I live in the world of Holocaust education. I fully embrace the importance of remembrance and I carry it as a deep sense of responsibility. 

Not just remembering what happened, but deciding what we do with those memories and how we apply their lessons today.

The attacks on the synagogue in Michigan, at Old Dominion University, and the growing tensions around us have left so many of us with a plethora of emotions.  

A few weeks ago, I had the honor of delivering a sermon at one of our synagogues, where I spoke about the word sanctuary and the multiple meanings this word carries. Most people associate the word with a physical space. And, it is. When I think about the word sanctuary, it evokes something different, something that we can create for each other. This becomes even more critical when we reflect on our history and consider what we are witnessing across our country and beyond.

We often think history is about dates and facts. And that’s true. But given the events unfolding around us, I’d like to think about this a bit differently. 

I’d like us to consider slowing down to take in our history. To listen. To learn. To wrestle with what makes us feel unsettled.

I find that when I’m in a place of feeling unsettled, I become introspective and ponder what is important. When we remember unsettling things that happened in our history, it becomes more active, deeply human, and creates a space for change. In other words, the work of remembrance is not passive, but active and deeply human. 

When we look at the Holocaust, we are careful not to compare it to other events. It stands as a singular atrocity in our history – a systematic, state-sponsored ideology of hatred that sought the complete destruction of the Jewish people. The Civil Rights Movement was also a distinct and unique struggle, born from centuries of racial injustice and inequality under the law. When we look at both events, we can see patterns that mirror similar warning signs such as scapegoating, fear-based rhetoric, legal discrimination, mob mentality, and the normalization of cruelty. It is in identifying these shared patterns, while honoring the uniqueness of each event, that our learning begins.

The Holocaust is one of the clearest examples in human history of what happens when sanctuary disappears, and there are common threads throughout the history of civil rights.

There are, however, distinct differences when it comes to the Holocaust and the Civil Rights Movement.

Our stories are not the same.

Our histories are not interchangeable.

And they should never be flattened into one experience.

But our journeys do share something deeply important.

There are similarities in the fight for dignity.

There are similarities in the fight against dehumanization.

There are similarities in the courage it takes to stand up when standing up feels dangerous.

The Holocaust teaches us that human dignity must be preserved — always. The era of slavery and civil rights also teaches us that human dignity must be preserved — always.

And at their core, both movements can encourage us to ponder this question:

Who deserves sanctuary? 

These patterns have surfaced in different forms across history and continue to challenge every generation to decide what kind of community we will create for one another.

I think this is especially important as we look at the rise in hate happening in our country, our communities, and around the world right now. Sometimes that hate shows up loudly, and sometimes it appears quietly in suspicion, in exclusion, or in the belief that some people simply belong less than others.

Our histories teach us that the suffering of one group never erases the humanity of another and that pain is not a competition.

These histories teach us that we always have choices — choices about whether we listen, whether we show compassion, and how we act when we know in our hearts that something feels wrong.

We know that the Holocaust did not begin with camps.

It began with words.

With jokes.

With propaganda.

With silence.

With the slow erosion of empathy.

Those early warning signs remind us that the language we use about one another still matters today. That lesson is not locked in the past. It is a warning for every generation.

Because words shape how we see each other.

Words can build sanctuary. Or destroy it.

Words can build humanity. Or strip it away.

If we are willing to hold both the similarities and the differences, we can learn how to lift each other up.

That is sacred work.

I experienced this personally when I first came to Birmingham.

When I arrived here, I knew nothing about the four little girls who were killed in the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church. Nothing.

And when I learned their story — their names, their ages, their lives — I felt something shift inside me.

I realized that if I wanted to truly be part of this community, I had a responsibility to learn its history.

Not just the parts that were comfortable.

Not just the parts that made me proud.

But all of it.

Because learning is how we honor people.

Learning is how we show respect.

Learning is how we build belonging.

Learning is how we create sanctuary.

And I had another moment of learning recently.

I had the chance to hear a community leader speak about how Jewish department store owners here in Birmingham were among the first to change policies during the Civil Rights Movement by hiring black employees and allowing them to use the same restrooms as white people.

Not because it was easy.

Not because it was popular.

But because it was right.

That is what moral courage looks like.

Small decisions.

Real risk.

Human dignity first.

That is what creating sanctuary looks like in the real world.



And that brings me to something I think about often. The idea of labels.

We live in a world shaped by assumptions.



In seconds, we assign meaning to people based on

what we think we see, which includes appearance, identity, and background.

But when labels replace curiosity, they destroy sanctuary and stop us from truly seeing one another.

History shows us the danger of reducing human beings to labels. 

When we stop seeing the full humanity of others, it becomes easier for fear, division, and cruelty to take root.

When we can review our assumptions and look inside of ourselves, we gain the insight to become aware of what we didn’t see before.

This is a powerful place.  

It is the place where we gain the ability to choose differently.

This work can be daunting and often, we immediately jump to phrases like Never Again. We can get easily intimidated or overwhelmed, and then we give up. 

But maybe this is not what it is about. 

I often pose a very simple question to my team. I ask them how they eat an elephant. 

The answer - One bite at a time. 

If we can learn that the work of remembering and creating sanctuary in an effort to repair the world is not simple, not perfection, not heroism, and won’t happen in one moment, we have a place to start.

If we can show up, listen before we speak, question what we hear, and consider our assumptions, we can create sanctuary in our homes, with our friends, in our workplaces, in our communities, in the way we speak to strangers, in the way we protect the vulnerable, and in the way we refuse to let hatred feel normal.

When we look honestly at the past, we begin to understand that the forces that threaten sanctuary have never fully disappeared. They simply take new shapes in each generation.

And maybe that is the real lesson of history.

History is not there to make us feel bad or guilty.

History is there to make us responsible.

Responsible for how we speak.

Responsible for how we treat people.

Responsible for what we allow to happen around us.

Because in reality, none of us can fix the whole world.

But every one of us can make our corner of it a whole lot better.

Every one of us can help create sanctuary for one person.

We can refuse to reduce people to labels.

We can refuse to stay silent when cruelty is normalized.

We can refuse to forget where hatred can lead.

And we can remember something powerful:

Our hearts have the capacity to hold love for many things at once.

Even things that seem in conflict.

Even stories that are different from our own.

Sanctuary is built for the moments when humanity needs grounding, when we need reflection, comfort, and when we need to remember who we are meant to be to ourselves and to one another.

If we learn from the past,

truly learn,

Then memory becomes sanctuary.

And sanctuary becomes action.

And action becomes repair.

And repair becomes hope.

And, with hope, we can accomplish a lot.