Several months ago, I spoke to a small gathering about God’s unique relationship with the Jewish people and why Christians ought to support them.
During the Q-and-A session that followed, a man announced that he believed Jewish people possessed all of the power and wealth in the United States. I challenged him, telling him that his statement was a well-worn conspiracy theory that was inherently antisemitic. He bristled at being called an antisemite, then defended himself by explaining that his notion of Jewish control of American society was not antisemitism, but merely fact. “You may not think what you are saying is antisemitic,” I said, “but I’m telling you it is. In fact, if any of my Jewish friends were here today, they would find what you are saying extremely offensive.” The man quieted down, but as far as I could tell his mind remained unchanged. While some would consider this man’s views innocuous, I do not. In fact, much harm has befallen the Jewish people at the hands of people— individuals and groups — who spew such garbage. In 1919, for example, industrialist Henry Ford purchased the Dearborn Independent. The following year, he began printing a series called “The International Jew.” This series repackaged the content of The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion, a collection of forged notes from alleged meetings of world Jewry that detailed their plans to take over the world. At Ford dealerships around the world, copies of “The International Jew” were distributed to Ford customers, making antisemitism mainstream. Although Ford later made two apologies for publicizing antisemitic conspiracy theories, he also accepted the Grand Cross of the German Eagle, an award from German officials — Nazi German officials. Such antisemitic conspiracies have not dwindled since the days of Henry Ford. On the contrary, the Internet and social media have made it possible for antisemites to spread their hatred and to duplicate themselves. Consider the case of the Poway synagogue shooter. On April 27, 2019, 19-year-old John Earnest entered a synagogue in Poway, Calif., and opened fire on those attending services there, killing one woman and injuring three other worshippers, including an eight-year-old girl. In his manifesto, Earnest took a page out of Ford’s playbook, citing alleged Jewish control of the media and financial markets, among other things, as rationale for murdering Jewish people. “Every Jew young and old has contributed to these,” he wrote. “For these crimes they deserve nothing but hell. I will send them there.” Most recently, on Jan. 15, a Muslim man entered the Congregation Beth Israel synagogue in Colleyville, Texas, and held members of the congregation hostage. Thankfully, no one, besides the hostage-taker, lost their life. Still, the event shook the Jewish community. And it should shake us all. Though antisemitism is an ancient hatred, the ways in which it is being proffered to young people, especially, is cutting edge. Those who hate the Jewish people have learned that spreading their hatred to the most impressionable requires that they go where those teens and young adults are. Social media, game streaming platforms, and social virtual reality are all places where antisemites purvey their propaganda, especially to young people trying to make sense of their topsy-turvy world. In fact, a recent survey conducted by the American Jewish Committee found that 41 percent of respondents said they have witnessed one or more “antisemitic incidents, such as negative remarks or online content about Jewish people, or physical attacks on Jewish people or their religious facilities” within the past 12 months. Antisemitism, then, is not a Jewish problem. It’s a problem with which we must all reckon, because it’s a problem that more and more of us are witnessing. Following World War II, Martin Niemoller, a German Lutheran pastor and theologian, gave lectures about his experiences under the Nazi regime. Originally an antisemite himself (a sin for which he publicly repented years later), Niemoller recognized that, by not speaking against the evil he witnessed, he was complicit in it. His words should be a chilling reminder to moderns of how evil spreads: “First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist. “Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out— because I was not a trade unionist. “Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew. “Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”
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Like many people who grew up in the Thumb of Michigan, the closest I came to knowing Jewish people was seeing the flannelgraph cutouts of ancient Israelites in Sunday School as a boy.
That all changed, though, when I traveled to Israel for the first time in 2012. I volunteered at a hospital there, where nearly everyone I worked alongside was Jewish. And since moving to Las Vegas nearly seven years ago, I count many Jewish people as close friends. One of those friends is Marton, a frail but lively 92-year-old. He wears a Torah scroll pendant around his neck and, unless we are going out on the town, is nearly always clad in bright blue button-down pajamas that match his vibrant eyes. As happy as those eyes usually are, there is still a tint of sadness to them. They have witnessed atrocities most of us never have and never will — death marches, starvation, bombings and cold-blooded murder at the hands of Nazi soldiers. Antisemitism — the hatred of Jews — was a regular part of Marton’s growing-up years. He recalls gentile children cornering him after school, in the early 1940s, bashing his head against the metal shutters of a shop as they called him “dirty Jew” and “Christ-killer.” On April 5, 1944, the decree was issued that all Hungarian Jews were to wear a yellow Star of David on their clothing. Not long after, Marton, his family, and the rest of Hungarian Jewry were rounded up by the Nazis, with some, like Marton, going to the Budapest Ghetto, and others to Auschwitz. Although Marton and all of his immediate family survived the Holocaust, the physical and emotional wounds of the hell-on-earth experience remain. A piece of shrapnel is still visible in the lobe of his ear, where it lodged itself after a bomb detonated next to him 75 years ago. And there are nightmares — he still wakes up screaming sometimes, the reality of what happened to him just as vivid in his mind as it was when he was living it. Tonight, at sundown, Yom Hashoah — Holocaust Remembrance Day— begins. It is a time of sadness and solemnity in the Jewish community, as it ought to be for the whole world. Unfortunately, despite pledges to “never forget,” the lessons of the Holocaust are lost on many, particularly those in my age group and younger. According to a survey conducted last year by the Claims Conference, “11 percent of U.S. Millennial and Gen Z respondents believe Jews caused the Holocaust.” But what do we expect when nearly half of them have seen Holocaust denial or distortion posts on social media or elsewhere online? Antisemitism has been around since the days of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and I have it on good authority that it will only get worse. At its core, antisemitism is Satanic, an evil obsession to harm and eventually annihilate the Jewish people, those God calls the apple of His eye. Education is not the key to stamping out antisemitism, but it’s certainly one of them. Thankfully, Thumb residents have an excellent resource for educating themselves and their children in the Holocaust Memorial Center in Farmington Hills. I also recommend watching “They’re Not There: A Story of Hope” on YouTube. In it, Anneke Burke-Kooistra, who was originally from the Netherlands and later resided in Mayville until her death last November at the age of 82, tells the story of how her family hid Jewish people during the Holocaust. The mantra “Never again!” is right and just. But let’s remember what that dwindling number of people, people like Marton, keep telling us: It happened, and if we aren’t vigilant, it can happen again. |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer based in metro-Detroit. Archives
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