“She felt that we really needed something to defend the wave of antisemitism that she personally was experiencing and seeing in her life, and in several different institutions,” Rivera said, and added that another staff person asked if they “should include Islamophobia too” when searching for educational materials.

Rivera is sister to ICJS Communications and Marketing Director John Rivera. Her small but mighty nonprofit was in search of learning materials that “had a low financial impact,” she said. “I asked my brother and he said, ‘Yes, we’ve got these things—check these out.’”

Eye Opening Historical Context

Rivera, who also heads the Shotgun Players’ Equity, Diversity, Inclusion, and Belonging—or EDIB committee, decided to use two different ICJS resources. “Recognizing and Responding to Everyday Antisemitism and Islamophobia” explores the subtle religious bias and bigotry that can often go unnoticed and unconfronted. “Antisemitism (Un)defined” is a three-part minicourse led by ICJS Jewish Scholar Benjamin Saxthat breaks down the history and politics of defining antisemitism, explores two definitions and two worldviews of antisemitism, and then concludes with what antisemitism looks like in the 21st century.

She and her colleagues were surprised at the breadth of the information covered in the courses, such as how far back in history antisemitism can be recorded, and how it’s evolved over time.

The group’s general consensus was that because many people aren’t equipped to recognize antisemitism and Islamophobia, a lot of the conversations that do happen do so with a substantial lack of historical knowledge. So they found learning context and history incredibly important and useful.

Rivera also works with the San Francisco Shakespeare Festival and will direct the Free Shakespeare in the Park program this summer. She said she is “newer to that company, but I feel like they would benefit (from engaging with the ICJS resources) as well.” 

ICJS’ library of on-demand video courses are available online at no cost. When initially offered live on Zoom, ICJS courses typically include break-out sessions (not recorded) where participants can actively engage with the material. So subsequent course engagement is asynchronous. 

Putting in the Time, Committed to Change

Rivera and seven other committee members, made up of actors, board members, and other stakeholders from their local artistic community, watched the two courses, each at their own convenience. It required a few hours of time, but it was a commitment they were dedicated to fulfill, even though it was outside of regular committee meeting times.

“I felt like people were very invested in it, particularly because they wanted to support the committee member who brought the whole subject up, Rivera said. “So people were very committed to engaging with the material.”

“But there was this hunger for role playing,” she added, and a desire to engage in dialogue about what they learned. “Really kind of embodying some of the information.” Rivera also recalled a committee member saying “It’s emotional, very personal work.” 

Dialogue, the Next Step

The colleague who initially made the request to Rivera to address antisemitic sentiment agreed that they needed to go to the next level and engage as a group and in a focused way to really dig into the issues. To that end, Shotgun Players will soon work with a facilitator from the Bay Area Jewish Community Resource Center—a date for that has not been set.

Rivera said she is looking forward to the in-person dialogue, because “there is a pretty solid level of trust amongst each other on the committee.”

The post How One Theater Company Turned to ICJS to Confront Antisemitism and Islamophobia first appeared on ICJS.

In the weeks after October 7, the requests came quietly—an email from a school leader, a call from a colleague, a note from a community partner: Can you help us talk about this?

ICJS responded with small, carefully structured dialogues—often 15 or so people who already knew one another. The conversations were necessarily private. The stakes were too high, the emotions too raw. Rather than convene strangers, ICJS worked within existing relationships—spaces where people would have to face each other again the next day, and so might choose their words with greater care.

There was no expectation of agreement. Only the harder task: to listen, to speak honestly, and to remain in relationship across deep difference.

Much of this work happened under the radar. But it reveals something essential about this moment—and why Advancing Hope | Dismantling Hate: Campaign for the Interreligious Society is so urgent.

At its core is a vision both simple and demanding: a society where people of every religion—and no religion—have an equal voice in public life and are able to flourish together. That vision cannot be assumed. It must be built.

The need is clear. Even as the United States grows more religiously diverse, many people continue to experience that diversity as a source of tension rather than a shared civic resource. Antisemitism and anti-Muslim bias remain part of daily life, and broader cultural forces too often deepen division. In this context, interreligious engagement is not optional. It is essential to the health of our democracy.

For nearly four decades, ICJS has modeled a different way forward. Its approach is rooted in a powerful idea: people learn best not just about one another, but with one another. Through fellowships, workshops, and public programs, ICJS creates sustained opportunities for learning and dialogue—spaces where trust can grow and perspectives can shift.

