Today’s gospel reading depicts hoi loudaioi (“the Jews”) persecuting a suspected follower of Jesus, a man born blind. The most literal option for translating hoi loudaioi is “the Jews.” Many translations of the Gospel of John opt for “the Jews,” while others remove or replace the term with something else (in this translation, “the Temple authorities”). The reason this decision is so difficult is that the literal meaning does not make complete sense – after all, Jesus, his disciples, and probably the gospel’s author were also Jews. Moreover, the choice is fraught because of how this term is used in the gospel.

In Befrieding the Beloved Disciple: A Jewish Reading of the Gospel of John (2001), Adele Reinhartz, a Jewish New Testament scholar, explains that in the Gospel of John, 

“Jews are associated with unbelief, the execution of Jesus, and the persecution of his followers. Their self-understanding as the children of Abraham and of God is denied. Their festivals and their institutions are replaced, usurped, or undermined. The most difficult verse is 8:44, in which Jesus accuses the Jews of being liars and murderers and declares: ‘You are of your father the devil, and your will is to do your father’s desires.’ This image of the Jews as children of the devil has echoed through the centuries, in theology, art, literature, and anti-Semitic invective, and, most recently, on the websites of neo-Nazi groups (20).” 

As someone with a mixed Jewish and Christian background, I feel similarly to Reinhartz that, “each of the seventy references to ‘the Jews’ in the Gospel of John [feels] like a slap in the face,” (13). Because the gospel is read publicly as part of the liturgies of Christian communities, I am sympathetic with the position of those who have argued that hoi Ioudaioi should be translated as something, anything, other than “the Jews.” However, scholars such as Reinhartz show us why simply changing the language – without reflecting on the gospel’s verbal violence against “the Jews” – limits our understanding of the text.

In today’s reading, Jesus compares the blind man’s recognition of his divine identity with his detractors,’ hoi loudaioi, figurative lack of sight. As Reinhartz explains, the gospel is structured around a binary opposition of acceptance or rejection of Jesus. The author, “exercises ethical judgment with respect to his readers by separating those who are good – who believe – from those who are evil,” (25). 

Reinhartz attempts to “befriend” the author of the Gospel of John, to open up space for dialogue, by showing how the story looks different from either side of acceptance or rejection of the writer’s claims about Jesus. But then she goes further, approaching the gospel, not on the author’s terms, but on her own. In the final section, Reinhartz confronts her main issue with the gospel: “My profound discomfort with the cosmological tale goes beyond the anti-Judaism inherent in the Gospel,” she writes, “to a more general concern with the polarized, dichotomizing way in which the [author] offers his gift. I object to this Gospel not just because it marginalizes the Johannine Jews, a group with which I identify… but because the ethical model that it implies allows no room for a different model,” (141). 

But recognizing that an alternative ethical approach – one that appreciates difference – also has to make room for the gospel writer’s difference (159), Reinhartz examines the possible sources of his binary worldview. She concludes that the author had theologically painted himself into a corner, making alienation from his (Jewish) community inevitable. Even if this were his choice, “his feelings of otherness within his social situation might be just as painful as the feelings of otherness that his Gospel creates in me,” (156). Through Reinhartz’s insights, we can recognize the wounding rupture between John’s Jesus and hoi loudaioi. In this text, we see the breakdown of relationship between members of the same community who are no longer able to understand one another. Rather than attempting to resolve the tension, Reinhartz invites us to acknowledge and feel the pain of division.

For more on Adele Reinhartz’s work, see her faculty webpage. Reinhartz a professor in the Department of Classics and Religious Studies at the University of Ottawa.

In the Jewish tradition, one of the central spiritual practices is studying texts. An important aspect of this study is a commitment to engaging texts from multiple points of ,and from different angles. In Befriending the Beloved Disciple, Adele Reinhartz does something similar by engaging the Gospel of John in four distinct ways. 

For today’s contemplative exercise, we invite you to study the gospel reading with the four approaches used by Reinhartz in her book. Start by reading over today’s gospel as a “compliant” reader, accepting the point of view of the author voiced by John’s Jesus. Ask yourself: what possibilities or ways of seeing the world does this reading open or close off for you? 

