Rabbinic Reflection: Rabbi Taylor Baruchel

When Sanctuary Feels Shaken: A Call to Stand Against Hate

There are places in this world that shape who we are in ways both profound and personal. Temple Emanu-El-Beth Sholom in Montreal is such a place. It is where I fell in love with Torah, with Judaism, and with the Jewish People. It is where Rabbi Kaye and I stood under the chuppah at our wedding, surrounded by our family, friends, and sacred community. It is a place that represents joy, learning, prayer, and purpose. And it is a place that was defaced with antisemitic graffiti, a swastika, this past Shabbat.

The timing is striking—over Shabbat, during an excessive snowfall—proving that hatred and cowardice know no bounds. When I heard the news, I felt heartbroken. But more than that, I felt deeply sobered by my own reaction. I was not shocked, nor was my first thought how awful this was. Instead, my immediate response was gratitude that it wasn’t something worse, that it wasn’t an act of physical violence. I know I am not alone. That is a truly low bar for expectations, yet it is where we find ourselves as Jews in Canada in 2025.

This needs to end.

Our synagogues are more than places to pray—they are the beating hearts of Jewish community; where we gather to celebrate and to mourn, to learn and to teach, to extend loving-kindness and to receive it in turn. A synagogue should be a sukkat shalom, a shelter of peace—a sanctuary in every sense of the word.

And yet, too often these days, that sense of sanctuary feels deeply shaken. To see our sacred spaces violated is to feel something deeper than fear; it is heartbreak. But we are a people who rebuild. We refuse to be defined by fear. And we will not be silent in return.

Antisemitism is not an abstract concern, not a distant threat. It is rising around us—in our institutions, in our schools, on our streets. It shows up in policies, in rhetoric, in the everyday interactions that remind us we are seen as ‘other.’ The question is no longer if we will have to confront it, but when. And when we do, perhaps even more painful than the hate itself is the silence—the silence of those who call themselves allies but do not speak, who claim to stand with us but do not step forward.

We cannot and should not have to face this alone. If you’re wondering what you can do, Morateinu HaRav—my teacher and friend—Rabbi Lisa Grushcow, Senior Rabbi of Temple Emanu-El Beth Sholom, has laid out a clear call to action for our non-Jewish friends and allies. She has encouraged us to share it widely.

Too often, silence comes not from indifference, but from uncertainty—people simply don’t know what to say or do. So, let’s make it as simple as possible:

1. Check in with your Jewish friends. Hate isolates. A simple message or phone call can remind someone they are not alone.
2. Educate yourself. Visit a Holocaust museum. Ask for reading recommendations. Learn how symbols of hate have been used for millennia. Ignoring history has never stopped its repetition.
3. Speak up. Don’t leave it to the Jewish person in the room to respond to antisemitism. If no Jewish person is in the room, it is even more important that you say something.
4. Show up. If your local synagogue welcomes visitors, come. See what we love about Jewish life. Take note of the security measures we must endure. Let us know you stand with us.

As Jews, we are no strangers to adversity, nor to resilience. And while I wish that resilience was not always so necessary, I take comfort in our tradition, our people, and in the leadership of colleagues like Rabbi Grushcow. She reminds us, with courage and clarity, that enough is enough.

So let us stand together, not just against hate, but for love. For justice. For the sacredness of our spaces and our lives. And for a future where no one must feel relief that the attack wasn’t worse.

To our allies and friends:

We share these words because we need you. We need you to stand with us, to speak out, to educate yourselves, and to show up. This is not just a Jewish problem; it is a societal one. Hatred unchecked doesn’t stop with one community—it festers and spreads. But together, we can refuse to let it take root. Together, we can insist on and work toward a better world.