(RNS) — American Jews are in deep pain. Consider what we have experienced over the last several weeks.
On Passover evening, there was an arson attack on the home of Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro. Weeks later, a gunman killed two Israeli Embassy staff members at the Capital Jewish Museum in Washington, D.C. And on Sunday (June 1), in Boulder, Colorado, an attacker hurled Molotov cocktails at people rallying for hostages taken from Israel, injuring 15 people. Many of them are elderly and one is a Holocaust survivor.
In each case, the stated reason was the Palestinian cause and the war in Gaza.
What have we heard in response? All too often, to quote Paul Simon, “The Sounds of Silence.” Silence from many politicians. Silence from our allies and partners on the left. Mostly silence from organized Christian churches, leaders and, according to an informal, unscientific survey of my colleagues, my local ministers. It adhered to the same pattern of silence that occurred after Oct. 7, 2023.
In the words of the late literary critic Irving Howe: “In the warmest of hearts, there’s a cold spot for the Jews.”
The silence forces us as Jews to feel something we have felt for millennia. We are lonely.
Our ancient loneliness goes back to Abraham and Sarah, “Hebrews” — ivri, which means “on the other side” — because, the ancient sages say, the whole world stood on one side, and Abraham and Sarah stood on the other.
It goes back to the pagan prophet Balaam, referring to the Israelites: “They are a people that dwells alone, that is not reckoned among the nations” (Numbers 23:9).
We Jews actually don’t like feeling lonely, but sometimes, we have friends who puncture that feeling. Which is why I want to pay tribute to those who strengthened us in our vulnerability and healed our loneliness.
On the morning of Oct. 7, 2023, I didn’t even know about the Hamas attack on Israel until I heard my iPhone buzz with an incoming message. It was from a friend — a retired Christian minister — who conveyed the news, complete with emojis of broken hearts.
Since then, there have been many such expressions of support and kindness. I have heard from several Christian minister friends. Some of them have written eloquent expressions of support. Here is one, written in the wake of the D.C. attacks, to a mutual friend and me:
“I can’t imagine what comforting words or even statements of solidarity can be offered to you both, valued friends and respected pastors, at this time of violence — again — against Jews in our country and in this confused, corrosive moment.My words now seek to be direct and clear: You, your beloved families, and the communities you serve and teach are of essential value to me, and your pain is mine in this time of collective terror.We know that only you can express the fullness of your pain; yet, equally, only we can stand firmly with you in trusting that the Spirit of human goodness remains our deepest desire and our constant message.In the God of Jacob and with our love,”
These kinds of messages have not been as plentiful as I/we have needed. But the messages I have received have been generous, and my rabbinical colleagues would say the same thing.
I have also heard from a few Muslim friends and colleagues. It’s true we do not agree on everything. It would be surprising if we did. But blessed have been those moments when we have been able to put aside what divides us and lift up what unites us: that we are both descended from the children of Abraham – Isaac and Ishmael — and in that story lies the potential for healing.
I also heard from high school classmates, some of them Greek or Italian Americans. There is something in this. Decades ago, I was profoundly moved by Michael Novak’s book “The Rise of the Unmeltable Ethnics: Politics and Culture in the Seventies.” Novak critiqued the idea of the “melting pot” and wrote about the enduring importance of ethnic identity, particularly for groups like Italians, Irish, Slavs and Greeks who still retain their connections to the working class.
I surmise that my high school friends carry within them the memory of the days when Italians, Greeks and Jews were not considered white. There is a bond between us — and a commonality in our loud family dinners — in which eccentric cousins and inappropriate uncles are welcome.
And I have recently become involved with a group of alumni from my college. We are all concerned about the rising anti-Israel activism on campus, which has drifted into antisemitism. We are all Jews — or mostly. There is one Irish Catholic guy who said: “I am not Jewish, but I am married to a Jewish woman, and I have raised Jewish children. This is important to me. I am an ally.”
In the words of Sheila Katz, CEO of the National Council of Jewish Women:
“We need allies who show up not only when Jews are murdered or attacked, but also when Jews are vilified. We need coalitions that make space for the complexity of Jewish identity. We need people who understand that standing against hate means standing with Jews — not only some of us, not only when it is easy, not only when we are grieving.”
Here’s what gentiles can do to help their Jewish friends, neighbors, colleagues and relatives.
If you are a member of a church, demand your minister stand up publicly to denounce the growing scourge of violent antisemitism in America. Demand that the churches in your community band together to issue a statement condemning antisemitism.
Open this conversation with your children and other family members. Engage them on the topic.
Write letters to the editor of your local newspaper.
Reach out to your Jewish friends, and simply say: “I am an ally.”
And please remember: This is not about Gaza or the Palestinians, as complex as that situation is. This yet another version of a hatred that goes back more than 2,500 years. It’s a hatred of Jews and Judaism simply because they are Jews, and because it is Judaism. It is the oldest hatred, merely updated.
Someone once said that one’s moral biography is shaped by those moments when you stand up, stand for and stand out. Will you join us?