These are not one-time encounters. The most intensive involve 30 or more hours of engagement, allowing participants to wrestle with complexity and build lasting relationships. A teacher returns to the classroom with greater confidence and nuance. A religious leader reimagines how their congregation engages neighbors of different faiths. A civic professional begins to see religious literacy as essential to their work.

Advancing Hope | Dismantling Hate builds on this foundation, asking how ICJS can extend this kind of formation to many more people—and bring its voice more fully into the public square.

Campaign goes deeper and broader

With a goal of $7M, the campaign is already well underway, with $5.6M raised from 72 early supporters. The aim is not simply to grow, but to respond to the moment with clarity and purpose.

One priority is to go deeper—expanding programs for those who shape communities from within. Teachers, congregational leaders, and civic professionals will have greater access to ICJS’s cohort-based learning, equipping them to lead with greater understanding in increasingly diverse environments.

Another is to go broader—reaching new audiences through partnerships and public-facing initiatives. Collaborations with museums and libraries will bring interreligious learning into new spaces, while targeted programs and communications efforts will engage urgent questions in public life.

And just as importantly, ICJS is working to get louder, expanding its capacity for public scholarship and digital engagement. Through videos, essays, social media and other channels, ICJS is helping to shape a more thoughtful and constructive conversation about religion in public life.

There is also a physical dimension to this growth. The renovation and expansion of the Bunting-Meyerhoff Center will create more space for programs and participants, including a dedicated prayer and reflection room. It is a tangible expression of the campaign’s vision: a place where religious difference is not only accommodated, but welcomed. (This capital project has been fully funded by the Harvey M. Meyerhoff Fund and the France-Merrick Foundation.)  

Still, the true impact of this campaign will not be measured in dollars alone.

It will be seen in the ripple effects: in classrooms, congregations, workplaces, and communities. In the ways people learn to listen more deeply, speak more thoughtfully, and remain in relationship even when it is difficult.

The quiet dialogues that followed October 7 offer a glimpse of what is possible. In some of the most challenging circumstances, people chose to stay in the conversation and to resist the pull of division.

That work is fragile. It requires care, skill, and trust.

It also requires investment.

Through June 30, 2026, supporters have an opportunity to accelerate this effort through a Challenge Match. Contributions made to the campaign will be matched by a Challenge Match Fund of supporters who have chosen to make a second gift, when others donate, too. 

But the invitation is larger than any single moment of giving. It is an invitation to help build the kind of society those small gatherings pointed toward—one where difference is not a barrier, but a starting point for connection.

An interreligious society does not happen on its own. It is built quietly, persistently, and together.

April 2026

The post Where Hope Takes Shape: Inside ICJS’ campaign for the interreligious society first appeared on ICJS.

Calls for the destruction of civilizations stand in direct opposition to honoring the sacred dignity of every human life, a principle at the core of our religious traditions. We cannot be indifferent and stand idly by, nor can we minimize the seriousness of this moment.

At ICJS, we call on people of faith and conscience to speak out—contact your elected representatives and urge them to protect human life and dignity, to reject collective punishment, and to seek a just and lasting peace.

April 2026

The post Genocidal Threats Against the Iranian People Violate Human Dignity and International Law first appeared on ICJS.

These are the kinds of practical and spiritual questions explored in Sacred Rhythms, Shared Spaces, a recent workshop led by the Rev. Alisha Wimbush, program director for religious leaders at the Institute for Islamic, Christian, and Jewish Studies (ICJS). The four-week learning experience invited religious leaders and community practitioners to reflect on how people of faith can show hospitality across religious difference—both as guests in one another’s sacred spaces and as hosts welcoming neighbors into their own.

“The seed for this workshop was planted several years ago,” Wimbush said. “I had been doing interreligious engagement workshops, but I kept coming back to the question: how do you enter into someone else’s sacred space?”

The timing of the workshop made that question especially meaningful. This year, the Christian season of Lent and the Muslim holy month of Ramadan overlapped, offering participants an opportunity to think about how neighbors from different traditions observe sacred time simultaneously. Jewish participants also hosted Jewish Shabbat gatherings during the workshop, creating opportunities for participants to experience a range of practices firsthand.

Learning to Be a Thoughtful Guest

Much of the workshop was discussion-based, encouraging participants to reflect on their own motivations for engaging across religious difference. Drawing on the work of scholar Marianne Moyaert, participants explored the many reasons people may attend or participate in the rituals of another tradition—from curiosity and solidarity to spiritual learning.

Wimbush also emphasized practical wisdom. For those visiting another tradition’s sacred space, she offered a simple guideline: reach out before you arrive.

