I recently came into possession of a collection of photographs from the 1990s, which included some Cass City residents. Though I recognized many of those pictured, there were several I could not identify.

So, to the “You Know You’re From Cass City If...” Facebook page I went.

Within minutes, members of the group — Cass Cityans both past and present — chimed in: “That’s so and so. Oh, I remember her! That man was the best neighbor. I have fond memories of that couple.”

By the next day, nearly everyone was identified.

Several people commented that looking through the pictures was a walk down memory lane. Others noted that the people pictured were integral parts of their younger lives, and they shared memories of what made those people so dear to them.

Sandi Doyen Rosteutcher’s comment was particularly striking. She wrote, “You know what I love about this? So many people knew who so many of these people were. I knew many faces but I forget names. But my point is that in our little town, there was such a spirit of community. Sad to say that I live in (a) subdivision, and I can’t tell you the name of one neighbor. And they couldn’t tell you mine. Very sad the way much of our world is now.”

I’ve been thinking about Sandi’s comment all week. She’s right. Living in a municipality is not the same thing as being a part of a community, any more than living next door to someone makes you a true neighbor.

In recent years, Americans have segregated themselves from one another and have created “communities” along ideological lines, where groupthink often prevails. But such groups are not communities at all.

Rather, what makes a community a community is the will of its people to interact with one another, in spite of their differences and the occasional difficulties of living alongside those different from ourselves.

It is not enough to share a zip code or a voting precinct. Nor is the occasional wave as we take out the trash sufficient. Building a community requires the hard work of neighboring, of shoveling one another’s driveways, of sharing holidays and birthdays with people to whom we’re not related. In short, it means giving a hoot for the guy next door.

Cass City has, historically, been a community in the true sense of the word. The memories people shared on the Cass City Facebook page about those pictured are evidence that ours has never been a mere place to live.

Here, people care about one another.

Still, vigilance is in order. To paraphrase President Ronald Reagan, community is a fragile thing and it’s never more than one generation away from extinction.

Indeed, it is difficult to think of a time in American history when real community has been more difficult to cultivate and maintain than it is now.

Robert D. Putnam, political scientist at Harvard University, notes that changes in technology, economics, and the social fabric have wreaked havoc on American communities. As he writes, this is “shorthand for saying that things like television, two-career family, [and] generational changes have made fewer of us go on picnics, join the Rotary or hang out at the bar.”

It seems Putnam is right. Streaming services keep us from gathering at the Cass Theatre. Outsourcing and virtual workplaces prevent us from water-cooler conversations at local factories. Our abandonment of the pursuit of truth renders church attendance and Sunday school picnics
obsolete. And the shift from Main Street shops to Amazon.com means we do not bump into each other at the store anymore — indeed, there is no store in which to bump.

Though it seems the days when places like Kritzmans Clothing Store and McConkey Jewelry and Gift Shop are likely behind us, it does not mean that communities are things of the past, too.

Communities must be fought for, which requires some intentional decisions:

*To join a civic club instead of spending Thursday nights binge watching Netflix.

*To attend village council and school board meetings — not for the sake of arguing, but for being informed and involved.

*To be aware of the needs our neighbors face and to look for ways to meet them ourselves.

*To actively participate in those functions of community we do have—parades and fundraisers and concerts and funerals and celebrations and downtown beautification projects.

It won’t be easy. But judging by the comments made about the photographs of some of Cass City’s former residents, the value of a vibrant community, and those who shape it, is incalculable.

My wife always says that one of the best parts of enjoying something is sharing it with others. So, with that in mind, allow me to share just a few of my favorite things.

It was by chance that I stumbled upon Aaron Lansky’s “Outwitting History: The Amazing Adventures of a Man Who Rescued a Million Yiddish Books”, but the writing and the subject matter gripped me from
page one.

In a humorous, yet poignant style, Lansky recounts how a boring university class turned into an action-packed hunt for the last remaining Yiddish books in the United States. It might sound dry, but it was a page-turner that kept me up into the wee hours of the morning to see how it all ended.

