christianity – Jill Szoo Wilson

From Sinai to Messiah: The Prophet Like Moses in Deuteronomy and the New Testament

Why does the New Testament repeatedly describe Jesus as “the prophet like Moses”?

By Jill Szoo Wilson

As Israel stands on the edge of the Promised Land in the book of Deuteronomy, Moses delivers his final instructions to a generation born largely in the wilderness after the Exodus from Egypt. Forty years earlier, God had brought Israel out of slavery through signs, plagues, the Passover, and the crossing of the Red Sea. At Mount Sinai, Moses ascended into the presence of God, received Torah (the first five books of the Bible), and mediated the covenant between God and Israel. The covenant promises first given to Abraham generations earlier now begin taking visible shape in the life of an entire nation ordered around Torah, worship, priesthood, sacrifice, and covenant law.

Now Moses is about to die. Israel must prepare to enter the land without the prophet who has stood at the center of their covenant life all these years. It is within that atmosphere of covenant transition that Moses speaks one of the most consequential promises in the Torah.

Moses first addresses Israel directly:

“The Lord your God will raise up for you a prophet like me from among you, from your brothers. It is to him you shall listen.”
(Deuteronomy 18:15)

A few verses later, Moses recounts God’s own response to Israel’s fear at Sinai:

“I will raise up for them a prophet like you from among their brothers. And I will put my words in his mouth, and he shall speak to them all that I command him.”
(Deuteronomy 18:18)

Immediately before describing this future prophet, Moses warns Israel against adopting the spiritual practices of the surrounding nations, including divination, sorcery, mediums, necromancy, and attempts to inquire of the dead (Deuteronomy 18:10–12). In the ancient Near East, rulers and priests often sought hidden knowledge through ritual specialists who claimed access to supernatural power, omens, dreams, astrology, spiritual intermediaries, and the realm of the dead itself. Israel is about to enter that world without Moses, the prophet who has spoken directly with God on their behalf since Sinai.

Therefore, Deuteronomy 18 addresses a moment of profound uncertainty for Israel. Moses is about to die, and the people are preparing to enter a land filled with rival gods, pagan temples, and spiritual practices the Torah repeatedly describes as dangerous and defiling. Israel must not seek revelation the way the surrounding nations do because Israel’s covenant relationship with the God of Abraham depends upon something fundamentally different: the God of Israel speaks for himself, appoints prophets by his own authority, and establishes the covenant through revelation rather than divination or ritual manipulation. The promise of a future prophet “like Moses” therefore emerges within a larger question already pressing upon Israel: after Moses dies, how will the covenant people continue hearing the voice of God faithfully?

The promise of a future prophet like Moses becomes clearer when Moses recalls Israel’s experience at Sinai, also called Horeb in Deuteronomy’s language, where the people first encountered the terrifying immediacy of divine presence. Exodus describes thunder, fire, smoke, earthquakes, trumpet blasts, and the visible descent of God upon the mountain. The people feared death under the weight of unmediated holiness and pleaded for an intermediary.

Moses reminds Israel that they themselves pleaded with him at Sinai: “Let me not hear again the voice of the Lord my God or see this great fire anymore, lest I die” (Deuteronomy 18:16). Moses responds to that fear by standing between divine holiness and the people. He becomes the covenant mediator, receiving the words of God and mediating them to Israel.

The promise of a future prophet like Moses, therefore, carries meaning far beyond the ordinary role of prophecy in Israel.

Israel already possesses prophets who call the nation to repentance, warn of judgment, confront kings, and speak the word of God into particular historical moments. Yet Moses occupies a unique place within the covenant story itself. He does not simply deliver prophetic messages. He mediates the covenant at Sinai, receives Torah directly from God, intercedes for Israel after rebellion, and stands between divine holiness and the people. Deuteronomy, therefore, describes more than the continuation of prophecy. Moses describes a future figure whose relationship to covenant revelation and mediation will parallel his own.

The uniqueness of Moses becomes even clearer at the conclusion of Deuteronomy itself. After narrating Moses’s death, the text offers a remarkable reflection: “And there has not arisen a prophet since in Israel like Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face” (Deuteronomy 34:10). The statement creates theological tension that remains unresolved across the remainder of the Tanakh (the Old Testament). Prophets arise throughout Israel’s history. Samuel anoints kings. Elijah confronts Baal worship. Isaiah speaks of exile and restoration. Jeremiah announces covenant judgment. Ezekiel sees the glory departing and returning. Yet Deuteronomy’s final assessment continues standing over the remainder of the Tanakh: no prophet had yet arisen in Israel like Moses. The Torah itself, therefore, leaves Israel waiting.

