Chanukah and the Fear of PDJs (Public Displays of Jewishness)

Chanukah always occurs at the darkest time of the year (the new moon closest to the winter solstice) and this year, for sure, the world feels inescapably dark. We reel from the massacre of 1,200 Israelis, Hamas’s sadistic trickle of releasing hostages in exchange for convicted criminals, and all the tragedies of war.

Simultaneously, the Jewish community is thunderstruck by the surging antisemitism that we’re experiencing. On Tuesday, the presidents of three elite universities—Harvard, MIT, and the University of Pennsylvania—testified at a congressional hearing on the Jew-hatred that is raging on America’s elite college campuses. They were each asked if calling for the genocide of Jews constituted antisemitic hate speech and violate their schools’ code of conduct. Not one of those presidents had the courage to answer “yes.”

Self-evident are the disgraces of America’s college campuses, the aggressions that every Jew is experiencing on social media, and the hypocrisy of “progressives” who deserve no claim to the term—as the antisemitism of the far-left bends around backward so far that it kisses the far-right. When you say you believe that rape is always and forever a war crime—except when it is perpetuated by Hamas against Israelis—you forfeit your right to be called “progressive.”

The ripple effects of the war are broad, but here I want to address one in particular: the fearfulness of PDJs, “public displays of Jewishness.”

“Most people know about lighting the Menorah, but many forget that an essential aspect is to put the Menorah prominently where it can be seen, to announce to the world the miracle of the Maccabees long ago, and that miracles still happen today. ”

There are many reasons to be nervous. More and more Jewish institutions have been vandalized in the past few months with anti-Jewish slogans. In my suburban town, swastikas have found in both a middle school and the high school in the past few weeks. Every synagogue has a security guard or police officers keeping a carefully eye on Shabbat worshippers; in more densely populated communities, there’s a police car out front during Shabbat services.

(Still, it’s hardly as fearful as it has been for Jewish communities in Europe, who in many places have learned that in order to be tolerated by their neighbors they have to remain as innocuous as possible. If you intend visit a synagogue as a tourist in much of Europe these days, expect to tell them of your visit weeks in advance and to send ahead a copy of your passport; it is simply not safe in much of the world to pray as a Jew in a synagogue unannounced. No doubt your local sociology professor can explain why this is an aspect of an emerging social justice movement.)

What I hear from many of my students is an increasing fear of being recognizably Jewish in public. Some parents are telling their children—even in the tony suburbs of Massachusetts—to tuck in that chai or Jewish star before going out in public. I’ve even heard, with shock and sorrow, of children asking their parents to take down the Mezuzah from their front door. (Ironically, a Mezuzah case is often decorated with a biblical name of G-d, “Shaddai,” which is often interpreted as an acronym for shomer delatot yisrael, “Guardian of the Doorways of Israel.”)

I understand these fears, even while I chafe at them and push back. Chanukah couldn’t be timelier.

After all, the core of message of Chanukah is: when the world seems dark, have courage to assert yourself. This is found in the basic Mitzvah of lighting the Menorah:

נר חנוכה מניחו על פתח הסמוך לר"ה מבחוץ אם הבית פתוח לר"ה מניחו על פתחו
ואם יש חצר לפני הבית מניחו על פתח החצר, ואם היה דר בעליה שאין לו פתח פתוח לר"ה מניחו בחלון הסמוך לר"ה
ובשעת הסכנה שאינו רשאי לקיים המצוה מניחו על שלחנו ודיו

We place the Chanukah light at the entrance which faces the public domain, on the outside.
If the house opens to the public domain, place the Menorah at its entrance. If there is a courtyard in front of the house, place it at the entrance to the courtyard. If one lives on the upper floor, with no entrance to the public domain, one should place the Menorah in a window that faces the public domain.
In a time of danger, it is enough to place the Menorah on the table.

—Shulchan Arukh, Laws of Chanukah, 671:5

 This is the central Mitzvah of Chanukah. Most people know about lighting the Menorah, but many forget that an essential aspect is to put the Menorah prominently where it can be seen, to announce to the world the miracle of the Maccabees long ago, and that miracles still happen today.

