Inspired by antisemitism

Some decades ago, when I was in my 20s, I published a book of short essays. The final one was titled The Beauty of Anti-Semitism.

That provocative phrase was meant to embody the idea that Jew-hatred is just so varied in the forms it has taken and so ubiquitous—spanning centuries, continents and cultures—that it must reflect something unique about Jews.

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Some of the guises Jew-hatred has assumed have been cultural (ancient Greece); others, religious (the Crusades and European pogroms); others, racial (Nazi Germany); and others still, nationalistic (Palestinian radicals). The mark, however, has always been the same: Jews.

The ancient Greek may have dedicated himself to science, art and beauty; he hated the Jew. The Crusader may have championed the messages of his faith (peace and love of humankind, no less); he hated the Jew. The Nazi may have been striving for racial exclusivity; he hated the Jew. The militant Arab may oppose what he calls Zionist colonization; but it is, once again, the Jew whom he hates.

To an antisemite, of course, the Jews’ uniqueness is a function of the delusion that we descendants of Jacob are nefarious actors, bent on fomenting wars, manipulating media, persecuting others (to white supremacists, whites; to black ones, blacks), undermining financial markets, uprooting populations …

But those of us who know that there are no conspiratorial Elders of Zion, no Jewish ritual drinkers of Christian (or Muslim) children’s blood, no desire to hurt or displace innocents, and no Jewish designs on world domination know that the Jewish uniqueness lies elsewhere.

One possibility may have to do with what the late historian Paul Johnson, in the epilogue of his A History of the Jews, writes about his subject: “To them we owe the idea of equality before the law, both divine and human; of the sanctity of life, and the dignity of the human person; of the individual conscience … of the collective conscience and so of social responsibility; of peace as an abstract ideal and love as the foundation of justice … [of] monotheism.”

Johnson, in that judgment, was preceded by U.S. Founding Father John Adams, who called the Jews “the most essential instrument for civilizing the nations.”

Could it be that introducing civilizing ideas over the course of history so rankled a pagan and unfettered world that parts of it, consciously or not, came and come to resent the messengers, and absorb an inchoate hatred that has manifested itself in all manner of ways over many generations?

It’s possible. There certainly is ample evidence, even today, of antisemitism spewed by decidedly amoral and unethical characters—people who, consciously or not, resent the limits that ethics and morality place on their behavior.

But we heirs to what happened at Sinai know that ultimately, the deepest roots of antisemitism’s singularity lie elsewhere.

“It is a well-known halachah that Esav hates Yaakov,” contends a well-known midrash. Esau there, of course, does not refer to Jacob’s twin brother alone but to all his spiritual descendants: Esau-ites, so to speak. And the use of the word halachah, “Jewish law,” unusual in this context, refers not to a ritual law but rather to a law of nature, so to speak—a law of human nature.

In other words, there will always be those who hate Jews, simply for being Jews. Their hatred may take any number of forms and manifest itself in an assortment of ways.

If one “reason” for hating Jews eludes the haters, they will find another. And the hatred will test the limits of preposterousness. Like, today, in accusing Israel, for her attempt to destroy a declared genocidal sect, Hamas, of “genocide” and of targeting children with bombs.

It’s not very comforting. But the persistence of Jew-hatred has been demonstrated tragically over centuries, indeed millennia.

The same ancient tradition, though, that predicts Jew-hatred also reveals a Divine plan that culminates with the defeat of evil and a world suffused with peace. That assurance must keep us from despondency.

In the meantime, though, until that final chapter of history, we Jews will continue to be singled out—irrationally but persistently—as targets of hatred.

And that is why, incongruous as it may seem, antisemitism, while it should greatly concern us, should also, since it reminds us of what the Jewish religious tradition teaches, inspire us and strengthen our faith.

A version of this essay was published in “Ami Magazine” in 2024, where the rabbi is editor-at-large.

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