“Don’t just show up,” she said. “Especially in the times we’re living in now. Reach out and say, ‘I would love to come and experience your worship service. What do I need to know?’”

That small act of communication signals respect and helps prevent misunderstandings about dress, participation, or the flow of a service.

Practicing Hospitality as a Host

Participants also discussed what it means to be a gracious host. Religious leaders often become so familiar with their own liturgy and rituals that they forget how confusing they can be for newcomers.

“Imagine experiencing your own service for the very first time,” Wimbush encouraged participants. “What questions would you have?”

Thinking from the perspective of a guest can help communities create more welcoming environments. Simple steps—such as explaining unfamiliar practices, offering translations, or briefly describing what is happening in a service—can make a powerful difference.

Another important conversation centered on the difference between appreciation and appropriation. Participants explored the idea of “holy envy”—the admiration people may feel when encountering meaningful elements of another tradition—but also the need to avoid adopting sacred symbols or rituals without understanding their deeper meaning.

“If you don’t understand the full meaning of a symbol or sacred object,” Wimbush advised, “ask questions.”

Hospitality in Practice

Beyond discussion, the workshop included a practical component. Participants were encouraged to visit sacred sites or attend religious gatherings in their communities and reflect on the experience.

Those visits took many forms. Some participants attended interfaith iftars during Ramadan. Others joined Shabbat services or community conversations about the future of theological education. One participant even helped with the celebration following a Bar Mitzvah.

Julia Zubiago, a divinity student at Boston University, said she hosted an interreligious dinner in her home. Partnering with a Jewish friend, Zubiago, who is Catholic, organized a Saturday-night ritual patterned on a national “Repro Shabbat.” Although the gathering had been planned prior to the workshop, it ultimately informed and enriched her engagement with its themes. Around the table, friends from different religious backgrounds shared food, stories, and reflections on how faith shapes their commitments to justice and reproductive freedom.

For Jen Kilps, network executive of the Minnesota Interfaith Network, the most valuable part of Sacred Rhythms was the peer community it created, a welcome outlet after the stress of participating in the response to ICE raids in Minneapolis. “Just hearing what others were experiencing in their work meant a lot,” she said. “It felt like a safe place to talk honestly about the challenges we face.”

Kilps also shared that the overlap of Lent, Ramadan, and the Bahá’í fast inspired her organization to co-host a Fish Fry Iftar. Christians bring the tradition of a Friday fish fry—complete with local walleye—while Muslims host the breaking of the Ramadan fast, and everyone could join a conversation about what fasting means to each tradition.

How Hospitality Shapes Leadership

In the final workshop session, participants shared what they learned from their site visits—what surprised them, what stood out, and what they hoped to explore further.

One unexpected theme emerged during those conversations: the role personal experiences of welcome—or exclusion—play in shaping religious leadership.

As participants shared stories about their journeys into ministry, some reflected on challenges they faced along the way, including moments of religious trauma or lack of support within their traditions. Those experiences, Wimbush observed, often shape how leaders extend hospitality to others.

“How we have received hospitality,” she reflected, “shapes how we provide hospitality.”

March 2026

The post Sacred Rhythms, Shared Spaces: Learning the practice of interreligious hospitality first appeared on ICJS.

It was also only a few weeks into his participation in the ICJS Fellowship for Teachers.

The fellowship “gave me some language on how to step into a thorny topic, especially one that’s emotionally, politically, religiously charged,” said Krempel, who teaches 12th grade English and Advanced Placement Literature at Frederick Douglass High School in West Baltimore.  

Krempel says he is strongly influenced by Zen Buddhism and identifies as “a Catholic Christian in a Thomas Merton-Dorothy Day” social justice way. He discovered ICJS when he was searching for a place where he could really dig into “theological and spiritual discussion and study across religions,” he said.

He appreciates the invitation ICJS offers to engage in “the rigor of conversation” with people, both non-religious and religious, “who care about the power of spiritual and religious expression,” he said.

Teaching Teens to Listen—To Each Other

Part of Krempel’s responsibility teaching high school seniors, he said, is “to help them understand how to have an emotionally charged conversation in a better way.”

And because he and his ICJS teacher fellows were wrestling with some of the same questions surrounding Oct. 7th, the timing of those conversations was a godsend to his work in the classroom.

The Power of the Algorithm

At the outset, it seemed to him that students’ views of the conflict were shaped by their social media algorithms and tended to be simplistic. For example, he remembers taking time to unpack the fact that not all Jewish people are supportive of the Israeli government or their tactics just because they are Jewish.

