Antisemitism ebbs and flows, but it never goes away. When it rises, as is happening now, Jews tend to react with alarm, condemnations and even rallies. We mobilize the troops, we call out, we speak out, we often freak out.
We also use the language of solutions, such as “end the hate” and “stop antisemitism,” hoping perhaps for a time when the world’s oldest hatred will finally come to rest.
But on this point history is clear: That won’t happen. No one has found a cure for Jew-hatred.
Historian Paul Johnson has called Jew-hatred “an intellectual disease, a disease of the mind, extremely infectious and massively destructive. It is a disease to which both human individuals and entire human societies are prone.”
This disease transcends the boundaries of space and time. As Johnson writes: “Anti-Semitism is very ancient, has never been associated with frontiers, and, although it has had its ups and downs, seems impervious to change.”
My friend and author Gil Troy calls antisemitism “the most plastic hatred—ever-malleable, endurable, artificial, and toxic.” It can go left, it can go right, it can go wherever it needs to go. In recent years, it has gone especially hard against the Jewish State of Israel, which is routinely demonized and singled out for condemnation unlike any other nation.
It’s ironic that the rise of Jew-hatred has coincided with another epic and global disease—COVID-19. For those who don’t believe in coincidences, maybe this moment can offer us a lesson: Instead of agonizing over a cure for antisemitism, we might want to look for a vaccine.
A vaccine doesn’t pretend to cure anything. Instead, it inoculates us, so when the disease shows up, our bodies are better prepared to fight it.
What kind of vaccine can protect us against Jew-hatred? One is obvious: beefed up security in synagogues, Jewish neighborhoods and other places to prevent physical harm, and maximum use of the legal system that provides consequences for hate crimes. That goes without saying.
But there is a deeper, more personal vaccine that can fortify us against the malignancy of hate. That vaccine is Judaism itself—the nourishing of our minds, hearts and souls with the many wonders and delights of our ancient tradition. This spiritual medicine wards off the toxins of hate while reinforcing the elixir of positive and meaningful connections in our lives.
That vaccine is Judaism itself—the nourishing of our minds, hearts and souls with the many wonders and delights of an ancient tradition.
We can see it in the Chabad movement. No matter how bad things get, they always respond by including the energizing rituals of Judaism, whether it is Friday night Shabbat, learning Torah or building a Succah. They fight darkness with light, fear with joyful pride, antisemitism with prosemitism.
This approach is not a linear response to Jew-hatred, which is why most of us prefer the direct approach—we see a problem, we want to fix it. But Jew-hatred is more than a problem, it’s a condition. It’s like the weather; it’ll be there no matter what we do.
We shouldn’t wait for the storms to arrive in order to wake up. Fighting only against storms can be draining and exhausting. It’s more energizing and empowering to stay continually connected to the enduring wisdom of our tradition. This reminds us of what we’re fighting for in the first place. We don’t just stand up against something, we also stand up for something.
As we fight the hate, let’s not forget the love—the love for a tradition that has sustained us through countless storms for more than 3,300 years.
By all means, let’s continue to fight Jew-hatred wherever and whenever it rears its mean and ugly head, with all the tools at our disposal. But as we fight the hate, let’s not forget the love—the love for a tradition that has sustained us through countless storms for more than 3,300 years. That tradition is the real source of our strength, and just like Jew-hatred, it isn’t going anywhere.