That expectation remained alive during the Second Temple period, the era stretching from the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple after the Babylonian exile through the first-century world of Jesus and the apostles. During those centuries, Jewish communities lived under a succession of foreign empires, including Persian, Greek, and Roman rule. Israel remained deeply shaped by covenant memory, yet many Jews continued longing for national restoration, divine deliverance, and the full fulfillment of God’s promises.

Within that atmosphere of exile, foreign occupation, and covenant longing, Jewish communities began developing different expectations concerning how God would restore Israel. The Babylonian exile had shattered the kingdom, destroyed the temple, and raised profound questions about covenant, land, kingship, worship, and national identity. Even after some Jews returned to Jerusalem and rebuilt the temple, Israel continued living under foreign rule rather than experiencing the full restoration envisioned by the prophets. Many Jewish communities, therefore, continued longing for a future moment when God would restore Israel fully by ending foreign oppression, establishing righteous rule, renewing covenant faithfulness among his people, and fulfilling the promises spoken through the prophets concerning restoration and peace.

Different Jewish groups emphasized different aspects of that hoped-for restoration. Some anticipated a coming king descended from David who would restore righteous rule to Israel. Others focused upon priestly renewal, prophetic restoration, or divine intervention against oppressive empires. Deuteronomy 18 remained part of that larger atmosphere of expectation because Moses had promised that God would one day raise up a prophet “like me.”

This expectation appears repeatedly in the New Testament itself. In the Gospel of John, religious leaders ask John the Baptist directly, “Are you the Prophet?” (John 1:21). The question does not refer to prophecy in a general sense. It reflects the specific expectation established in Deuteronomy 18 that God would one day raise up a prophet like Moses. Later, after Jesus feeds the five thousand in the wilderness, the crowds declare, “This is indeed the Prophet who is to come into the world” (John 6:14). That response becomes especially significant within a Gospel already saturated with Exodus imagery, wilderness themes, and covenant language. The New Testament writers are not inventing a new theological category for Jesus. They are identifying him within an expectation already rooted in the Torah itself centuries earlier.

The Gospels then begin presenting Jesus through patterns deeply associated with Moses and the Exodus tradition. Matthew’s Gospel proves especially deliberate in this regard. Jesus ascends a mountain and teaches with covenantal authority in the Sermon on the Mount. He feeds multitudes in wilderness settings. He passes through water at the Jordan before entering a period of testing in the wilderness. His infancy narrative includes a murderous ruler killing Hebrew children, echoing Pharaoh’s slaughter in Exodus. The Gospel writers repeatedly frame Jesus through Exodus and Sinai imagery because they understand his ministry through categories already established in the Torah itself. These patterns are not accidental literary decoration. The question surrounding Jesus is therefore never whether he introduces an entirely disconnected religious system. The question concerns whether Israel’s long-awaited covenant mediator has finally appeared.

The book of Acts makes the connection fully explicit. In Acts 3, Peter addresses crowds in Jerusalem shortly after the healing of a lame man at the temple. Speaking within the heart of Jewish covenant life, Peter identifies Jesus directly with Deuteronomy 18: “Moses said, ‘The Lord God will raise up for you a prophet like me from your brothers. You shall listen to him in whatever he tells you’” (Acts 3:22). Peter does not present Jesus as standing outside the story of Israel. He presents him as the continuation and fulfillment of covenant expectation already spoken through Moses. Peter’s argument depends upon continuity between Moses, Israel’s covenant history, and Jesus himself. Moses spoke of a coming prophet. Israel awaited him. Jesus now stands within that prophetic and covenantal framework.

Stephen does the same in Acts 7 while recounting Israel’s history before the Sanhedrin. His speech traces Abraham, Joseph, Moses, Sinai, the tabernacle, and Israel’s repeated resistance to God’s messengers before arriving again at Deuteronomy 18: “This is the Moses who said to the Israelites, ‘God will raise up for you a prophet like me from your brothers’” (Acts 7:37). Stephen argues that Israel’s leaders are repeating a pattern already visible throughout Israel’s history: resisting the very messengers God sends to them. His defense depends upon Israel’s covenant story remaining one continuous narrative extending from Abraham through Moses and now into the apostolic age itself.

The Epistle to the Hebrews carries the theme even further by comparing Jesus and Moses directly. Moses remains honored as faithful within God’s house, yet Hebrews presents Jesus as possessing greater authority over the house itself. Hebrews can make that comparison precisely because covenant mediation, sacrifice, holiness, priesthood, and access to divine presence all remain central concerns within Israel’s covenant story. The New Testament does not abandon Mosaic categories. It intensifies and fulfills them through Israel’s Messiah.