In other words, Chanukah is about proclaiming our identity without apology, even at a time when our instinct is to be more circumspect. Personally? I feel prouder than ever to be a Jew, as Israel fights a just war and as apologists for terrorism rip down posters of 5 year-old Jewish hostages in Gaza.

I realize that I write from a place of privilege. I really am in no danger, even at this time, in asserting my identity, but the same is not true for others. For instance, I realize that as a male, I don’t experience the vulnerabilities that women feel. Nonetheless, even with the caveats, I think this is a time like never before for Jewish self-assertion:

1. To wave those signs that say BRING THEM HOME or STAND WITH ISRAEL AGAINST TERRORISM or to wrap our trees and mailboxes with blue ribbons.

2. To represent as a Jew publicly, unafraid. (I wear a kippah all the time in public now—as much a celebration of my identity as it is an act of spiritual awareness of the omnipresence of the Shekhinah.)

3. And by all means, and most importantly, to put that Menorah in the window as its light increases day by day.

As Judah Maccabee might have instructed us: Let the world know we’re here, and we will not be cowed by those prefer their Jews quiet and quavering.

Let them know that we are committed to sharing the light of the season—and that we are, as we have always been, full-fledged partners in the work of freedom and justice and peace. But when hypocrisies and slanders are flung in our faces, or when they dissemble about dead Jews or consider Zionism to be racism, we will defend ourselves, and stand prouder for our values that go against the grain of the cultural conformist fashion. 

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The Battle for Decency and Truth Has Begun: Big-P and Little-P Politics

The people of Israel are like a single body and a single soul…
If one of them is stricken, all of them feel pain.
—Mekhilta d’Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai 19:6

 
Can it be that this is only the fifth day since hell emerged on earth? Only five days since Hamas terrorists spilled out of Gaza, slaughtering and beheading and raping and kidnapping, murdering Jewish teenagers and children and elders and adults, gleefully posting the pictures of their carnage on social media, with the lust for Jewish blood dripping from their lips, recalling the festival-atmosphere around Black lynchings in the American South?

Less than a week from October 7, 2023, the day on which more Jews were slaughtered than any other day since the Holocaust? Since the massacre of Kibbutz Be’eri, where Hamas terrorists calmly walked from room to room, executing over 100 children and adults?

In Israel, the names of the 150 Jews who have been kidnapped and stolen away into the dungeons under Gaza are still being tallied and released. The funerals have begun. The hospitals are full of the wounded.

We here in the Diaspora sit with broken hearts, watching our screens with a mélange of helplessness, outrage, grief, and devastation. Many of us are increasingly feeling the dismay and outrage as we see the propaganda war that is beginning against the victims of Hamas’s carnage. Already we are hearing the gaslighting that would turn the victims into the perpetrators.  

The fight will be political, and it will be rough. But I’d like to point out that there are some signs out there that we are not going to be all alone.

I want to differentiate between “Politics” with a big-P and “politics” with a little-p.  

By “big-P” Politics, I mean the actions of our elected leaders and people with power. If it gives you any peace of mind at all—it does for me—I feel inspired by the leadership of many of our officials. Starting at the top, praise must be given to President Biden. Every public statement he’s made has been note-perfect: the message is unequivocal and exactly right, and the tone is genuinely empathetic and honest. And Biden’s speech from Tuesday—please watch it in full—is just the most perfectly toned message that we could ask for.

Further, there is the spectacle of world landmarks being lit up with blue-and-white and the images of the Israeli flag. There seems to be a momentary awareness, for the time being at least, that Israel’s fight against terror is the world’s battle as well. Scroll through these pictures - some of them from cities with grotesque antisemitic histories - and be amazed at what is being expressed:

Brandenburg Gate, Berlin (!!!)

