On October 7, 2023, my mother-in-law called.
“Have you seen the news?” she asked urgently. “Terrorists have attacked Israel. Where are the youngsters? Are they at home with you? Can you retain them home from school this week?”
She knows antisemitism all too well. Her husband is a Jew who traces his lineage back to the tribe of Levi. His ancestors immigrated to America from Poland and Russia within the early 1900s. They maintained their heritage and ancient faith through centuries of opposition, faithfully attending synagogue, reading from the Torah, and celebrating holidays resembling Passover. They broke bread and drank wine in remembrance of when God rescued their people out of slavery in Egypt.
Today, my father-in-law is a Christian. As we break the matzoh, we remember Jesus, whose body was broken for us. As we drink the wine, we remember his blood poured out for the salvation of many. This meal, while it reminds us of our Savior who freed us from slavery to sin, can be a promise of what’s to come back. For the generations who’ve suffered, this meal is a reminder of God’s redemption. It gives us hope.
Though he rarely talks about it, my father-in-law has told us stories about his childhood growing up in Miami. His family went to synagogue every Saturday, and he and his Jewish friends attended Hebrew school five days per week. His father owned a food market within the Nineteen Fifties and ’60s, working sunup to sundown day by day except the Sabbath. He supported his family in a community where Jewish, Black, and Hispanic people were often unwelcome.
“I remember going to the beach and seeing signs on the lavatory doors that read, ‘No dogs or Jews allowed,’” my father-in-law told me. “I remember seeing swastikas spray-painted on some sites around town. At my father’s food market, he would sometimes receive antisemitic remarks from his customers. His food market was broken into over 30 times.”
Finally, his father was robbed at gunpoint and his uncle shot and killed—the motive unknown.
I used to search out it surreal that such hatred has thrived within the US so recently. As a lady of English and Danish descent born within the Nineteen Eighties, antisemitism seemed almost alien to me. I imagined racists as uneducated yokels, few and much between, who occasionally made themselves a nuisance on social media.
I never dreamed that Ivy League professors and Western world leaders would soon justify terrorism and rape—from Columbia University professor Joseph Massad, who described the Hamas attack as “awesome” and a “stunning victory,” to Michigan Rep. Rashida Tlaib, who was slammed by Democrat and Republican lawmakers alike for making antisemitic comments online.
“This attack on Israel will embolden them here,” said my fearful mother-in-law over the phone. “The girls could turn out to be a goal due to their last name.”
Though I discovered it hard to grasp my mother-in-law’s warning, within the weeks and months following, I saw why she feared for them. Multiple Jewish synagogues, schools, and even private homes became targets of violence and vandalism. Protesters chanted, “From the river to the ocean,” a phrase utilized by Hamas to advertise the genocide of Jews and the eradication of Israel. Jewish people, including the elderly, were attacked in California and New York. University students have experienced antisemitism, harrassment, and assault. Vitriol online exploded.
As my heart breaks for the kidnapped and bereaved, and for the Palestinian children and civilians caught within the crossfire of this terrible war, I cannot ignore the burgeoning threat to my circle of relatives. It’s hard enough being a parent and worrying about web safety, child predators, and playground bullies. Worrying about racism was something I’d never needed to anticipate.
My daughters are all in elementary school. They’ve never been to synagogue, but we’ve taught them about Passover and Hanukkah. They like it after I prepare Jewish dinners and are fascinated by their grandfather’s Hebrew Bible. When their school hosted a global parade, they proudly waved the flag of Israel. The thought of somebody harming them just because of their heritage seems ludicrous.
But I’ve learned to never underestimate the insanity of evil. “The hearts of individuals, furthermore, are filled with evil,” writes the creator of Ecclesiastes, “and there may be madness of their hearts while they live, and afterward they join the dead” (9:3).
Thousands of years ago, God selected the Jews to be his people. Although it was a profound blessing and honor, they became an object of malice for other nations and ethnic groups and for the spiritual forces of evil.
