the patriarchs and Moses, matching the language of “testament” which here means “covenant.” To limit our sacred texts to only a testament belies how Jews understand these texts. For us, these texts are sources of wisdom, inspiration, connection, a shared history, and a starting point for the rest of what follows.
There were a lot of nods in the room.
When the talk was over and everyone was dismissed to go to worship, a few people stayed back to chat.
Someone referenced my comment above and dismissed the language as “semantics.” I did not take advantage of this teachable moment to point out that in their tradition and in mine, words make worlds. It had already been a long morning and I was ready for a rest.
But it reminded me that real relationship happens where there is room to learn and that the process is not linear.
The Anti-Defamation League’s CEO, Jonathan Greenblatt, issued a response to Brett Stephens’ challenge. He points out that in order to create the spaces of Jewish flourishing that Stephens wants us to put all our resources into, we must also be safe. It is not either Jewish flourishing or fighting antisemitism. It is both / and.
I do not know if I was fighting antisemitism by speaking about it at that church. But I do know I was doing two other very important, very Jewish things: First of all, I was building cross-cultural, cross-religious, cross-heritage relationships—wildly necessary in an ever more bifurcated, siloed, and lonely world. Secondly, I got to stand in a room full of non-Jews and proudly radiate out with rays of light my story of Jewish strength, resilience, and beauty.
Antisemitism is part of our story. Talking about it can be part of being in relationship with non-Jewish communities without the relationship having an ulterior motive of using our tragedy to persuade others to side with us, fight with us, or be against anyone else. We should be in relationship with Christians for its own sake, and not for making any changes to either us or them. We should be in relationship with our Christian friends because our faith traditions are amazing and beg to be shared with one another. Christians are who they are because of Judaism, and we are who we are, in no small part, because of Christianity. We are inextricably bound to one another. To only build structures internal to the Jewish community without building them in relationship with a broader world ultimately suppresses who we are, more than any Christian nationalist movement could. To solely be in relationship with our Christian friends in order to convince them that the tropes of antisemitism are false belittles and demeans us all.
This is my fear right now: that, in response to rising Christian nationalism or white supremacy, we Jews may turn inward, rebuilding the shtetl or the ghetto of the past. Instead, I believe we need to double down on our pride in being Jewish, despite the terror of violence that may be coming for us. We can’t let anxiety drive how we make these decisions. Can we find a way to lead with the Jewish values of community across difference, of joy and beauty, of delighting in all of the creations of The Creator, and quiet what threatens to dim the light that is the Jewish people?
The months and years ahead may be challenging for us. I hope, no matter what comes, we can find a third way that does not hide, that does not convince, but rather thrives in deeply knowing the beauty of Judaism, even if it may bring us peril, regardless of what we do.