10 Downing Street, London

Bulgarian Parliament, Sofia

Kyiv, Ukraine

Melbourne, Australia

Eiffel Tower, Paris

Baku, Azerbaijan

Ground Zero, New York City

I’m not naïve; perhaps all this goodwill will evaporate as the battle in Gaza rages on. But for the time being, it is good to know that there are leaders out there with moral clarity.

Closer to home, there were hundreds of us at the Boston Common on Monday, and all the senior leadership of Massachusetts was present: two U.S. Senators, the Governor, and the Mayor of Boston. Senator Elizabeth Warren—who historically has not been a champion of Israel—was superb. Her message was crystal-clear and to-the-point: the U.S. Congress will support Israel with the resources it needs to defeat this vicious enemy. What more could we ask for?

If your elected leaders have done likewise, they need to hear from you (and so does President Biden): A short, concise email or phone call that says: “Thank you for the clear and unambiguous support of Israel and the Jewish community in their battle against terror.” Anyone who’s worked in an elected office will tell you:  Critics always make their voices heard, but it is so important to hear encouragement from constituents when leaders do the right thing.

And then there’s this letter that the Massachusetts Board of Rabbis received today from the Black Ministerial Alliance in Boston, representing over 20,000 Black parishioners in the region:

It is breathtaking in its courage and compassion. To each signatory to this letter: Thank you; THIS is what moral leadership looks like.

Which leaves the “small-P” politics, the propaganda wars that spread locally, on social media, and on campus.

Here, too, it’s not all bad. I must tell you: yesterday I was walking the dog downtown, and a stranger approached us. She said, “I see that you’re Jewish. Do you have friends and family in Israel?” (“Yes.”) And then she proceeded to say how horrified she is, and expressed her sympathy and support. It meant so much; I hope you’ve had similar interactions.

Because surely encounters like these counterbalance Twitter (X), Facebook, and Instagram, the cesspools of antisemitism and conspiracy theories that consume the “progressive” left as much as the reactionary right.

American universities, too, have fallen from places of serious discourse to places of Jew-hatred (where we pay hundred thousand-dollar tuitions for the privilege of being scapegoated).  Well-documented, already, is the shame of Harvard University, reminding us that higher education is often synonymous with higher antisemitism. But it's happening everywhere, as cowardly college presidents “All Lives Matter” the Jews by issuing statements that wring their hands over the suffering of “all sides.”

When a “friend” posts anti-Israel rhetoric that blames the victim and sympathizes with terrorists, you essentially have two choices.

If the person is someone with whom you have a real-life relationship and you think actually respects you, you might engage in a conversation that starts like this: “Your post is extremely hurtful right now. This is a community in mourning, and you are compounding their—my—pain with your thoughtlessness. Please remove your hateful words.”

And if the person is someone who doesn’t respect you, and is in no sense a “friend,” you really only have one option: “Your post reveals that you are an antisemite who has no grasp of the situation, and it is hateful. You have chosen the side of some of the most bloodthirsty killers in the world. I have no interest in engaging with you from this point forward. Goodbye.” Unfriend immediately.

I fear we will be living with this into the foreseeable future. And I greatly fear for our students on campus, as well as all of our kids who will be assaulted on social media. But there are also occasional reminders that we are not alone in this moral and righteous fight—and for that we must express our gratitude.

This Week In Antisemitism: אף על פי כן / In Spite of It All

As I do periodically, I thought I might share with you my weekly email to my students at Babson College here in MA. Several of them privately shared their fears with me this week, as once again antisemitism made headlines. This time, it surfaced via the unapologetic voices of two the most famous people in the world—with two of the largest online followings in the world. If you read through to the end, please note my postscript that I’m adding for this blog. —Neal

Unfortunately, it was a rough week in the news for Jewish Americans. Because this week, anti-Jewish hatred reared its ugly, snarling head from two directions. 

The most famous entertainer in the world spewed an irrational, hate-filled tirade on a popular podcast and (of course) on Twitter, where he swore to go, um, “Deathcon 3” on “the Jews.” Simultaneously, the former President stoked antisemitism again when he claimed American Jews weren’t “grateful enough” for his past support of Israel and they should “get their act together” “before it’s too late.”  