“I’ll put enmity between you and the girl,” God warned the Serpent in Genesis 3:15, “and between your offspring and hers; he’ll crush your head, and you’ll strike his heel.” That promised offspring, that one who would vanquish Satan, is Jesus Christ, born a Jew.
For centuries since Eden, Satan has tried to thwart God’s promise through bloody wars, persecution, and genocide. He vainly hoped to annihilate Eve’s offspring, to forestall the approaching of the one who would crush him. When Moses was an infant in Egypt, Pharoah ordered the murder of each Jewish baby boy. Nevertheless, the road of Christ endured.
After Jewish slaves painted their doorposts with the blood of a lamb, God omitted Egypt, judging their enslavers yet sparing his people. Later God instructed them to rejoice Passover—the day God omitted them, preserving the lineage of their coming Messiah.
When Jesus was an infant in Jerusalem, Herod again ordered all of the Jewish baby boys in Bethlehem to be slaughtered in a vain try to kill the King of the Jews. Thanks to Joseph, Jesus survived. Our Messiah endured. Eve’s promised offspring had dodged the striking Serpent, no less than for a number of a long time.
Thirty years later, Jesus was nailed to a cross, and Satan likely thought he had finally won. He probably imagined, in his twisted and prideful mind, that he’d defeated God. The Branch of Jesse, the promised Savior, was tortured, murdered, and buried in a tomb. But Jesus rose from the dead three days later, dealing a devastating blow to the Devil.
It was through the nation of Israel that salvation got here into the world. It was Jewish hands that wrote down the majority of the Word of God. It was to a Jewish girl that the Son of God was born. Today, the offer of salvation extends beyond Israel to the entire world.
Many will point to the political and cultural roots of this current war, and people roots do run deep. But the deepest root is a hatred birthed when God cursed the Serpent.
The dark underbelly of antisemitism, historic bloodbaths just like the Holocaust, and vitriolic hatred of Jewish people border on nonsensical unless you understand them as demonic on the core. However grim the conflict may turn out to be in our world, that is initially a spiritual war. Our enemies are native to the heavenly realms, and their cause is much older than the Gaza Strip (Eph. 6:12).
This world may not at all times welcome my children or others who’re different. But the gospel reminds us to hope in what’s unseen and everlasting, not in what’s seen and temporary (2 Cor. 4:18).
As my family gathers across the table to rejoice Passover, I feel of all of the Israeli families who’re missing their family members. Never again will they drink the wine or break the bread together. Never again will they sit as an entire family around a table. Never again will they hold hands in prayer together.
But there may be a promise of one other Passover, the ultimate Passover, where Christ will again break bread and drink wine together with his disciples. One day, Jesus will return to omit the entire earth. Every eye will see him, even of those that pierced him. His enemies will probably be judged, and his people will probably be free of slavery to sin and the tyranny of death. All those with the blood of the Lamb on the doorposts of their hearts will probably be spared.
To us, Passover, which we now rejoice in the shape of the Lord’s Supper, is greater than a commemoration. When Jesus celebrated Passover together with his disciples, he said, “Do this in remembrance of me” (Luke 22:19). And yes, we do remember Jesus’ body and his blood. But we also remember a promise. This is an anticipation. This is a waiting and a longing. This is an indication of the covenant that at some point God will omit the entire world, free us from oppression, and produce us into the Promised Land.
No longer will we wander in a spiritual wasteland. No longer will the enemies of God frighten, threaten, or harm us. No longer will evil appear to have the upper hand. Eve’s promised offspring, the King of the Jews and the Light of the World, will fill our universe with the splendor of his glory as we join him for the wedding supper of the Lamb.
Jennifer Greenberg is the creator of Defiant Joy: Find the Hope to Light Your Way, Even in Darkness and Not Forsaken: A Story of Life After Abuse: How Faith Brought One Woman From Victim to Survivor. Speaking Out is Christianity Today’s guest opinion column.
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