Deuteronomy 18, therefore, stands at the center of a profound covenantal trajectory extending from Sinai into the apostolic age. Moses promises that God will one day raise up a prophet like himself who will faithfully mediate the words of God to Israel. Deuteronomy closes by acknowledging that no such prophet had yet arisen within Israel’s story. That unresolved expectation continues through the Second Temple period and appears repeatedly throughout the New Testament world. The Gospels frame Jesus through Exodus and Mosaic imagery. Crowds identify him as “the Prophet.” Peter invokes Deuteronomy 18 directly in Jerusalem. Stephen places the promise within the larger pattern of Israel’s covenant history. Hebrews presents Jesus as the greater covenant mediator whose authority surpasses even Moses himself. The New Testament repeatedly describes Jesus as “the prophet like Moses” because its Jewish authors understood Jesus within the covenantal world already established in the Torah. Scripture, therefore, reveals one unfolding story moving from Sinai toward the Messiah, from Moses toward Christ, through the continuing faithfulness of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

You can read the previous essay in this series here:

One Story. One Covenant. One Messiah.
Shavuot and Pentecost: One Feast, One Story
Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob: Why the Abrahamic Covenant Still Stands
One Root. Many Branches. Paul’s Answer in Romans 11

Shavuot and Pentecost: One Feast, One Story

By Jill Szoo Wilson

Jerusalem is already full. Pilgrims crowd the streets. Homes are filled with conversation and prayer. Merchants, families, travelers, and worshippers move through the city, gathering for one of Israel’s sacred festivals. Then, without warning, a sound like a violent rushing wind fills the place where the disciples are gathered. Fire appears. The disciples begin speaking in other languages as the Holy Spirit enables them. Men and women who have traveled from every corner of the Jewish diaspora stop, listen, and suddenly hear the works of God proclaimed in the languages of their birth.

Luke describes one of the most astonishing moments in all of Scripture. Yet the men and women filling Jerusalem that day had not traveled there because the Holy Spirit was about to fall. They had come because it was Pentecost, the Greek name for an ancient feast Israel had been observing for centuries, rooted in the Torah and woven deeply into Israel’s covenantal life.

That feast is Shavuot.

In the Hebrew Scriptures, Shavuot, often translated the Feast of Weeks, first appears in passages such as Leviticus 23, Numbers 28, and Deuteronomy 16. The instructions for observing this feast are precise. Beginning with Passover, Israel is commanded to count seven full weeks, forty-nine days in all, and on the fiftieth day to appear before the Lord with the first produce of the harvest, acknowledging that the grain, the land, and the provision itself have come from God. Farmers bring the earliest portion of what the fields have produced. Households journey to Jerusalem with offerings of gratitude. Priests present loaves of newly baked bread before the Lord as a visible sign that the harvest belongs first to him. What begins as a harvest pilgrimage rooted in gratitude for God’s provision gradually becomes one of Israel’s sacred festivals, one of the divinely appointed seasons God established for worship, remembrance, and covenant life.

The Greek-speaking Jewish world knew this same feast by another name.

Pentēkostē.

The fiftieth day.

Pentecost.

By the first century, therefore, when Luke writes, “When the day of Pentecost had fully come,” he is locating his readers within a feast Israel had already been observing for centuries. He writes with the assumption that they understand Israel’s sacred calendar, the annual gathering in Jerusalem, and the covenantal significance of the feast itself. In Luke’s world, Pentecost already carried the memory of harvest, worship, Scripture, and the God who had formed Israel as his covenant people.

By the time Luke opens the second chapter of Acts, Jerusalem is already full. Jewish pilgrims have arrived from across the diaspora, gathering for Shavuot exactly as Israel had been commanded for centuries. Luke’s geographical precision is striking. Parthians, Medes, Elamites, residents of Mesopotamia, Judea, Cappadocia, Pontus, Asia, Egypt, Libya, visitors from Rome, Cretans, and Arabians fill the city. The list is neither accidental nor ornamental. It establishes covenant geography before the Holy Spirit ever falls. Israel is gathered. The nations are present. Jerusalem remains at the center.

Only then does the evidence of the Holy Spirit’s presence begin: A sound like a mighty rushing wind. Tongues as of fire. Speech heard across linguistic boundaries.

Through the power of the Holy Spirit, Jewish pilgrims from across the diaspora hear the works of God proclaimed in the languages of their birth as they gather in Jerusalem for Shavuot.

Within the theological world of Second Temple Judaism, Shavuot carried more than the memory of harvest. By the time Luke writes the book of Acts, this feast also carried the memory of another defining moment in Israel’s history: the giving of Torah at Mount Sinai through Moses. There, after Israel’s deliverance from Egypt, God descended upon the mountain in fire, spoke with power, and entered into a covenant with his people. Luke’s imagery in Acts 2 invites his readers to remember that moment. The fire that once marked God’s descent upon Sinai now appears in Jerusalem. The wind that accompanied the covenant now fills the temple complex where the disciples are gathered. The divine speech that once formed Israel through Torah now moves outward through human language to Jewish pilgrims gathered from across the diaspora. The signs that once accompanied the giving of Torah now accompany the outpouring of the Holy Spirit in Jerusalem.