The fact that both of these statements sound like threats of violence is bad enough for a community on edge. And the fact that both of these individuals have massive numbers of followers, some of whom belong to antisemitic blocs who might take these comments as dog whistles, is even worse.  

After all, the Jewish community has experienced a terrifying rise antisemitic assaults in the past few years—unprecedented in our lifetimes—to know that violent language unchecked inevitably leads to violent actions. Do we have to go over, once again, the list of the Jews who have been killed, the synagogues that have been attacked, and the Jewish institutions that have been vandalized?  

But what feels so awful this week is that the hatred has been so coarse and… old. Here's what I mean. 

Every minority group has a history of being victimized by bigots. And for each group, there is the coarsest, grossest sorts of stereotypes with which they’ve been slandered. Think about it for a minute, and you’ll know what I mean. 

So, the Jew-hatred that we’ve seen this week struck all the most ancient and archaic tropes. Kanye’s hate included: the Jews run Hollywood and the media; insidious Jewish power blocs will shut down anyone they disagree with; Jews are rich and their moneyed interests manipulate the world. These are the most disgusting and, well, clichéd forms of antisemitism, and it’s so sad that there is still a large and eager audience for them. 

What Kanye missed the former President picked up on. That’s the slander of “dual loyalty:” You must not be “real Americans,” because your secret loyalty lies elsewhere—namely, the State of Israel. Haven’t we all had enough of this man’s pathetic charges that if you’re not with him, you’re anti-America?  

Money. The media. The banks. Secret power. Dual loyalty. There’s nothing new here; it’s all the classic forms of anti-Jewish hate. And it was all thrown in our faces this week very publicly by very famous and influential people. 

So where do we go from here? Where do we find hope?  

As for me, I find hope in you. In the Jewish community, there is hope to be found whenever someone asserts their Jewish identity, embraces their heritage, and refuses to be afraid. The Torah emphasizes joy and love, and I’m determined not to let haters steal those things from us.

And outside the Jewish community, there is hope to be found whenever people stand united with each other against hate and say: we refuse to let others’ lies and slanders turn us against each other. Love and decency win out in the long run, even if they seem to get trounced in the short run.  

Earlier this week, an interfaith and multicultural group of students, faculty, and staff gathered beneath the Babson Globe to stand in solidarity and prayer, simply to bear witness to the pain and suffering in the world. It was very powerful, and I left the Peace Circle filled with hope and energy. 

I had the privilege of closing that gathering, and I shared the following words from the 19th century mystical master Rebbe Nachman of Bratzlav. (Bratzlav, by the way, is in besieged Ukraine.) These, too, are words of hope: 

וְדַע שֶׁהָאָדָם צָרִיךְ לַעֲבֹר עַל גֶּשֶׁר צַר מְאֹד מְאֹד
וְהַכְּלָל וְהָעִקָּר – שֶׁלֹּא יִתְפַּחֵד כְּלָל 

Know this: That each person must cross a very—very!—narrow bridge.
And the rule, the fundamental thing, is:  Not to be afraid. 

Shabbat Shalom, 

Neal 

That’s what I wrote to my students. Here, I’ll add that two other things happened to me this past week that also gave me hope, along the lines of the themes that I included in my final paragraphs above:

In the spirit of interfaith sharing, I felt lucky to be part of a discussion panel that met at First Parish Church in Weston, MA earlier this week. Each panelist - representing Jewish, Muslim, Christian, and Baha’i faiths - spoke on the theme of “Hope in Our Fractured World.” There were about 100 people in attendance. And it was quite lovely; a gathering of people of good faith, seeking a bit of common ground, understanding, and perspective from one another.

