A Kosher Breakfast, A Roasted Pig, and Invisible Jews

A few weeks ago, I was in Jerusalem to speak at a think-tank roundtable about the growing concern of anti-Zionism and antisemitism on US Evangelical college campuses. The hotel where I stayed was nearly empty because of the war, and at breakfast each morning, there were two small groups besides me. The first was an Orthodox family of seven people (this hotel serves kosher food), and the second group was composed of 10 Evangelical pastors on tour from the US. We were all seated nearby one another.

One morning, the leader of the group of pastors—his voice loudly projecting through the breakfast area—told the story of the party he hosted at his home in which he served barbecued pig: “I love Boston Butt so I hired a guy to cook it and, would you know it, he showed up in my front yard at 6 a.m. with a cooker and skewer and an entire pig—head and all!” He then went into graphic detail on how the pig was cooked—I won’t “boar” you with the details.

As the pastor waxed on about his culinary joy of eating pork, I watched for a response from the Orthodox family, but there was none. They continued to enjoy their breakfast in quiet conversation and never so much as turned their heads to see who was talking so voraciously about bacon.

As I listened, I thought that if there was ever an example of not reading a room—this had to be it! Did the pastor lack emotional intelligence, having no clue he was sitting next to a kosher family IN JERUSALEM? Possibly. Was he purposely raising his voice as a way to boast about his brand of Christianity not being subject to kosher laws? Perhaps. Or was there something deeper at the heart of this pastor’s sonorous proclamation about his love for barbecued pork ribs while sitting next to kosher Jews? I don’t think the pastor even noticed they were there because, to him, perhaps, they were invisible.

Some believe that historic European Christian antisemitism is rooted in part in the idea of the invisible Jew. In this narrative, the Jew was secretive and deceptively invisible and was the guilty perpetrator in such churchly myths as the blood libel and the desecration of the host. In contemporary antisemitism, the invisible Jew mysteriously holds the purse strings of the banking industry, controls the global economy, and lurks behind most of the world’s evil. Yet, maybe the pastor’s pig tale during a kosher breakfast had a different, invisible Jew in mind.

Someone recently told me, “The older I get, the more invisible I am.” I would agree. Think of family gatherings where there is always that elderly grandfather who sits quietly on a couch away from all the activity. They are invisible to most except for the occasional curious grandchild who approaches with a deep respect for the history and dignity of the elder and asks questions about his early beginnings.

Like the elderly grandfather on the couch, I think the Orthodox Jews sitting beside the pastor’s table were invisible. To him, they were people from an ancient and obsolete religion. He had his New Testament while they were still abiding by the Torah—a document he calls “old.” They have their ancient traditions while he has new ones. They celebrate Pesach with lamb, but he prefers Easter with ham. They follow the Hebrew calendar of feast days while he follows the new Christian liturgical calendar.

His mindset may be rooted in Supersessionism—the idea that Christians have replaced Jews and have become the new Israel. He possibly perceived the Jews sitting next to him to be displaced older fathers of his faith while he was the new replacement. In this sense, perhaps he didn’t see them as warranting recognition or respect. To him, they might have seemed like the grandfather on the couch—so old and outdated they were obsolete and thus, invisible—“Nothing to see here.”

I wish these pastors at the breakfast table could hear the story of my pastor friend whom I introduced to a rabbi who led him in a study through the Torah. The pastor later told me that being taught by the rabbi was the most enriching spiritual experience in his 40 years of ministry. I wish I could explain to them the wisdom I’ve found in the writings of the Jewish sages. I wish I could introduce them to my Jewish friends who have taught me about loving and cherishing God’s commandments and my civil duty to show kindness to my neighbor—truths amplified in Judaism yet, in many ways, glossed over in Christian teaching these days.

For pastors to be on a tour of Jerusalem and not see Jews is tragic. Some Christians only see Jews in terms of conversion to Christianity—a decision without which, in this erroneous view, Jews cannot measure up to what it means to be completely human. But, if I cannot see myself in the face of the other, I myself am not truly human.

I long for the day when my Christian brothers and sisters will yearn to know their beginnings and see their Jewish neighbors in the light of who they are: Cherished elders without whom we would have no history, no Bible, and no faith.

A contribution so significant requires our deep respect and gratitude. It requires us to be self-aware, open our eyes, and see the beauty of our Jewish elder brothers and sisters we have been blinded to, and, for heaven’s sake, curb our enthusiasm for ham sandwiches while enjoying kosher breakfasts in Jerusalem.