The connection deepens as Peter the Apostle begins to explain what the crowd is witnessing. He turns to Joel, a prophet who had spoken centuries earlier of a day when God would pour out his Spirit upon his people:

“In the last days, God says, I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh.”

For Peter, this is not a random verse pulled from memory. He is telling the crowd that what they are seeing in Jerusalem has already been spoken of in Israel’s Scriptures. The rushing wind, the fire, the languages, and the outpouring of the Holy Spirit are not disconnected signs. They belong to a story God had already been telling.

Peter then turns to the Psalms, quoting the words of David, Israel’s greatest king, to show that the promised Messiah would not remain in the grave but would rise again. In just a few verses, Peter moves from the prophets to the kings of Israel, from the giving of the covenant to the promise of resurrection, from Sinai to the Messiah. The language never changes because the story never changes. Covenant. Spirit. Kingdom. Jerusalem. Nations. Peter speaks the language of Israel’s Scriptures because the events unfolding in Acts remain deeply rooted in Israel’s story, now moving forward through Israel’s Messiah.

Luke presents Pentecost as far more than a dramatic moment in the life of the early church. He presents it as Shavuot remembered, interpreted, and carried forward through Israel’s Messiah. The New Testament once again reaches back into the Tanakh, not to replace what came before, but to reveal its ongoing covenantal and messianic fulfillment.

And once again, Scripture reveals one God, one covenantal story, one unfolding kingdom, and one Messiah bringing that story toward its appointed fulfillment.

One Story. One Covenant. One Messiah.

How the Tanakh shapes every page of the New Testament

By Jill Szoo Wilson

For the past two years, I’ve been studying God’s covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. That journey has brought me to the following summary. Over the next several months, I’ll be writing more about what I’ve learned.

The faith of Jesus of Nazareth and his earliest followers was never intended to create a new religion separated from Israel, but to reveal the long-awaited fulfillment of the story God had already been telling through the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings, collectively referred to as the Tanakh*. This conviction is rooted in Second Temple Judaism** and in the apocalyptic imagination of the first-century Jewish world, where the writings of the New Testament introduce no fundamentally new theological categories, but instead reach back into the Tanakh with extraordinary density, depth, and intentionality. Nearly every covenant, feast, sacrifice, kingdom motif, wilderness narrative, prophetic vision, temple image, priestly act, messianic promise, and apocalyptic expectation in the Hebrew Scriptures finds its echo, expansion, or unveiling in the New Testament. Scripture is one unified, divinely authored story in which the later writings constantly hyperlink back to what came before, not to replace it, but to reveal its fullness.

There is no theological dividing wall between Judaism and Christianity, nor has the Church replaced Israel. Through Israel’s Messiah, the nations are grafted into Israel’s covenantal promises, sharing in the rich root of the olive tree described by Paul the Apostle in Romans. The promises remain Israel’s promises. The covenants remain Israel’s covenants. The Messiah remains Israel’s Messiah, now extending mercy to the nations.

Jesus of Nazareth is the Jewish Messiah promised in the Tanakh. The New Testament does not replace Israel’s story; it reveals its ongoing messianic fulfillment. Gentile believers are grafted into Israel’s covenantal promises through Israel’s Messiah. And that story reaches its climactic fulfillment on the Day of the Lord, when Jesus returns to reign from Jerusalem exactly as the prophets anticipated.

From beginning to end, Scripture reveals one God, one covenantal story, one unfolding kingdom, and one Messiah bringing that story to its appointed fulfillment.

*For readers unfamiliar with the acronym Tanakh:

T = Torah (the law): Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy

N = Nevi’im (the Prophets): Joshua, Judges, Samuel, Kings, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the Twelve Minor Prophets

K = Ketuvim (The Writings): Psalms, Proverbs, Job, Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, Ecclesiastes, Esther, Daniel, Ezra–Nehemiah, Chronicles

**Second Temple Judaism refers to the period of Jewish history between the rebuilding of the Temple in Jerusalem after the Babylonian exile (c. 516 BC) and its destruction by Rome in AD 70. This was the theological, cultural, and apocalyptic world of Jesus of Nazareth, his disciples, and the earliest believers. To read the New Testament through the lens of Second Temple Judaism is to read it as a thoroughly Jewish document emerging from Israel’s already existing covenantal, messianic, and prophetic worldview.

2026: Cultural Divides, Covenant, and Coffee

While 2025 has been marked by dramatically shifting plates under the surface of humanity, it has also been a time of growth, resilience, and gratitude.

Every morning, my husband prepares my coffee. It doesn’t matter what time I wake up, whether we share a similar schedule, or when he goes to bed after coming home late from rehearsal or a work engagement. Each morning, it is my privilege to walk into the kitchen, whose counter is fully lit with whatever sunlight the day is offering, a small gaggle of houseplants, my favorite coffee mug, and a French press cleaned and poised for boiling water.