Second, there was Simchat Torah. And it occurs to me that in recent years, Simchat Torah could be subtitled, אף על פי כן / “In spite of it all…”. In other words, we know that there’s a lot of pain in the world, as institutions and protections and beliefs we took for granted sway precariously. And in spite of it all: This week, we took the Torah in our arms and danced and sang. At least, that’s what we did at the Walnut Street Minyan in Newton, MA. And it was beautiful and joyous, and filled with hope, as we bid the holiday season farewell, and prepared to face the winter that is coming…

A Message to College Students after the Assault in Colleyville, Texas

I thought I would share with you the message that I sent on Monday to my college students at Babson College. It doesn’t reflect everything I’m feeling after these intense few days, but it does convey the message that I wanted them to hear. I’d be glad to hear your responses. —Neal

Dear Friends,

Following up on my email from yesterday, as more information emerges from the antisemitic assault on Congregation Beth Israel in Colleyville, Texas.

This morning I saw a rather inspiring interview with the Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker, who was one of the hostages and, as it becomes clear in this video, is really quite a hero. I know Rabbi Cytron-Walker, and can testify that he is as humble, honest, and deeply committed to social justice as he seems—do check it out:

And speaking of social justice, let's dwell on a few details from this powerful video.

First: He thought the terrorist was a hurting individual in need of shelter; he brought in him in to the synagogue on Shabbat and made him a cup of hot tea and talked kindly to him. I recognize that he was put in grave danger because of this. Indeed, this is the latest in a series of attacks over the past three years that makes Jews wonder how safe we really are in America, even in our synagogues (and even on our college campuses).

But: G-d forbid that we ever let our fear turn against the people who are most vulnerable and hurting. We need to put safeguards in place, for sure, because there are people in the world who do want to harm us. But I suspect that the rabbi does not regret being a person who acts on his kindness and empathy and compassion, even though there are times when our compassion makes us vulnerable.

Second: His gratitude. Surely, he has much to be grateful for. We can learn from this: When someone walks away from near-disaster and can clearheadedly give a voice of gratitude to the law enforcement officers who rescued them, and the friends who sent love and prayers, and to G-d, well... we can, too. It's a reminder that when we encounter the (by comparison) petty annoyances and obstacles in our day, that we can embrace postures of gratitude for all the blessings that we are also perpetually all around us. And we can say thank you.

Third: His human values. It's not lost on me or anyone that today is Dr. Martin Luther King Day, a day when we honor one of America's greatest voices of justice, liberation, and hope. At the end of the video, Rabbi Cytron-Walker goes out of his way to acknowledge the Muslim, Christian, and Jewish ("my people") voices who stood with him, who prayed for him, and who expressed their hopes and fears and gratitude. My understanding of Dr. King is that he spoke profoundly from his own tradition—the African-American church— but recognized that, in order to be realized, his message was contingent on a great multifaith and multicultural coalition of likeminded people, people who genuinely were motivated by the recognition that every human being is made in the image of G-d. The rabbi seems to be giving voice to that vision at the end of the video.

All in all, it's been a harrowing few days—but one, thank G-d, that has ended with the hostages finding safety.

I remind you of my offer from yesterday: If you feel unsafe or unresolved or afraid about what's been going on—I'd be glad to speak with you. Please feel free to be in touch; I'm here for you.

Shalom,

Neal

Esther: A Brilliant Satire of Jewish-Diaspora Relations

In the Hasidic tale “The Humble King,” Rebbe Nachman of Bratzlav wrote, “If you want to understand the nature of a community, understand its humor.” 

The Scroll of Esther—which is, among other things, a brilliant satire of Jewish life in the Persian Empire from about 2,300 years ago—offers a similar challenge: If you want to understand the Jews of Shushan, understand the Megillah’s humor. But who, exactly, is the object of the book’s satire?

In the second chapter of the book, we meet Mordecai, who is introduced to readers with a brief genealogy. We are told that Mordecai’s great-grandfather had been “carried into exile along with King Jeconiah of Judah, who had been driven into exile by King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon” (Esther 2:5-6). This verse may seem innocuous at first glance, but the satirical aim of the entire book emerges right here.