Potency, not humor, is Andree Seu’s specialty. Her “Won’t Let You Go Unless You Bless Me” is a slim volume that requires some thinking and a good dose of humility. Her surprisingly direct writing style may not be your cup of tea at first (it wasn’t mine), but give it a few pages; her brief essays are filled with reminders of God’s goodness, man’s sinfulness, and the redemption made possible through the shed blood of Christ.

Prior to leaving for a trek up north, my wife and I had an early anniversary dinner just around the corner from our home in Metamora, at the White Horse Inn. It was our first time visiting the famed restaurant, but it won’t be our last.

I had the honey plum salmon, doused in a honey-plum-teriyaki glaze, accompanied by seasoned asparagus and potatoes. She had a homemade buffalo meatloaf, served with grilled onions, mushrooms, mashed potatoes and gravy. We both gave our meals five stars.

The next morning, we drove to Sleeping Bear Dunes. I have been to my share of national natural treasures and was, frankly, not particularly excited about hiking up giant piles of sand. But my mind changed as soon as we hiked a short trail and saw the splendor of Lake Michigan before us. As we watched the autumn sun make its descent, we made up our minds then and there: we’ll be returning next year.

Whether motoring to northern Michigan or running brief errands into town, my drives are always accompanied by a good podcast.

The World and Everything In It is the weekday news program you wished you had found years ago. It’s got the professional sound of NPR, minus the leftist bent. You’ll hear daily headlines from around the country and around the world, as well as human interest stories, book reviews, and an overview of every Supreme Court case being heard, all coming to you from a biblical worldview.

If it’s history you’re interested in, download Andrew Roberts’ Secrets of Statecraft. A British historian, known for his comprehensive biographies of Winston Churchill and Napoleon Bonaparte, Roberts interviews high-profile public figures to learn how the study of history has influenced their careers and the pivotal decisions they have made. His Sept. 6 interview with Dr. Condoleezza Rice is a particular favorite.

At the end of a long week, our family likes to unwind with a good movie. Recently, we watched Disney’s 2022 production of Pinocchio.

Although many remakes of older movies fall flat, this one does not.

While the story and scenes mirror many of those found in the 1940 cartoon, the lessons about unbridled pleasure and the dangers of autonomy are far more vivid and affecting. And it doesn’t hurt that it features the singular Tom Hanks.

Winston Churchill famously said, “My tastes are simple: I am easily satisfied with the best.” I don’t know if my tastes are as rarified as Churchill’s, but I do know that my wife is right: sharing good things
with others is half the thrill.

I was a fourth-grader at Willis Campbell Elementary School, and I remember that Tuesday morning as clearly as if it happened yesterday.

My class made its way from Mrs. Sherman’s classroom, down the hall, into Mr. Hobbs’ music class. Upon entering, it was evident that something was different.

At the back of the room, the T.V. was on. But we were not watching “Fiddler On the Roof,” as we had the previous week. Instead of Tevye the dairyman, the screen was filled with the astonished faces of newscasters.

Mr. Hobbs directed us to sit down, then explained that a tragedy had taken place in New York City, a place most of us knew only from shows on the Disney Channel. An airplane had accidentally crashed into the side of a building called the World Trade Center.

​Then, it happened. As we sat, our eyes fixed on the screen before us, another plane appeared out of nowhere, bursting the side of the second tower and making it clear that this was no mistake. Though our group of nine- and 10-year-olds had no context for what had just happened, we knew it was bad.

Mr. Hobbs looked at the screen in disbelief. “This will be remembered as the Kennedy assassination of your generation,” he told us.

Even then, I thought what he did next was noble. He walked to the front of the classroom, sat down in front of his keyboard, and led us, tearfully, in singing the “Star-Spangled Banner,” “God Bless America”
and “God Bless the USA”.

Though we did not yet know who had done these horrid things, nor why, Mr. Hobbs intuitively knew that the best response was a defiant patriotism, lyrical reminders of who we were and what we stood for.