This might seem like a little thing. But when you consider the aforementioned shifting plates, this morning routine is a respite filled with consistency and love. Little things are where life is lived.

This is the year I went back to teaching after enduring the most tumultuous four years of my life. The time between the summer of 2020 and the summer of 2024 taught me more about who I am than I had learned in the previous forty-something years. Anything good in me was a result of God’s grace, the beautiful kindness of those He placed in my life, and an enduring seed of the Word planted and watered over years of joy, hardship, victories, and defeats. In other words, I learned that I am far more limited than I once realized and far more equipped to handle the slings and arrows of this life than I deserve to be. As Paul reminds us, it is by grace that any of us go forward at all.

God’s love. God’s provision. The fruit of the Holy Spirit. These are life itself. And everything else in this life becomes mercy in His hands, through which we learn how to trust, laugh, cry, hold, and let go. This life is a journey in which we begin to recognize the absolute goodness of God and learn to look forward to the age to come.

So, teaching.

In 2025, I returned to teaching theatre and communication. I won’t write in detail about that topic here, because I’ve been writing about it quite a bit lately. What I will say is this: the best thing about teaching, for me, is that I get to sit with young people, find out who they are, how I can serve them, and where I can help them grow. Not only toward learning or career goals, but toward becoming the best version of themselves.

My entire teaching career has been one of planting seeds. I’ve never once had the same student twice. Because I’ve taught foundational courses like Introduction to Theatre, Public Speaking, Foundations of Communication, and Theatre History, I tend to see students in class during their earliest semesters and then see them in the halls for the next two to four years. It’s rare that I get to see the fruit of my own labor, but those moments do come. When they do, they are a gift. Either way, because my work has been to plant seeds, I’ve learned to quickly see how I can best serve whoever is in front of me and make the best of our time together. I count this a blessing, and a great deal of fun.

These past two years were also significant because this is when my husband and I went through the Book of Revelation in its entirety. It took us one year to read and study it, and another to sit with the implications of the revelation of Jesus for our lives yesterday, today, and forever. I have a feeling this is what I will be writing about for much of 2026. For now, I will simply say this: there is nothing more important in life than studying the Word of God, putting our faith in Him, obeying His Word, and trusting in the finished work of Christ on the cross, His resurrection, and the fulfillment of God’s covenant promises to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob in Christ. These promises are not only future hopes. They are realities already unfolding now and finding their full completion in the age to come. Understanding that changed how I read the whole of Scripture.

God has always related to His people through covenant. From the beginning, He bound Himself to humanity with promises He alone would keep. He made a covenant with Abraham, promising blessing, land, and descendants, and declaring that through Abraham’s family all nations would be blessed. That covenant was carried forward through Isaac and Jacob and entrusted to the Jewish people, through whom God revealed His law, His faithfulness, and His name to the world. Jesus did not replace this covenant. He fulfilled it. In Him, the promises of God find their “yes.” Those who belong to Christ are grafted into this story, not as replacements, but as recipients of mercy, heirs by grace. The covenant God made with Israel is not erased by Christ, and the mercy extended to the nations does not diminish it. This covenant is not only about where history is going. It shapes how we live now, grounded in faithfulness rather than fear, held by a God who keeps His word.

This was the year I came to more fully understand the history of my own faith. Not fully, of course, but enough to give me context for God’s plan, His story of redemption, and His magnificent love. It was the year I stopped placing myself in the stories of the Bible and began to recognize, by the power of the Holy Spirit, that the entire Word of God is His story. It is filled with types and shadows of the Messiah, with good and evil, and with the absolute miracle that you or I get to be part of His story at all.

This was the year I learned, once and for all, that I need to be on His side. God is holy, and there is no possible way I can earn my way into His presence. Jesus came to this earth as the perfect sacrifice to a holy God, and it is only through Him that I can approach the Father. Through Christ, I am made clean. When God the Father sees me now, He sees His Son. There is nothing I could have done to earn His favor. Christ is the hope of glory.

This is the year I began to understand God as my Father. Because my earthly father disappeared when I was one year old, this has long been the aspect of God I struggled to trust. Not because I didn’t want to or didn’t believe He deserved my trust, but because I didn’t know how. God has been patient with me. I can now see that He has allowed certain storms in my life for a specific reason: so that I would humble myself and cry out, “Help me, Father.” There is a vulnerability only a daughter can feel and a kind of help and safety only a Father can provide. I trust my heavenly Father.

The world grew frightening this year, didn’t it? The political climate and our general sense of safety have been eroding. People are being killed for their faith. Riots fill the streets. Traditions are canceled because people are afraid to gather. Glowing screens in every household carry the noise of the world into our lives.

