There are many reasons I am Catholic, but perhaps the most compelling is that I believe the Church, for all her human frailty, is prophetic: He who hears you, hears me. (Luke 10:16). It was a complete surprise to find myself called into the work of Jewish-Catholic relations, yet I see now how providential it was. In the spring of 2023, I was in Israel with Philos Catholic—the special project I now lead—on what would become our last trip before the war in Israel and Gaza. Just months later, only two weeks after the Hamas attack on October 7, I was speaking at Franciscan University of Steubenville alongside Catholic and Jewish scholars, addressing the rise of antisemitism in the Church and the world. That conference had been planned for the anniversary of the release of the Church’s declaration on our relationship to the Jews and other non Christian religions Nostra Aetate—with an awareness that antisemitism was growing—but no one could have predicted how suddenly and tragically the conversation would shift in light of such horror.
Is Catholic antisemitism still a problem? Strangely, yes. I would never have believed it had people I trust not told me—and if I had not, in working within this space, become a target of it myself. It has been heartbreaking to work alongside Jews and to have to constantly examine the nature of these attacks together, tracing their ecclesial origins, responding to their impact. My ignorance of this reality was, in some ways, a privilege—one that came from being born into a post-Nostra Aetate Church. Nostra Aetate (Latin for “In Our Time”) is the Second Vatican Council’s Declaration on the Relation of the Church to Non-Christian Religions, and it marked a significant shift in Catholic teaching by rejecting antisemitism and emphasizing the shared spiritual heritage of different faiths, but most especially Judaism. Pope Benedict XVI called it “the Magna Carta of interreligious dialogue” for its groundbreaking role in fostering respect, understanding, and cooperation between the Catholic Church and other religions.
For all the chaos that followed Vatican II (true of every council, by the way), this effect was positive: most American Catholics I know are not antisemitic—far from it. And yet, it remains a real and pressing issue, one that demands open discussion and a firm response.
The privilege of being born into a post-Nostra Aetate Church also carries with it a disadvantage when it comes to fostering Jewish-Catholic relations. Catholics, especially American Catholics, often don’t know or don’t think we need to know our history of antisemitism. We believe we are past that moment. While some of us are more attuned to disturbing rhetoric and trends on social media, often coming from the extreme right or left, for our Jewish friends, history is very much alive in the present.
If we want to truly deepen our relationship with the Jewish people, we need to confront the darkness of our past. Not every Catholic during World War II was a St. Maximilian Kolbe, and though Rabbi Zolli, Rome’s chief rabbi, converted to Catholicism and took the Pope’s first name as his Christian name when baptized after the end of the Second World War, we cannot overlook the broader historical reality. Christendom, for all its glory, played a significant role in laying the groundwork for Zionism.
So, what do we do as ordinary, philo semitic Catholics? Well, it’s good that we have started to tap into our Jewish roots, thanks to scholars like John Bergsma, Brant Pitre, and others. The more Bible study, the better. But we need catechesis, too. In 1985, the Vatican issued Notes on the Correct Way to Present Jews and Judaism in Preaching and Catechesis on the Roman Catholic Church stating: “Because of the unique relations that exist between Christianity and Judaism—linking together at the very level of their identity—relations founded on the design of God of the Covenant, the Jews and Judaism should not occupy an occasional and marginal place in Catechesis: Their presence there is essential and should be organically integrated.” As Father Edward Flannery wrote in the 1985 edition of The Anguish of the Jews: Twenty-Three Centuries of Antisemitism: “The blueprint for the extinction of Christian antisemitism is ostensibly already on paper. It is to be found in the statements and guidelines of the churches, and in the work of the revisionist theologians…. Regrettably, the present pace of its dissemination and implementation is slow. Most of the Christian populace has not been reached.”
But perhaps most importantly, we need Jewish friends, and Jewish friends need us. It is through friendship that the deepest change happens, and in this space, where grace is stewarded and truly transformative relationships are formed, we can begin to heal old wounds and build something that reflects the dignity of both our faiths.
Jews need us for protection and to know they are not alone. For all the talk of evangelizing the Jewish people—often with an air of impatience, as if they should have “made the connections” by now—what could be a greater witness to the Gospel than standing with them in their suffering? To remain present at the foot of their cross, to say with Christ, I am with you always (Matthew 28:20), is itself a powerful act of love and fidelity. If we truly see Jews as part of our family—if we believe, as the Church teaches, that we are not a separate people—then our responsibility to them is undeniable even beyond reparation for the past. Even if they do not see us as kin, we are still bound to them. Family protects its own, regardless of differences, regardless of whether we always agree. This is Jesus’ people, His tribe—so they are our tribe as well. When St. Paul speaks of us as wild branches grafted onto the cultivated olive tree of Israel (Romans 11:17), he is saying something profound, a truth later echoed by Pope Pius XI: “Spiritually, we are all Semites.” That must mean something, and it must shape how we live out our faith in relationship with the Jewish people today. He did not say we used to be Semites—this is an ongoing reality that demands our attention and action. And it is up to theologians, as Pope Benedict XVI prompted them, to reflect more on this mysterious and ongoing relationship.
Our faith is deeply rooted in theirs. And just as we owe them our solidarity, we also have much to learn from them. The Jewish people remain a great witness to us—whether in their scholarship, their traditions, or their resilience, whether they are religious or not. I am often humbled by my Orthodox friends’ reverence for the Sabbath, their commitment putting my own to shame. Their way of keeping sacred time, their depth of study, and their steadfastness in identity are gifts that challenge and inspire us as Catholics. True relationship with the Jewish people is not just about defending them—it is about receiving from them as well.
May we follow, more closely, the Church’s prophetic lead in our time.
Join us for the upcoming conference “Catholics and Antisemitism: Facing the Past, Shaping the Future”at the Catholic Information Center (CIC), in Washington, D.C. on March 10, 2025 or through live-streaming where we will engage these important conversations and seek deeper understanding and solidarity. Register here. Our speakers include Dr. Richard Crane, Trent Horn, Mary Eberstadt, Dr. Russ Hittinger, Maggie Phillips, Jonathan Silver, and George Weigel.
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Take a class with the author of this post, Simone Rizkallah, at the Avila Institute. Beginning March 3, 2025, she is teaching “The Christian Meaning of Suffering According to Saint Pope John Paul II”.
Image: Unsplash
