In the days following the attack on Temple Israel in Michigan, many of us found ourselves asking a quiet but important question: Are we okay?
The answer, for many, is complicated.
We live in a moment in which Jewish communities are, in many ways, safer than ever. Security systems are stronger. Relationships with law enforcement are deeper. Protocols are
clearer. In Michigan, those systems worked. Lives were protected. Children went home safely to their families.
And yet, even when the system works, something inside us still trembles. Because being safe and being okay are not the same thing. You can be safe and still feel unsettled. You can be
safe and still feel anger, exhaustion, or grief at the reality that Jewish life now requires such vigilance. The emotional and spiritual weight of that truth is something many in our community
are carrying—quietly, but persistently.
This is what some have called the “hidden injury” of antisemitism. It is not only the threat of violence. It is the way that threat reshapes Jewish life. Resources that could be spent on
learning, music, and care are redirected toward security. Energy that could be devoted to building Jewish joy is spent ensuring Jewish survival.
At the same time, we must be clear-eyed: antisemitism is not new. What is new is its scale, its visibility, and the speed at which it spreads. It is not random. It is built on enduring narratives
that turn Jews into symbols—of power, of corruption, of blame. And when people are reduced to symbols, their humanity becomes easier to ignore.
That is why our response must be equally structured and intentional. We must name antisemitism clearly when we encounter it, even when it appears in unfamiliar or uncomfortable places. We must continue building relationships with others who understand that hatred directed at any group ultimately threatens all groups. And perhaps most importantly, we must continue to invest in Jewish life itself. Because the goal of antisemitism is not only to harm Jews. It is to shrink Jewish life—to make it smaller, quieter, more fearful.
And that is precisely what we must refuse to do. The most powerful response we have is not only vigilance, but vitality. To gather. To learn. To pray. To celebrate. To teach our children. To
build communities rooted not only in safety, but in meaning, joy, and connection.
The rabbis taught that the world stands on three things: Torah, worship, and acts of loving kindness. Not on fear. Not on power. On the daily work of building a life of purpose and care. We may not always feel entirely okay. But we are still here. And that, in itself, is a profound act of resilience.