It is frightening.

But God.

There is a peace that surpasses all understanding, and it comes from one source alone. This year, by His will and for His glory, my resolution is to speak more about Him and to learn and teach about Him, His sacrifice on the cross, why it matters now, and why it is the only thing that will matter in the age to come.

So, 2026. Cultural divides, covenant, controversy, and coffee. What an adventure!

Faithfulness in the Face of Antisemitism

By Jill Szoo Wilson

Author’s Note:
This is not an essay about forgiveness. I have written about Eva Mozes Kor, Holocaust survivor and forgiveness advocate, for years because I deeply respect her message. I honor her legacy here while condemning antisemitic violence without qualification and calling Christians to action in the present moment. Nothing in this piece is meant to soften, spiritualize, or diminish the reality of antisemitism today.

Nearly seventy years after the Holocaust, Eva Mozes Kor still looked at the world and saw a painful truth: antisemitism had not disappeared. The lessons of history, no matter how horrific, were not enough to prevent hatred from resurfacing. As a survivor of Auschwitz and a Mengele Twin, she carried both the burden of memory and the wisdom of experience. She often asked a simple but haunting question: What has changed since Auschwitz?

Eva often spoke about how Adolf Hitler rose to power not as an anomaly, but through a series of orchestrated events designed to achieve a singular goal, the extermination of the Jewish people and the establishment of an Aryan-dominated society. Hitler and his regime promoted the belief in Aryan racial superiority, claiming that Germans of “pure” Nordic descent were destined to rule over other groups they labeled as inferior. These ideas, rooted in eugenics and extreme nationalism, fueled policies that targeted Jews, Romani people, disabled individuals, Slavs, and others deemed unfit for their vision of a racially “pure” society. This ideology was systematically enforced through propaganda, education, and legislation, including the Nuremberg Race Laws of 1935.

The Nuremberg Race Laws consisted of two primary statutes:

The Reich Citizenship Law: This law declared that only individuals of German or related blood were eligible to be Reich citizens, effectively revoking Jews’ rights as citizens. It stated: A Reich citizen is a subject of the state who is of German or related blood, and proves by his conduct that he is willing and fit to faithfully serve the German people and Reich. (Source)

The Law for the Protection of German Blood and German Honor: This law prohibited marriages and extramarital relations between Jews and citizens of German or related blood, aiming to preserve the “purity” of German blood. It also forbade Jews from employing German females under 45 years of age in their households. (Source)

Germany, one of the most advanced and cultured societies of its time, fell under the influence of a leader who manipulated public fears and desires, offering promises of restoration and prosperity in exchange for obedience. Step by step, ordinary citizens became participants in a deadly machine, one that required gradual compromises until they found themselves complicit in atrocities. This transformation is hauntingly explored in the book Ordinary Men, which details how average individuals became executioners not out of inherent evil, but by following orders, rationalizing their actions, and failing to resist the system that consumed them.

Eva witnessed this transformation firsthand and spent decades ensuring people understood how easily it could happen again. She often emphasized that Hitler’s rise was not inevitable, nor was it the result of a single event. It was a gradual process, shaped by economic hardship, propaganda, and the willingness of ordinary people to accept small injustices until they became monstrous realities.

Five Factors That Allowed Hitler to Rise to Power

The Holocaust was not an accident of history. It was the result of a carefully constructed plan, built on a foundation of economic despair, propaganda, and the gradual erosion of moral resistance.

Economic Devastation: Germany faced severe unemployment, with rates soaring to 30 percent in the early 1930s. This economic turmoil created fertile ground for extremist ideologies. (encyclopedia.ushmm.org)

Scapegoating the Jews: The Nazi regime capitalized on existing antisemitic sentiments, blaming Jews for Germany’s economic and social woes and uniting the populace against a common, innocent enemy. (encyclopedia.ushmm.org)

Propaganda and Control: Through relentless propaganda, the Nazis dehumanized Jews, portraying them as subversive and dangerous, which facilitated public acceptance of discriminatory laws and actions. (encyclopedia.ushmm.org)

Apathy and Inaction: Many Germans and international observers remained passive or indifferent as antisemitic policies escalated, allowing hatred to fester unchallenged.

The Allure of Power: Hitler’s strategic political maneuvers, including exploiting democratic processes, enabled him to consolidate power and implement his radical agenda.

These historical conditions are not confined to the past. Alarmingly, antisemitism has seen a resurgence in recent years. A 2024 report highlighted a 340 percent increase in global antisemitic incidents compared to 2022. (timesofisrael.com) Furthermore, a 2025 Anti-Defamation League survey revealed that 46 percent of adults worldwide harbor significant antisemitic beliefs. (adl.org)

Despite comprising a small fraction of the global population, approximately 15 million Jews worldwide, many continue to advocate for oppressed communities, even when it entails personal risk. Eva marveled at this enduring commitment to justice and empathy.