Just three days later, President George W. Bush would strike a similar tone in his remarks to New York rescue workers when he shouted through a bullhorn: “I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you.
And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon.”

For those who were alive to remember it, the memories of that day, and of the weeks that followed, are as fresh as ever. Everyone, it seems, knows exactly what they were doing and what they felt when they heard— and saw — the news that changed history.

There was a national cohesion then that, sadly, seems to be a thing of the past. Democrats and Republicans stood side-by-side on the steps of the U.S. Capitol that night. American flags flew proudly from stately flagpoles and modest front porches, alike. Churches were packed with people, many of whom had not set foot in such places in years.

It was an era of paradoxes, a time when Americans were both humiliated and proud; shaken, yet possessed by a steely resolve to forge ahead.

The nation will soon commemorate that horrific day. There will be speeches and ceremonies. There will be posts on social media and reflections, like this one.

What there will assuredly not be, however, is unity. As far as I can tell, America is in the midst of a cold civil war, one marked by social media propaganda, extreme ideologies, and general vindictiveness in virtually every sphere. We are doing to ourselves things of which our enemies could only dream.

That the American experiment possesses the power to self-destruct was alluded to by Benjamin Franklin. In his journal, James McHenry, a Maryland delegate to the 1787 Constitutional Convention, writes that, following the adjournment of the Convention, “A lady asked Dr. Franklin, ‘Well, doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarchy —A republic, replied the doctor, if you can keep it’.”

“If you can keep it.” There’s the rub. It seems that the only thing all Americans agree on today is the general feeling that that cherished republic is quickly slipping through our fingers, and the problem is us.

As we pause to remember the events of that fateful day, it would be good for us to examine ourselves, nationally; not to blame the left or the right, but to consider what we have become and what we are willing to do to regain what we have lost.

There is no simple solution to the problems we have created, and I am not certain that recovery is possible at this point. But a dose of self-reflection, paired with some of Mr. Hobbs’ defiant patriotism, certainly would not hurt.

That we are fearfully and wonderfully made is an astonishing truth, the depths of which I never tire of learning. The intricate design of our makeup and function, as humans, is remarkable.

Lately, I have been especially impressed by the connection between our senses and our memories. And though both of these faculties are at work year round, summertime seems to be the season when they shine most.

A couple of weekends ago, for example, I was standing at the kitchen counter, preparing a salad for lunch. I cut into a green pepper, took a slice, and salted it. As soon as it hit my tongue, I was 10 years old again.

It was the early 2000s, a humid summer day, and I was standing in my grandparents’ garden in Vassar. My grandfather handed me a pepper, smiling. “Go ahead, try one,” he urged. “They’re good!”

I looked dubiously at him, then back again at the green thing sitting in my hand. I took a bite and was pleasantly surprised by the pungent, “gardeny” flavor. Green peppers went from a vegetable to be avoided to one worth searching out.

That whole, brief event had lain dormant in my mind for decades. But, in an instant, it was vividly resurrected by a single taste.

A few days before, I unlocked my car and got inside. The hot July sun had thoroughly baked the small sedan, and I quickly reached for my key to get the air conditioning going. But for a moment, the smell and overall feel of that hot car reminded me, of all things, of long summer days at Helen Stevens Memorial Pool.

I remember begging my mom to keep the air conditioner off while she drove my cousin and I into town. We wanted to be as hot as we could be, so that the pool would feel that much colder to us when we jumped in. And then there was the good feeling of the warm car after getting out of the cool water hours later.

Who knew the feeling of a sweltering car could bring back such fond memories?

Sounds, too, are effective at unearthing memories. Recently, while on our way to Cass City for a visit, I asked my daughter if she would like to see where her dad grew up. She was exuberant at the idea, as three-year-olds are about most everything, so I turned down Shabbona Road.