A little biblical history is called for in order to understand this. Jeconiah was the 18 year-old king of Judah who reigned for a mere three months in 597 BCE before he and his courtiers were conquered and deported eastward to Babylonia. They were the first of the Jewish exiles in Babylonia, and soon many more would follow them, in the wake of the destruction of the Temple in 586 BCE. The exile would remain a deep and traumatic memory for the Bible.

But just a few decades later—in 539 BCE—King Cyrus of Persia conquered Babylonia. Cyrus’s policy towards vanquished peoples was surprisingly liberal; he permitted the Jews to return home and rebuild their destroyed Temple. This, too, is an enormous event in the Bible’s mindset. Psalm 126, for instance, gushes: When G-d brought back the returnees to Zion, we were like dreamers!

This is the historical background of Esther and Mordecai. Their saga takes place in Susa (Shushan), the capital of Persia, a century and a half after Cyrus’s edict that permitted the exiles to return home. 

All of which points us towards an uncomfortable question. Mordecai and Esther belong to a generation when Judea was reborn, and the Second Temple was standing. So what were Jews living doing living in the Persian diaspora—after they miraculously had been permitted to return to their homeland?

The answer is: In fact, only a small minority of Jews returned home. Susa/Shushan was the cosmopolitan capital of the world’s most vast empire; Yehud/Judea was, by contrast, a small backwater, and the rebuilding effort was not easy. The returnees were not immediately successful in rebuilding the Temple; their economy was weak, their will was depleted, and (wait for it…) there was ugly infighting about which Jews were the most “authentic”! (That’s right—the painful history of “Who is the real Jew?” begins here. We can read about the Jewish infighting in the biblical book of Ezra.)

This was the situation of the Jews of the Megillah. They were the ones who, when offered the opportunity to go, said… “Thanks, but we’re good.” Instead, they embraced the relative prosperity and comfort of the world’s most cosmopolitan society of the day. They were the ones who opted to stay right where they were.

All this should give us some perspective. Esther is a satire about Jewish lives and mores in a diaspora. Now, that satire can be viewed from two perspectives.

On one hand, it can be read as a celebration of the diaspora’s triumphs. After all, the Jews of Shushan have risen to the very halls of power. And when they are threatened by an antisemitic monster, they take action. From this point of view, the Megillah is a story of empowerment and heroism. As Bible scholar Adele Berlin has written, Queen Esther’s courage “strengthens the ethnic pride of Jews under foreign domination.”[1] For many of us, that’s the way Esther was learned.

But on the other had, from a satirical point of view, the author pokes great fun at these Diaspora Jews. Sure, they’re successful and proud; but still, the reader might wonder, what kinds of Jews are these? After all, they’re not very pious; G-d’s name is never invoked in the entire book, even with impending disaster. They don’t seem to keep kosher. (What, pray tell, did Esther eat in the king’s harem—tuna salad?). They take on fashionable local names. (Esther has a perfectly beautiful Hebrew name—“Hadassah”—but travels in Persian circles by her more familiar moniker, evoking the Babylonian deity Ishtar.) Yet they certainly can shrey gevalt: when calamity arrives, they fast for three days! (Nowhere in Jewish literature are we ever instructed to fast for three days, no matter how severe the crisis.)

None of this should be offensive or insulting; there is a difference between laughing at and laughing with. Part of the book’s brilliance is to make us grin at these recognizable stereotypes, and to see a bit of ourselves in its caricatures. The humor of Esther is broad, but it isn’t cruel. Instead, like Purim itself, it takes aim at established pieties and deflates them. We can imagine an ancient reader smiling, thinking, “Of course—these are the Jews who had the opportunity to go home, but didn’t!” We know these people. 

And perhaps we can recognize a bit of ourselves in this story as well. 

This is all a very good and spiritually healthy thing. Purim reminds us that there is a big difference between righteousness and self-righteousness.

When we consider our own self-image, as well as the relationships between the Jews of today’s Diasporas and the State of Israel, more righteousness and less self-righteousness is extremely valuable. To rediscover how to speak, to learn, and most especially to laugh with one another would be the greatest Purim gift we could give one another.

