It was evening on the first day of the week and the doors were locked for fear of ‘the Jews’.
Just over a week ago on Good Friday we listened to the passion reading in which ‘the Jews’ featured prominently. Pilate went out to ‘the Jews’ and told them, ‘I find no case against [Jesus]. But you have a custom that I release someone for you at the Passover. Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?’ They shouted in reply, ‘Not this man, but Barabbas!’
Later, Pilate said to ‘the Jews’, ‘Here is your King!’ They cried out, ‘Away with him! Away with him! Crucify him!’
In Greek, the word is Ioudaios and literally it means the people of Judea, but from other Greek texts of the first and second centuries, we see that Ioudaios is used to refer to the particular ethno-religious group from Judea, particularly once they spread around the Empire and brought with them their religious practices, synagogues. language and culture. From Yehudi in Hebrew to Ioudaios into Greek and Judaios into Latin, which is how we get the odd word ‘Jew’ in English.
The author of John’s gospel talks about ‘the Jews’ a lot, and so does the author of Luke and Acts. The two or more authors we refer to as John and Luke generally use the term ‘The Jews’ in a negative sense, to describe enemies or opposers of Jesus. But at the same time, they emphasise Jesus’ and his disciples’ identities as Jews, their understanding of the Hebrew scriptures, their fidelity to the covenant and their commitment to the wellbeing of their people.
The historical Jesus did not demonise or categorise ‘the Jews’ as something distinct from himself and his group of supporters. That would have made absolutely no sense. Jesus, like many rabbis and ordinary Jewish people, critiqued and challenged the temple practices, and wrestled with torah, arguing actively about its true meaning. But he didn’t set himself up in opposition to Judaism. The early phases of Christianity were a movement within Judaism. It would seem that the Followers of The Way would meet in synagogues, discuss the Hebrew scriptures in the light of the person of Jesus, and perhaps enjoy agape meals or love feasts, as well as caring for the poor and widows.
But later in the first century, probably after the destruction of the temple in 70CE, Christians became less and less welcome in the synagogues. They would instead meet in homes or other places, and this ultimately led to the practice of Christian-specific gathering places, with Christian-specific furniture and decorations.
John’s gospel, which we read today, comes from the period when Followers of the Way were becoming less welcome in synagogues and were starting to hive off into their own club (so to speak). The resentment and negativity directed towards ‘The Jews’ reflects the reality of the time that John’s gospel was written, rather than the reality of the time of Jesus.
But this conflict, this irritation and frustration with the synagogue community a long way from Jerusalem left language in the gospel texts which became like weapons concealed in a beautiful room. It all looks lovely on the surface, but when tensions arise, one only has to reach behind the sideboard for a machete to start a fight. So, constantly throughout the history of Europe and Asia Minor, when a scapegoat was required, the small dispersed Jewish community were conveniently blamed. You don’t me to repeat the slurs directed against Jews through the ages, but we do need to recognise that the weaponisation of the gospel texts was a favoured way of rationalising cruelty, marginalisation and, too often, murder. Embedded in this richly spiritual story about doubt and faith and forgiveness is a text of terror, ready to be shamefully exploited against fellow human beings.
Words have power. Words frame the situation in which we find ourselves. That’s why I don’t say ‘social distancing’ I say ‘physical distancing’. I want to be socially close, but physically separate. Words are important.
In New Zealand, the irrepressible Jacinda reminds everyone to ‘stay in your bubble’. It’s a fantastic bit of framing, because it recognises that home and family and essential mean different things to different people – so the bubble metaphor helps create a positive shared language system.
Meanwhile, some other voices in politics and the media talk about the China virus, which is a frame that invites targeted blame and suspicion. Fearful people take this frame and lash out at anyone with an Asian appearance, or construct complex conspiracy theories to feel some sort of control or power over the situation.
When we recognise the context that gives rise to particular words and phrases – like we did with this use of ‘the Jews’ in John’s gospel – and we recognise that words can be misused and deployed aggressively, even to justify mass murder, then we must choose our words very carefully indeed.
We don’t just imitate the language of our parents, media commentators, friends or political overlords. Because only a heart that is already sickened with the contagion of fear, would hear ‘for fear of The Jews’ and take that to mean that the local Jewish population should be expelled in a pogrom.
The heart that is open, hears the voice of the risen Christ say ‘Peace be with you’.
May your heart and my heart be open to hear God’s voice of peace, and to speak holy words of peace to a fearful, anxious world. May our words break the cycle of violence and initiate new relationships founded on compassion, no matter how small our bubble might be right now.
Christ is Risen. Alleluia! Alleluia!