The Ultimate Power: Forgiveness

Eva often said, “Anger is a seed for war, forgiveness is a seed for peace.” To her, forgiveness was never about excusing harm. It was about breaking the cycle of hatred.

Forgiveness does not take place on the battlefield. It is not something that happens in the midst of conflict, nor does it excuse or prevent the necessity of justice. Forgiveness comes later, when the dust has settled and when the victim is free to reclaim their own power. It is not about surrender. It is about refusing to let the past dictate the future.

While Eva never shied away from confronting the past, she was equally passionate about what came next. She believed that dwelling in anger, no matter how justified, only gave power to those who inflicted harm. “Forgiveness,” she said, “is the only power a victim has to heal, liberate, and reclaim their life.”

Eva was careful to say, “I forgive in my name only.” She never claimed to speak for other survivors, nor did she suggest that forgiveness was a requirement for healing.

Eva Mozes Kor often emphasized this declaration, reflecting both her personal journey and a deep respect for Jewish principles regarding forgiveness. In Jewish tradition, forgiveness, or mechila, is a profound process that hinges on sincere repentance from the wrongdoer. Maimonides, a preeminent Jewish scholar, outlined that true repentance (teshuva) involves the offender’s acknowledgment of wrongdoing, genuine remorse, and a committed effort to rectify the harm caused. Only after these steps is the victim encouraged to offer forgiveness.

This framework underscores that forgiveness cannot be granted on behalf of others. It is an intimate act between the victim and the penitent. In the context of the Holocaust, where six million Jews were murdered without any expression of remorse from the perpetrators, the notion of forgiveness becomes even more complex. Jewish law maintains that offenses against an individual require that individual’s forgiveness, making it impossible for survivors to forgive on behalf of those who perished. (utppublishing.com)

Eva’s careful articulation, that her forgiveness was solely her own, respected this principle. She did not presume to speak for other survivors or the deceased. Her act of forgiveness was a personal liberation, a means to free herself from the grip of anger and victimhood, without contravening the collective memory and enduring grief of the Jewish community. (candlesholocaustmuseum.org)

This distinction highlights the delicate balance between individual healing and communal responsibility. While Eva chose forgiveness as her path to peace, she acknowledged that such a choice is deeply personal and may not be appropriate or possible for others, especially when traditional avenues for repentance and atonement are absent.

Forgiveness, in her view, had nothing to do with the perpetrator. It did not condone, excuse, or endorse their actions. It was not about justice. It was about reclaiming control over one’s own life. “I call forgiveness the best revenge,” Eva said, “because once we forgive, the perpetrator no longer has any power over us, and our forgiveness overrides all their evil deeds.”

This idea was radical and not always welcomed. Many survivors could not accept it, and for good reason. Even outside the context of the Holocaust, many struggle with the idea that forgiveness does not mean forgetting or allowing injustice to continue. For Eva, forgiveness was deeply personal. It was about reclaiming power, not about absolving the guilty. But within Jewish tradition, memory itself is sacred: to remember is to bear witness, to demand justice, and to ensure that history does not repeat itself.

Am Yisrael Chai: The People of Israel Live

Throughout history, the Jewish people have faced oppression, displacement, and genocide, yet they have endured. The phrase Am Yisrael Chai, meaning “The People of Israel Live,” is more than just words. It is a declaration of survival, resilience, and hope. It is an anthem of defiance against those who have sought to erase Jewish existence and a testament to the enduring strength of a people who refuse to be defined by their suffering.

This phrase has been spoken in times of both devastation and triumph. During the Holocaust, Jews whispered it in ghettos and concentration camps, affirming that even in the darkest of times, their spirit remained unbroken. In the aftermath of World War II, it became a rallying cry for survivors who rebuilt their lives, many of whom found refuge in the newly established State of Israel in 1948.

Today, Am Yisrael Chai continues to hold deep significance. It is proclaimed at Holocaust memorials, sung in celebrations, and carried forward as a reminder that survival is not just about existing. It is about thriving, growing, and refusing to let history repeat itself. In the face of rising antisemitism, the phrase remains an unshakable affirmation that the Jewish people will continue to live, to contribute, and to stand up for justice, not only for themselves but for all who face oppression.

Remembering is an act of justice. It ensures that the past is neither erased nor repeated. Forgiveness, when chosen, does not diminish remembrance. It follows it. It does not mean forgetting, nor does it replace accountability. Instead, it allows individuals to reclaim the power to shape their own future, free from the weight of bitterness.

We’re on the Battlefield Again

We are on the battlefield again.