The sound of the crunch and pop of gravel beneath the tires brought scenes of childhood summers to my mind. How many times had I walked that same half-mile, kicking up dust, formulating plans for summer sleepovers and birthday present wish lists? Hundreds, probably.

As we parked in front of the old house, the sound of tranquil silence permeated the air. The stillness reminded me of those stifling afternoons when my mother allowed me to turn on the sprinkler beneath the oak tree. A puddle formed there, and with a running start, I would swing through it in my tire swing. I was a mess by the time it was time to come in for dinner, but what a way for a kid to cool off on a steamy summer day.

King David penned Psalm 139 in awe, as he marveled that the same God who spoke galaxies into existence also took the time to skillfully weave together the human body.

Some 3,000 years later, my own amazement at the connection between senses and memory causes me to join the great king in saying, “Marvelous are Your works!”

It is an ironic thing: the same armchair activists and corporate giants that spent the month of June tripping over themselves in their efforts to demonstrate their rainbow-covered inclusivity and tolerance, are now viciously denouncing the reversal of Roe v. Wade.

But alas, consistency has never been a hallmark of the human race.

Still, I marvel at the hypocrisy of those allegedly concerned with human rights. How exposing kindergarteners to sexual deviancy is acceptable, but fighting for the right to life of those same children — when they were inutero — would be an affront to human rights is beyond me.

The founders made it clear that they believed human rights were inherent and God-given. In Lloyd Schinnerer’s eighth grade history class, we were required to memorize the opening lines of the U.S. Declaration of Independence, words Americans would do well to consider today...

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed...”

Unfortunately, throughout American history, there have been grievous times when, far from securing these rights, our government has denied them from a segment of society. The notable examples of slavery and discrimination against Japanese and black Americans come to mind.

But, thankfully, Americans have proven, at least at times, to be a repentant bunch, eager to recognize their national sins and to make strides toward reconciliation.

It seems to me that the reversal of Roe v. Wade, like that of Dred Scott v. Sandford and Plessy v. Ferguson, far from being an affront to American ideals and human rights, is a partial rectification of a past wrong.

Why, then, do so many voices decry this victory for human rights? Ultimately, it is because they demand absolute autonomy, no restraints. They, with Henley, wish to believe, “I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.” Or, to put it in the modern vernacular, “My body, my choice.”

Of course, a nation that will not be restrained by truth and divine authority will have a hard time finding justification for its rights.

If the basis of our rights is anything other than that they were given by God, then they cannot be unalienable. Thus, Roe v. Wade, a decision made in the wake of a national rejection of its Judeo-Christian foundation, was a fabrication of rights, not a recognition of those inherent to every person.

This is the problem the pro-abortion crowd faces today. For nearly 50 years, they looked to the Supreme Court as their law-giver and to Roe v. Wade as their oracle from on high. But rights granted by man can be rescinded just as easily. This they learned when, on June 24, 2022, the Supreme Court said what it should have said five decades ago – namely, that the Constitution nowhere guarantees, or even speaks of, a right to an abortion.

As for me, I wish this reversal reflected a change of the American heart toward righteousness. But I do not believe any such change has taken place. Rather, the reversal of Roe v. Wade is the result of a court that rightly seeks to interpret the Constitution as written; but not because of a nation bent on doing right.

Indeed, the question of whether unborn children can be murdered in their mother’s wombs is still being entertained, albeit at the state level.

Many states will undoubtedly enact radical laws that endanger the lives of unborn children and their families, and as long as the current administration is in power in Lansing, Michigan may be among them.

Still, my family and I join millions of Americans in enjoying this one, sweet moment. This moment that ensures, at least in some parts of the Union, that many children will be spared the tragic fate that 63 million others were not.

​This moment when America got it right.

Considering that I can’t shuffle a deck of cards to save my life, and that my idea of an exciting Friday night is settling down with the family to watch reruns of The Andy Griffith Show, visiting Las Vegas — let alone living there — was never on my bucket list.

But, against these odds, Vegas has been home for the past eight years.