The students are “looking at TikTok, they’re looking at social media. They want to talk about what’s happening in the world,” he said. “They’re teenagers and they’re going to say what’s on their mind.”

To combat the speed of the students’ sound bite and social media news consumption and assumptions, Krempel worked to slow the conversations by providing historical context to the war in Gaza.

He also used tools from his ICJS fellowship to ensure class conversations remained productive and emphasized religious tolerance.

One way was to introduce the ICJS Dialogue vs. Debate practice. It’s a method that promotes mutual understanding—not with a necessary desired outcome of agreement. It’s about genuinely hearing the other side, not just arguing one’s position.

Books Don’t Exist in a Vacuum

A key element of the ICJS Fellowship for Teachers is to develop a project to take back into the classroom. Krempel designed a course that illustrates the teachings of multiple religions through engagement with fictional stories and poetry.

“It’s an upper-level seminar course that speaks to the richness of the literature and cultures that religion produces,” he said. “But it’s not a religion course.”

It’s that last detail Krempel was especially clear about when he presented the proposed curriculum to his principal for approval in his classroom. The Baltimore City Public Schools District Office has been contacted, but the course hasn’t made it through all the hoops just yet.

An Invitation to Discuss Big Questions

With a working title of “Literature of World Religions,” the course will include narratives steeped in the moral and ethical concepts found in Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, and African, Native American and Indigenous American faith traditions.

Through storytelling and poetry, the 18-week course tackles themes like “Why are We Here?” “How Did We Get Here?” “Good” and “Evil,” and “The Hero’s Journey.” ICJS dialogue vs. debate curriculum and a discussion around pluralism are also included.

Krempel said he wants to offer students the opportunity and tools to explore these deep concepts. “They come alive when you talk about these types of big questions,” he said.

Krempel’s reading list includes Paradise Lost, by John Milton, Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse, “Gimpel the Fool,” by Isaac Bashevis Singer, “The Guest House”, by Rumi, and the poems of Joy Harjo.

Krempel added that the point of the class is to expose students to ideas they wouldn’t otherwise encounter and to show how history, politics, and religion shape what they read. 

“Books do not exist in a vacuum. Poetry does not exist in a vacuum,” he said. “There’s this historical context. Historical context means political context, religious context.”

February 2026

The post Against the Algorithm: Teaching teens to think beyond social media first appeared on ICJS.

Responsible civic life requires more than tolerance and coexistence. It requires participation in community, respectful dialogue, mutual understanding, and flexibility with resources and positions. We build robust interreligious communities that interweave the civic, educational, and religious dimensions of our lives together.

In this conversation, Heather Miller Rubens reflects on how ICJS understands community not as mere coexistence, but as a shared commitment to courage, care, and civic responsibility.

Q: Our ICJS Values speak about community as more than coexistence. What does “community” actually mean in the ICJS approach?

A big idea I’ve been thinking about is how much interreligious engagement is both a this-worldly project and an other-worldly one. I think sometimes when people hear “interfaith dialogue” or “interreligious relations,” they think that such efforts are abstract or extraneous—nice-to-do, but not necessary or relevant. There’s often a pull toward thinking interfaith/interreligious is all about the eschatological, the end times, or some kind of utopian vision of what harmony across religions might look like. This is a misconception that ICJS challenges—we see interfaith learning and interreligious dialogue as being both a sacred and a civic project. It is necessary to the work of dismantling religious bias and bigotry. It is work that is vital, urgent, and capable of addressing what divides us—fear, intimidation, misinformation, and distrust. 

At ICJS, interreligious encounter is at its most powerful when it strengthens religiously diverse civic communities right here and now. That doesn’t mean we avoid theological questions or questions around sacred knowledge—we absolutely engage those areas. But such questions should always return to our current moment: how can we live together more faithfully as neighbors, citizens, and members of a shared community? What wisdom from our religious traditions helps us do this sacred and civic work?

Q: How does interreligious community strengthen democracy?

As we approach the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, it is worth remembering this vitally important sentence from the preamble: We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

This was a bold idea—that all people are equal in civic and political life, endowed with equal rights by the Creator. This is an aspirational vision of what kind of community could be possible. The founders knew that when you look out at the world that you see real differences—around religion, gender, race, wealth, abilities, and in other arenas—they didn’t try to erase those differences. Rather, what Jefferson pointed towards was a civic life where all stood as equals with their differences; a society where diverse people could flourish side-by-side. Of course, 250 years ago, that vision of equality was very narrow. It did not include enslaved Americans, women, and others who were excluded from voting and equal civic participation. In many ways that kind of full equality is not something we have ever fully achieved in the United States—but it is a worthy aspiration; it is something that we must keep striving towards together. 