Next, reread as a “resistant” reader: temporarily experience the text from the point of view of hoi loudaioi. Does this approach allow you to see things or feel things that otherwise you would not have? 

Next, read the gospel as a “sympathetic” reader, setting aside the claims made about Jesus temporarily, and seeing if there are details that draw you in that are not related to the conflict in the story. 

Finally, read the gospel again as an “engaged” reader, bringing your own concerns and questions to the text. Speak back to the author, letting him know how the text makes you feel, and what questions it raises for you. And in the midst of that dialogue, listen to God speaking to you through your engagement with this difficult chapter.

In From Enemy to Brother: The Revolution in Catholic Teaching on the Jews, 1933-1965, John Connelly focuses on the “border-crossing” of Christian anti-racists that constructed the theological foundation of Nostra aetate. Especially notable were a number of, “Christians whose family members were Jews, who keenly felt the contempt contained in traditional Catholic teaching” (5). 

In particular, he highlights Johannes Oesterreicher, one of the authors of Nostra aetate. Oesterreicher was born into a Moravian Jewish family, converted to Catholicism in his early twenties, and began his anti-racist activism a few years afterwards, as the Nazis rose to power. He continued tirelessly, and at times at great risk, to advocate against anti-Semitism in society and in the Church. Oesterreicher is also an important witness due to his capacity to reflect on and revise earlier ideas. While he had been active for decades in efforts to convert fellow Jews to Christianity, his theological investigation, which so transformed the Church’s position on Judaism, also led him to revisit his own views. 

In 1970, Oesterreicher asserted that he no longer thought, “of conversion as a change from one religious group or spiritual family to another… I take conversion in its deepest sense as a reorientation of one’s total existence in the sight of God,” a reorientation that is as important to Judaism as it is to Christianity” (277). Oesterreicher shows us the importance of reflecting on our empathy with those who are suffering, especially those suffering from harm caused by the Church.

Anti-Semitic ideology continues to harm and threaten the safety of Jews in the twenty-first century. As white nationalist and neo-Nazi movements have gained prominence in the United States and globally, Jews, along with other minority populations, have faced increasing violence and insecurity. Jews for Racial and Economic Justice (JFREJ), a New York-based Jewish organizing group that, “fight[s] for a New York where every community has the freedom, opportunity, and resources to thrive” (“About”), has responded to these increasing attacks by forming a campaign to organize against anti-Semitism. As part of the NYC Against Hate coalition, JFREJ and community partners, “representing Jewish, immigrant, Latinx, Muslim, Arab & South Asian, Black, and LGBTQGNC populations,” respond to incidents of hateful violence in New York City.

Image description: Against a red-orange background, the artwork Abraham et les trois anges shows three angels sitting together at a wooden table. One wears white, with white wings; one wears purple, with white wings; and one wears blue, with yellow wings. To the left stand the figures of Abraham and Sarah, watching the three figures at the table. To the right is an image of the figure of Abraham being lifted into the air by the three angels.

In the gospel of John, Jesus and hoi loudaioi argue over their descent from Abraham, who is the first participant in the covenant between God and the people of Israel according to the Hebrew Scriptures. In Abraham et les trois anges (1966), the Jewish artist Marc Chagall portrays an important scene from the stories of Abraham in the Book of Genesis, in which Abraham and his wife Sarah offer hospitality to three strangers, later revealed to be messengers or manifestations of God. 

Because of this lavish act of kindness to strangers, the Jewish tradition has depicted Abraham as a model of hesed, or lovingkindness. According to the Mishneh Torah, a text authored by the Jewish scholar Maimonides in 12th century Egypt, accompanying strangers is, 

“a practice introduced by our father Abraham, a way of kindness which was habitual with him. He served food and drink to wayfarers and escorted them. Hospitality to wayfarers is greater than welcoming the Divine Presence, as it is written: ‘He saw three men… he ran to meet them’ (Genesis 18:2). Escorting them is even greater than receiving them” (Mishneh Torah, Mourning, 14:2). 

As shared inheritors of the covenantal relationship between God and Abraham, Jews, Christians, and Muslims should follow his lead in welcoming and accompanying each other (and all others) with the same generosity and lovingkindness.