It all began back in 2014, when I went to Vegas for a nine-month internship. Following the completion of the program, I accepted a position with the organization with which I interned and decided to stay in Las Vegas.

Like most tourist destinations, the tourist version of Las Vegas is not very alluring to locals, including to my family and me. Sure, we enjoy taking out-of-town guests to see the Bellagio Fountains, to have their pictures taken in front of the iconic Las Vegas sign, and to tour the Mob Museum. But the Strip is not the Las Vegas in which we live.

Our Vegas is mom-and-pop coffee shops, hole-in-the-wall eateries, and backyard get-togethers with friends. It’s our church, drives through the desert, local parks and visits to Boulder City. And we have enjoyed “our Vegas” these past several years.

But warm weather and palm trees can’t compensate for the desire to be closer to our families, to our roots.

A few months into our marriage, in fact, my wife and I began talking about the possibility of moving back to Michigan, where we are both from. Five years and two children later, we finally decided the time had come: we move into our new home, in Metamora, this week.

I have a running list of things I have missed about Michigan and which I look forward to enjoying once again...

• Family get-togethers.
• Holidays.
• Day trips.
• Outings with friends.
• Grass.
• The Henry Ford Museum.
• Autumn colors.
• Dow Gardens.
• Koegel’s hotdogs.
• Fourth of July.
• Afternoons at the lake.
• A stellar state library system.
• Summer days below 110 degrees.

Although we will undoubtedly need to be reminded of these perks when the snow begins to fall and when we cannot feel our faces, for us, Michigan will always be home, and we’re grateful to be back.

This month marks 12 years since I walked across the stage at Cass City High School, on that muggy spring night, to receive my diploma. And as I look back on the decade-plus of life I have lived since then, I think about the advice I might give to my 18-year-old self:

1.) Don’t feel pressured to go to college right after high school — work hard at a steady job, save up money, and use the time to figure out what you want to do as a career.

2.) On that note, your high school guidance counselor is wrong: don’t just shoot for college and trust that the financial part will all work out. Get a plan together, work it, and figure out a way to pay for it without student loans.

3.) Abstain from alcohol. For many of your peers, it has left carnage in its wake.

4.) Take care of yourself, but don’t spend too much time worrying about your looks. Your hair will be gone in a few years, and the woman you marry really won’t be concerned about it.

5.) That reminds me, I know you think the single life is the way to go. It’s not. Her name is Elisabeth. She lives in Kalamazoo. And, boy, did you marry up!

6.) Don’t buy the motorcycle. In theory, it’s a good idea; but it’s not you. Stick to four wheels.

7.) Journal every day. You might cringe at some of your ideas later, but you’ll be glad you wrote them down.

8.) Don’t make big decisions when you’re tired. Things are seldom as dismal in the daytime as they are at night
.
9.) Embrace hard tasks. Sure, they aren’t always pleasant at the time, but you’ll be grateful for them later.

10.) Establish the discipline of daily Bible reading and prayer. You’ll get to know Him so much better.

11.) Just say “no” to debt. If you can’t afford it, either save for it or take it as a sign that you don’t need it (and, please, start listening to Dave Ramsey!).

12.) Never put your hope in a politician or party, no matter how right they may be. They’ll always disappoint. Always.

13.) Ditch the T-shirts and tennis shoes. Embrace the Oxford cloth button-down shirt and brown leather shoes. Trust me on this.

14.) Get ready. Two little people, named Lottie and Emory, will soon enter your world. You will love them more than life itself.

15.) Resume your piano lessons. In 12 years, you’ll wish you could play.

​16.) You might get away with eating unlimited sweets now, but it won’t last forever. Moderation, my friend.

17.) Your comfort zone should be a starting place, not a destination. Try new things, meet new people, go places you’ve never been before.

18.) Listen to your parents. They know what they’re talking about, and they have your best interest in mind.

19.) The things you value at 18 will not be the things you value at 30. Hold everything in an open hand.