And it is important to remember that the quest for civil rights in this country has always been pursued in both secular and sacred terms. Religious values often shape ethics and how we think about public life, including politics and economics. So in building capacity to engage in interreligious dialogue we’re not just strengthening interpersonal relationships. We’re strengthening our capacity to build a democratic life that accounts for and accommodates our differences, while also demanding a vigilant commitment to political equality. We need to keep weaving the civic and religious dimensions of our lives together to secure equality. That means we have to develop knowledge and fluency to engage in hard civic conversations and interreligious dialogues with one another.

Indeed, religious differences can be some of the deepest differences we have with our neighbors. And in a way, that’s exactly why developing interreligious fluency is critical for democracy. If we can figure out how to live together, build trust, and stay in community across religious differences, then we’re also practicing the habits democracy requires—like listening; asking questions when we don’t understand where our neighbor is coming from; disagreeing constructively; and working together on building a healthy and resilient civic life. 

Q: Are there any figures who have been influential for you in your thinking about community?

I have long been a fan of Dorothy Day. She’s an inspirational American Catholic leader, thinker, and writer whom I deeply value. I go back to her words again and again. She was one of the founders of the Catholic Worker movement here in the United States—which focused on issues related to poverty, wealth inequality, and the dignity and rights of workers. In the Catholic Church she is on the road to sainthood for her works, her spiritual example, and her theological and political leadership. As part of the Catholic Worker movement, Dorothy Day talked about creating ‘houses of hospitality’ and reflected on what building community actually looked like in practice. What does it look like to welcome your neighbors? To be responsible for your community members, warts and all? What does it mean to show up, even when you don’t want to? Dorothy Day recognized and named the hard reality of community-building—that sometimes houses of hospitality were actually houses of hostility. The day-to-day work of being a neighbor and a responsible citizen can be frustrating and demanding, and she didn’t shy away from naming that frustration, anger, and resentment were part of the reality of building community. She put these hard truths on the page; she offered it up in prayer; and then she got back up and kept doing the work of building community.

I think there’s a lot happening right now that makes community building feel hard or even impossible. How can we build a shared life when we are racked by anger and despair? How do we live with people that we don’t like? How do we live with people that we believe don’t share our morals or values? Dorothy Day’s reflections on “Houses of Hospitality: also being at the same time “Houses of Hostility” is very real and resonates in this current moment. Dorothy Day is not offering an idealized or sanitized version of what commitment to neighbors actually takes. She is calling us to transcendence—to building welcoming communities grounded in hospitality. But she is also acknowledging that relationships are hard; people can be very difficult and demanding. We need to be kind to ourselves in this work, and we need to rely on God’s grace as well as our neighbor’s grace, when building community. When we’re trying to live in a certain aspirational moral register (like being hospitable), we can feel overwhelmed, or like we are not up to the task because we are angry or frustrated. We should be able to name things, like community-building, as hard—even if we are fully committed to doing the work.

Q: If readers remember only one thing about why community matters, what do you hope it is?

I hope that everyone can remember that our way forward is together. We are bound up with one another—our lives are intertwined with our neighbors. Building community is hard work, but it’s worthy work.

February 2026

The post Community Means Standing with our Neighbors: A conversation with Heather Miller Rubens first appeared on ICJS.

Q: You recently returned from sabbatical. What did you work on?

I spent the time researching and writing—or at least getting started on—a new book about how dialogue, in our contemporary climate, has become a form of resistance. I did a deep dive into how current technology, especially in its relationship to capitalism and government surveillance, creates a new kind of loneliness.

It’s not loneliness in the conventional sense. It’s loneliness in the sense that we get our stimulation from screens, and our connections become less human. That actually makes us more alienated from one another. I started developing this idea that corporations, governments—really any business entity—are now competing for unclaimed time in your life.

I also spent time thinking about the film Everything Everywhere All at Once. In a strange way, it’s a critique of the dehumanizing effects of technology and the nihilism it creates. Even if you know everything—every possible version of life—it produces a kind of sadness. And what counters that, in the movie, is just one real relationship—something you can’t control.

Part of the allure of our devices is the illusion of control. But what gets lost is our ability to connect in the most profound, dialogical way. If you think about someone like Martin Buber, transcendence is experienced between two living beings. You can’t control the other person. You’re both subjects. And what once might have sounded idealistic now feels absolutely necessary. In a strange way, you’re resisting authoritarianism just by talking to a stranger on the bus.