Now is the time to fight back. Antisemitism did not end with the Holocaust. It did not disappear with memory or education or vows of “never again.” It has returned openly and violently, and it is targeting Jewish people simply for existing. This is not abstract. It is not theoretical. It is happening now. Those of us who are not Jewish do not get to watch from the sidelines. I serve the God of Israel, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and I will stand with my Jewish brothers and sisters until the bitter end, or as long as God allows breath in my body. Silence is no longer neutral. To remain quiet is to abandon them on the battlefield.

Recent Antisemitic Attacks (2023–2025)

Below is a concise, verifiable list of documented incidents illustrating the resurgence of antisemitic violence and hate in recent years:

• Bondi Beach Hanukkah Shooting (Dec 14, 2025):
Gunmen opened fire during a Jewish “Chanukah by the Sea” event in Sydney, Australia, killing at least 11 and injuring dozens in what officials condemned as an antisemitic terrorist attack targeting Jews during a holiday celebration. (AP News)

• Timeline of Australian Antisemitic Incidents (2023–2025):
Jewish communities in Australia faced multiple threats including synagogue arsons, graffiti, and escalating antisemitic violence leading up to the Bondi incident. (The Forward)

• Manchester Synagogue Attack (Oct 2, 2025):
A vehicle and stabbing attack at the Heaton Park Hebrew Congregation in Manchester, England, resulted in three deaths and several injuries, confirmed by police as a terrorist targeting of Jews. (Wikipedia)

• Antisemitism Surge Worldwide (Post–Oct 7, 2023):
Global reports documented thousands of antisemitic incidents worldwide, including threats, harassment, and violent attacks in many countries, since the escalation of the Gaza conflict. (Combat Antisemitism Movement)

• Synagogue and Community Vandalism (2023–2024):
Multiple bomb threats, arson, and intimidation against synagogues were reported in Australia and elsewhere, part of a broader pattern of anti-Jewish hate following geopolitical tensions. (Wikipedia)

• Antisemitic Incidents in the UK (2023–2024):
The Community Security Trust documented thousands of antisemitic incidents in the UK, marking sustained high levels of anti-Jewish hate in recent years. (CST)

• Antisemitic Acts in the U.S. (2024):
The Anti-Defamation League’s audit reported record-high antisemitic incidents in the U.S., including harassment, threats, and violent acts occurring across all 50 states. (Congress.gov)

• Berlin Holocaust Memorial Stabbing (Feb 21, 2025):
A man attacked a person at the Holocaust Memorial in Berlin with a knife, injuring the victim in an incident with an antisemitic motive, according to police and press reporting. (Wikipedia)

Christians, What Will You Do?

For Christians, the connection between the God of Israel and the Christian faith is not symbolic, philosophical, or historical alone. It is covenantal and continuous. The God Christians worship is the same God who revealed Himself to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who said, “I will establish my covenant between me and you and your offspring after you throughout their generations for an everlasting covenant” (Genesis 17:7). Scripture never records that covenant being revoked.

As Joel Richardson, a Christian author, Bible teacher, and filmmaker whose work focuses on biblical prophecy and God’s enduring covenant with Israel, has taught repeatedly, Christianity does not represent a departure from Israel’s story but its unfolding. The New Testament itself insists on this continuity. Paul writes that Gentile believers are not the root but the branches, grafted into a tree they did not plant, sustained by promises they did not originate (Romans 11:17–18). The Church, according to Scripture, does not replace Israel. It depends on her.

John Harrigan, a Christian writer and filmmaker who has examined the theological roots of Christian antisemitism, including through the documentary Covenant and Controversy, has argued that Christian antisemitism is not merely moral failure but theological collapse. Scripture bears this out. To sever Jesus from His Jewish identity is to sever Him from His genealogy, His Scriptures, and His covenantal mission. Jesus did not erase Israel’s story. He entered it. “Salvation is from the Jews,” He said plainly (John 4:22). The apostles did not preach a new God, but the fulfillment of what had already been spoken “by the mouth of all the prophets” (Acts 3:18).

Christianity does not make sense apart from Israel. The Messiah Christians proclaim was Jewish. The Scriptures they read were entrusted first to Jewish hands (Romans 3:2). The covenant they appeal to was never revoked. Paul is unequivocal: “The gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable” (Romans 11:29). Any theology that distances itself from Jewish suffering, or treats the Jewish people as spiritually obsolete, stands in direct contradiction to the very text it claims to honor.

This is why the present moment is vital. Scripture does not allow Christians to retreat into abstraction when the people of Israel are targeted. The call is older and clearer than modern politics: “I will bless those who bless you, and whoever curses you I will curse” (Genesis 12:3). Silence, in this light, is not neutrality. It is a theological choice.

Standing with the Jewish people is faithfulness to the God Christians claim to serve. It is obedience to Scripture. The God who keeps covenant does not abandon His people, and those who bear His name are called to stand with them.

So the question is no longer theoretical.

Where do you stand?