20.) Read deeply and widely. You never know when you’ll need obscure information in a conversation.

Some of my fondest memories of childhood involve time spent with my dad. Saturday mornings were my favorite, because it meant running errands with him - -to the bank, to the auto parts, a stop at grandpa and grandma’s, and maybe even lunch at Sutter’s Bakery and Restaurant.

These times were special because they meant one-on-one time with my father. During our drives to these errands, he often recounted stories of his childhood and teenage years, stories that soaked into my mind and helped to shape my imagination.

As a teenager and young adult, my life became busy with school, friends, work and extracurriculars, and consequently, errands with my father were not as common. But there was one errand we still did together: honey runs.

You’ll search the internet and the dictionary in vain if you try to find the term honey run. It’s a term my father coined, and it means an excuse to take a drive together, to talk together, to share ideas, and maybe, if we remember, to buy a jar of local honey.

Honey runs typically took place at night, after Dad returned home from work and we had dinner. They are vivid in my memory.

“You want to go on a honey run with me?” he asks.

“Yep,” I say, as I get up to put on my shoes.

We get into his Ford Ranger, a white Scottish Terrier positioned on the console between us, and drive to Gagetown, just northwest of the village, where the beekeeper lives.

I relish these times with my dad, especially the summer honey runs with their golden Michigan sunsets.

I roll my window down and put my arm out the door, the warm evening breeze gliding over my hand. Fields laden with tall, green corn stalks raise their proud heads in the afterglow of the setting sun.

As Dad drives, we talk about our day, what went well, what we hope not to repeat tomorrow. We comment on the latest political news, talk about things of the Lord, point out deer we can see in the distance, and discuss the latest family news from down state, Florida, Tennessee and Indiana.

My favorite conversations during honey runs were those where we talked about the things of tomorrow. Dad talked about ideas he had and what he hoped for, but more often he asked me about my own. Ideas about college and career. Dreams of travel and experiences, of a wife and family.

Sometimes, sitting across from someone at a table or in a living room can make intimate conversations difficult. You’re looking at the other person’s face and analyzing their reactions to what you are saying. It wasn’t that way with honey runs.

On a honey run, you are sitting side-by-side, looking out the window. Your words are directed at each other, but your eyes look out at the fields and houses passing by. I have never been inside a confessional booth and never will, but I imagine that it is, in a way, a similar experience to a honey run, except that honey run conversations are about hopes, not sins.

Before either of us knows it, we are at the beekeeper’s home, where we pull into his driveway and visit the self-serve honey stand by the road. Dad pulls a jar of honey out and puts the money into the little lock box, and we begin our drive home.

On honey runs, driving home rarely meant going directly back to the house. Often, we would drive up and down streets in the village, where we talked about the town and its history, of memories we have there, of people we miss seeing sitting on their porches.

“I remember riding bikes with my friends down there when it was Fort’s Store,” Dad says. “We would buy as much candy as we could.”

“Can you see what’s playing at the Cass next week?” I ask. Dad looks over his shoulder at the theatre’s poster and reads the name off. I make a mental note to go see it.

Sometimes, we would drive down River Road, the lazy Cass River below, meandering its way to the west.

The distant sound of horse hooves can be heard in the distance. Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop. The dim and eerie glow of an Amish buggy’s lantern grows brighter, but no less eerie, as the sound of the horse’s canter draws closer. The buggy glides by, its driver raises his hand in a friendly “good evening” salute.

Eventually, we turn onto Shabbona Road and make our way toward the little, white house on Lightning Hill, a warm glow coming from the kitchen window above the sink. We park in the driveway and wrap up our conversation.

“Thanks for letting me talk about these things,” I say to Dad.

“Thanks for talking to me about them,” he replies. “I always enjoy hearing what’s on your mind, and I’m always here for you to talk to.”

Honey runs are a thing of the past, now that I live 2,000 miles away with a family of my own; but I can’t help but think that the world might be a better place if more fathers took their children on honey runs of their own. I know I will.

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.”