Alongside this larger project, I was able to return to some more focused scholarly work. I traveled to Speyer, Germany, to present my research at a symposium honoring the philosopher (and my mentor) Paul Mendes-Flohr. I also wrote two peer-reviewed articles on the state of Jewish-Christian relations in the wake of Gaza, and an encyclopedia entry on Jewish views of the resurrection of Jesus. In a way, the sabbatical let me hold both together: the long, slow thinking and the urgent work of responding to the moment we’re in.

Q: How do you think technology has changed dialogue itself?

Thinkers like Buber and Hans-Georg Gadamer talked about the human tendency to objectify others as a way of controlling our own insecurities and what we think we know. Technology supercharges that impulse.

When we talk about echo chambers, what we’re really talking about is control. We’re creating such insular worlds that it’s not just that we can’t hear one another—it’s that we’re pushing the other out of existence. You can now go from dawn to dusk without encountering an idea you find challenging. We inhabit realities that are already interpreted for us. It’s an authoritarian’s dream.

I don’t think most people building these systems are driven by evil intentions. It’s usually profit-driven. But once these technologies exist, you can’t control how they’ll be used.

One of the only ways out of this is relearning how to listen—and remembering that to be human is to be both capable of terrible things and extraordinary things at the same time. We use the word mensch to describe both. Technology pushes us to see people as either villains or heroes. That’s not human.

Q: Where do you find hope in all of this?

I do believe people can transcend their worst impulses. Historically, things have been worse. That doesn’t make the present easy, but it does give perspective.

The solution is strangely simple: learning to see complexity in others the way you want others to see it in you. It’s not even the cliché of “love your neighbor as yourself.” I think you love your neighbor because you recognize that your neighbor is capable of love, just as you are—even if you don’t fully understand that love.

Every major technology has been met with panic and exploitation—BUT HAS  also produced democratic possibilities. Even now, we can do things at ICJS like connect people across the world that would have been unimaginable before. Authoritarian regimes don’t last forever. Wars have to end. On my best days, I think people can rise to the occasion.

Q: Did the sabbatical change how you think about your work at ICJS?

It did. For the first time in eleven years, I stopped. I realized how much of my life here has been constant motion. When I started at ICJS, I had a very abstract understanding of dialogue. During this time away, I realized how deeply I actually need to be in the room with people.

And I think the biggest shift is this: I no longer understand how someone can be sincerely religious in this world without also being interreligious. It makes no sense to want a world where everyone is the same. Difference opens us to transcendence.

Religion gives you rules—and those rules are what open you to infinity. I’ve been thinking about chess. If there are no rules, you’re totally free—but you’re not really playing anything. When there are rules, it opens up possibilities you could never imagine.

So when people ask why religion is still necessary in modern life—beyond belief in God or gods—the answer is that religion gives you very circumscribed tools for living your life in the freest possible way. It’s a paradox.

When those rules are woven together across religious traditions, you start to see even more possibilities. And if reality is truly transcendent and incredibly complex, then one of the best ways to encounter it is through the creation and practice of these traditions.

If infinite possibilities exist within human beings, all the more so with the God that undergirds all of it. So why limit yourself?

The post Dialogue Is a Form of Resistance: A Conversation with Benjamin E. Sax first appeared on ICJS.

That question sat at the center of a recent clergy book study led by the Rev. Alisha Wimbush, Th.D., ICJS program director for religious leaders, focused on White Christian Privilege: The Illusion of Religious Equality in America, by Khyati Y. Joshi. The study invited pastors and religious leaders to examine not only how Christianity shapes American public culture, but how that shaping quietly advantages some—and marginalizes others.

For Wimbush, the book’s central challenge to Christian leaders is straightforward, but not easy: “The core challenge is really recognizing the privilege.” Because Christian language and symbols are so deeply embedded in American culture, she said, “to tell a Christian clergy, do you recognize that there’s a privilege that you have because you’re Christian—I think that’s hard to swallow.”

Seeing What We Didn’t Have Words For

That challenge was present even for some participants of color. Rev. Alanna Thomas, an AME Zion pastor, said that before the study she had largely collapsed Christian privilege into racial categories. 

“Actually, before this group, I probably equated Christian privilege with white privilege,” she reflected. “As a woman of color, I’ve long been aware of the privileges I was denied. As a Christian, I’ve come to recognize the privileges I carried without even realizing it.”

Wimbush described a similar realization in her own journey. 

“At first, hearing about me as a woman of color having privilege was hard to digest,” she said. “I said, ‘I’m a woman, I’m a person of color—what type of privilege do I have?’” 