[1] Adele Berlin, The JPS Bible Commentary: Esther (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2001), p.xxxv.

Look, It's about White Supremacy

No, the terrorist attack in Pittsburgh is not “incomprehensible.”

I write from the suburbs of Chicago, where I’m visiting for the weekend – not far from Skokie where, forty years ago, a band of Illinois Nazis sought to march in full regalia. Why Skokie? Because in the 1970s it was not only densely Jewish, but also because it had the highest concentration of Holocaust survivors of any other municipality in America. Sticking their hate in the faces of Shoah victims was a tactic for noxious, evil people to most provocatively display their message—one that keeps surfacing since the 2016 political campaign, and Charlottesville, and now Pittsburgh: “You (Jew) will not replace us.”

The massacre of Jews at prayer at the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh on Shabbat morning was first and foremost a crime against Jews: the deadliest antisemitic attack in American history. Victims do not appreciate having crimes against them universalized. This attack was specifically against Jews, in a Jewish place, marking a moment in Jewish time (Shabbat; and the bris celebrating a baby boy’s arrival into the covenant of the Jewish people).

It is crucial to understand that antisemitism is not “generic bigotry.” It is specifically anti-Jewish hatred, incubated throughout the centuries and always ready to take root in the fertile soil of the far left and the far right.

In the taxonomy of hate, antisemitism has specific characteristics. Similarly, Islamophobia has its own unique expressions, and Muslims’ experience of bigotry is uniquely their own. So, too, for anti-black racism. And homophobia. And all the other special hatreds that the human soul has devised for itself.

However, there is a line that connects modern American hate together, and that line is white supremacy, which has plagued this country from its founding to today.

It’s a thread that runs from the days when Americans owned people of a certain color skin. It was enshrined in a Constitution that considered such a man 3/5 of a human being. It is self-evident on the slobbering faces of white celebrants at lynchings.

It was there when an antisemitic mob murdered Leo Frank in 1915. It runs through the internment camps in which Japanese-Americans were imprisoned during World War II. It was on the MS St. Louis which was turned away from Florida’s shores, bringing its doomed passengers back across the Atlantic to the clutches of the Nazis. It lingers in Quran-burnings by hypocritical preachers, and in vandalized mosques.

It was there in Skokie, and in the massacre at the Pulse nightclub in Miami. And it’s there in the denigration of refugees as something less-than-human.

The perpetrator of the Tree of Life slaughter made his motivations perfectly clear (no, the crime is not “incomprehensible”). He despised Jews in general, and in particular for their perceived role in protecting refugees from seeking sanctuary in America. He called out HIAS (formerly the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society), and claimed a last straw to save America from invading armies of dark-colored immigrants, as manipulated by sinister Jewish forces.

He told us why. It’s not incomprehensible. Just evil.

White supremacy, white nationalism, whatever you want to call it: it’s the moral rot eating at American democracy since the beginning.

The only peace I can find is that another parallel line likewise runs through the American soul. From the unique experience of a specific group, we can come to partially and incompletely come to understand the suffering (and, I hope, the aspirations and joys) of another group. This is empathy, the greatest of human virtues. Occasionally we confront fellow humans who are completely lacking in this trait. But the gatherings and the vigils of the past few days tell me that it’s possible, at least, that a coalition of decency can arise.

Jonathan Greenblatt said it quite eloquently: You have to have zero tolerance for this.

If your candidate is attacking George Soros or the “globalists,” or a member of Congress from your party is embracing Holocaust deniers, you must stand up and tell them to stop.

If your allies in a range of social justice causes either explain away the anti-Semitism of the Nation of Islam by citing the good work they may do or justify demonizing the Jewish state of Israel and its existence, then they need to know that they can no longer be your ally.

If your favorite social media platform continues to refuse to remove anti-Semitic garbage from its site, then vote with your clicks and deactivate your account.

When we consider this horror in the days and weeks to come, we should keep that in mind. It is about the poisonous sprout of white supremacy – and those who would enable it with their silent nods and coded dog whistles.