What helped her—and others—think differently was understanding religion as a kind of language. 

“I am fluent in the language of Christianity,” she explained. “So when I see a cross, when I see the Ten Commandments, I know what that means. And there’s a privilege with understanding that language.”

That fluency, she noted, is not shared by everyone. 

“What does it look like to step back and say, people who might not have a particular religious tradition, or might have a different religion—how are they being disadvantaged because they’re not fluent in this particular language?”

The Privilege of the Collar

For some participants, the study also brought new clarity about the forms of authority and access that come with being clergy. Rev. Dominic Holland, a chaplain at Community Regional Medical Center in Fresno, California, named that dynamic directly. 

“I’m afforded a whole lot of privilege as a clergy person myself. I acknowledge that,” he said. “Trying to leverage that for the benefit of other people is something I’ve always tried to do. But just kind of recognizing some of the privilege and how it is experienced by other people—I really appreciated that. That was very poignant for me in the study.”

One reason some clergy chose to participate in the book study was they were searching for a community where they could discuss these difficult issues. “They didn’t feel like they had a safe space to say, ‘I wonder why our children aren’t getting off for holidays outside of Christian holidays,’” Wimbush said.

Holland echoed that sense of relief at finding a space for honest reflection. 

“I felt the support of a like-minded community to continue to deconstruct and to combat white Christian privilege in my context,” he said.

Another theme that surfaced was fear. 

“People feeling like, I’m going to lose something if I give up this privilege,” Wimbush said. “There’s a sense of, I might lose something—and do I want to?”

A Place to Ask Hard Questions

Wimbush believes the book study is already shaping how clergy think about their congregations. 

“I have to be mindful of the language I use,” she said, describing participants who began to notice how sermons, prayers, and teaching can unintentionally privilege Christianity or diminish other traditions. “As a leader, what I’m saying—people are taking that in.”

For Holland, the impact was even broader. 

“To go through this study gave me a better understanding of how much white Christian privilege has influenced the culture that we are in,” he said, “and how damaging, harmful it can be.”

An Interreligious Lens

Her hope, Wimbush said, is that clergy leave with what she calls “an interreligious lens”—a recognition that “it would be beneficial for me to get to know other religious traditions” and to build relationships beyond one’s own community. “That’s what helps us build a democracy,” she said. 

For Wimbush, it is important to acknowledge that Christianity is being used both to justify exclusion and to defend human dignity. 

“We’re seeing how Christianity is being weaponized,” she said, “but also how Christianity is being used to live the way I believe Jesus has called us to live, which is to love God and love our neighbors as we love ourselves.” 

And for pastors who feel hesitant to engage these questions, Wimbush doesn’t begin with arguments. 

“I would be curious,” she said simply. “Why the hesitation? Why the fear? I’d simply ask questions.”

The post Making the Invisible Visible: Rethinking Religious Equality first appeared on ICJS.

At Roland Park Country School (RCPS), the “Branches and Leaves” affinity groups offer minority Lower School students a space where they can connect with others who share similar identities. These groups create a sense of belonging and validation for students who may not always see themselves represented in the broader school environment.

Our school has hosted two religious cultural events this year that celebrated minority communities—both of which were deeply appreciated by those involved. These events demonstrated that friendship and connection can overcome fear and misunderstanding.

The first was an Eid al-Fitr celebration, co-sponsored by the DEI office and the Muslim Association. The Lower School Muslim Branches and Leaves group shared the history and customs of Eid al-Fitr, followed by a celebration with traditional Middle Eastern food, henna art, and crafts. It was a beautiful way to honor the Muslim community and educate others in a joyful, welcoming setting.

As the leader of the Jewish Branches and Leaves group in the Lower School, I also had the opportunity to sponsor a community event for my ICJS project, which was a challah bake. My goal was to create a space for the Lower School group to connect with the wider RPCS Jewish community, while also inviting non-Jewish allies to join us in a spirit of unity and support—just as we had done during the Eid celebration.

Another reason I chose to host a challah bake at RPCS, an all girls’ private school, is because baking challah is one of the three mitzvot (sacred obligations) traditionally reserved for women, symbolizing their unique role in nurturing life and shaping the world around them. During the event, I shared the cultural and spiritual significance of women baking challah in the Jewish religion. When women gather to bake, we tap into something ancient and powerful. We mix flour and water—the most basic ingredients—and turn them into something greater than the sum of their parts.   

In Jewish thought, the physical world and the spiritual world are deeply intertwined. Flour represents the physical—our bodies, the earth. Water symbolizes the soul, our thoughts, our inner life. Making challah is like a metaphor for what it means to be human: we are a blend of body and soul, just like dough is a blend of flour and water.

When women bake challah, we’re doing more than preparing food. We’re participating in a sacred act of transformation. We take the raw gifts of the earth and elevate them—just as we hope to elevate ourselves and the world around us—it’s not just about making bread, it’s about connection. This event was a moment to build awareness, foster curiosity, and create a welcoming atmosphere where everyone could feel part of a meaningful Jewish experience. 

Ultimately, teaching religion in schools isn’t about drawing constant comparisons or seeking sameness. It’s about recognizing the richness and uniqueness of each tradition—and allowing ourselves to be inspired by that diversity.

Heather Samet was a 2024-2025 ICJS Teachers Fellow. At the time of the fellowship, she taught at Roland Park Country School. Learn more about the ICJS programs for teachers here.

Opinions expressed in blog posts by the ICJS Teacher Fellows are solely the author’s. ICJS welcomes a diversity of opinions and perspectives.

The post Flour and Water/Body and Soul: Making challah as a metaphor for being human first appeared on ICJS.

We all come to conversations about religion, identity, and discrimination from different places and with differing degrees of passion. 

This fellowship helped me understand and practice dialogue over debate as a valuable way of interacting with peers; it helped me embody the value that understanding others is just as important as being understood. 

This has shown up in my life in various ways over the years: a friend says “it’s more important to be right with people than to be right;” an aunt offers the advice that “nobody wins by fighting.” But this Fellowship put those ideas to the test and into practice in a professional context that opened up a professional taboo—faith—in a year when the Israel-Palestine conflict was dominating conversations. 

In one meeting, one of the Fellows was sharing a conflict they were managing at their school where tension developed between Black and Jewish students around the Israel-Palestine conflict in Gaza. My colleague’s frustration was centered on how Jewish students weren’t recognizing their own privilege in the situation, saying that these students and their parents weren’t seeing their own white privilege.

This floored me. In a moment, I was flooded with opinions and facts, made completely indistinguishable from each other by the emotion in my response: I don’t see the world we live in as treating Jewish people with the privileges of Whiteness. “White” as a racial construction is, first of all, very new; we can trace it at its earliest to the beginning of the 20th century, and this Whiteness did not include the Jewish population of the United States, where strict quotas limited admission into White colleges and universities until the ’70s, and that same Whiteness certainly did not protect the 93% of the Jewish population of Europe who were murdered in the Holocaust.

I cannot, for the life of me, think of a country that has offered Jewish people the privileges of Whiteness for more than a generation—the closest might be Weimar Germany before the Holocaust, or the United States after the Holocaust. But we have to remember that the U.S. turned away a full ship of Jewish refugees in 1939. We think of the Holocaust as ending in 1945, but we have to remember that tens of thousands of Jewish people continued to live, long after the war, in makeshift buildings on the same grounds as the concentration camps from which they had been “liberated.” Sure, Bergen-Belsen became a “Displaced Persons Camp,” but the only reason Jewish people were displaced was the continued antisemitism of the Allied powers. It was on the tip of my tongue to light into her and shout her down with facts about global and American antisemitism. I still feel that impulse, thinking about it, as you can see. 

Instead of yelling all my fact-opinions, I asked why. I asked why there might be a difference between what we see when we look at others, versus what others see when they look at themselves. 

What resulted was a genuine conversation about self-identification, how people perceive their own privilege, and how personal and historical identity play out differently in different cultures; we talked about how much of what we see when we look at others is rooted in associations we have from our experience. We talked about the private identities, histories, and beliefs about the world that we all carry, about how our faiths, like our identities, aren’t necessarily written on our faces. I did work in a few facts about antisemitism in America—particularly in education—but because of the practice we’ve had with dialogue over debate, I was able to be genuinely curious about why my colleague felt the way they did instead of assuming a binary position of right and wrong. 

I don’t think I changed anyone’s mind right then, but we had an honest conversation about how and why we perceive others the way we do. We listened. We came closer to an understanding of how two people or groups might be so far apart, and how our religious and cultural identities transcend appearance.

Morgan Kain teaches at The Baltimore City College and was a 2024-2025 ICJS Teachers Fellow. Learn more about the ICJS programs for teachers here.

Opinions expressed in blog posts by the ICJS Teacher Fellows are solely the author’s. ICJS welcomes a diversity of opinions and perspectives.

The post From Being Right to Being in Relationship first appeared on ICJS.