Before The Doors Open — What Happens When Faith Meets Fear?

Before The Doors Open | A Prayer For Safe Spaces

The morning sun casts long, gentle shadows across the library steps, a scene that should evoke quiet anticipation. Yet, as I stand here, keys in hand, my stomach is a tangled knot of dread. It’s not the fear of a busy day or a daunting workload. It’s a deeper, more ancient fear—one that lives in the DNA of my people. My heart beats a little faster as I glance at the other staff members arriving. What if today is the day? The irrational, yet painfully rational, thought whispers: What if one of them, harboring a silent, modern-day hatred, decides today they simply don’t want a Jew here? What obscure rule will they invent? What whispered accusation will they make to keep me out of this public space, this house of learning that should be open to all?

I take a deep breath, the air catching in my throat. This is the anxiety I carry. It’s the shadow that follows me, not just to the library, but to the supermarket, onto the subway, and through the scrolling headlines of the news. It’s the constant, low-grade hum of knowing that in a world that should be safe, there are still those who see my existence, my very identity as a Jewish person, as a problem to be solved, a presence to be erased. Lord, in a world that hates so much and wants to destroy us, please give your people a safe place just to be and to breathe.

If you have ever felt this weight—this specific fear or any other that makes you feel like an outsider, a target, or simply unseen—know this: you are not alone. Your fear is heard, your heart is seen, and your desire for sanctuary is a holy cry that reaches the ears of God.

The Burden of a Long Memory

Jewish memory is long. We remember Pharaoh’s decrees, Haman’s plots, the whispers of blood libels, and the chilling silence of empty streets during the pogroms. We remember the smoke of the Holocaust and the fresh graves from attacks on synagogues and Jewish communities. This memory isn’t paranoia; it’s a historical record written on our hearts. It’s why a sideways glance can feel like a threat and a cold shoulder can feel like a prelude to exclusion.

This anxiety before the library opens is a tiny echo of that vast historical trauma. It’s the feeling of being perpetually "other," of needing to prove your right to belong in spaces everyone else accesses without a second thought. God understands this feeling. Throughout Scripture, He reminds His people that He is the God of the oppressed, the marginalized, and the stranger. He knows our frame; He remembers that we are dust—and He remembers all that that dust has endured (Psalm 103:14).

The Unshakeable Promise of His Presence

In the midst of this tangible fear, we are not left without an anchor. The Bible speaks directly into our anxiety, offering not just platitudes, but powerful, concrete promises.

From the Psalms: A Shelter in the Storm

"God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea." - Psalm 46:1-2 (NIV)

The Psalmist doesn’t say, "God will ensure you never feel trouble." Instead, he declares that God is present and powerful within our trouble. He is a refuge—a safe place to run into, not a promise that we will never need to run. He is strength—not the absence of fear, but the power to stand within it.

Practical Application: When the anxiety rises—as you approach the library, the meeting, or the social gathering—this verse is a prayer you can breathe. "Lord, be my refuge right now. Be my strength in this moment. I feel the fear, but I choose to trust that You are present here with me." It doesn’t magically erase the situation, but it shifts our focus from the size of our fear to the greatness of our God.

From Isaiah: The Promise of Protection

"Do not be afraid, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." - Isaiah 41:10 (NIV)

This is a personal, direct promise from God to His people. It’s a command ("do not be afraid") followed by the only reason that command is possible: "for I am with you." His presence is the antidote to our fear. He doesn’t just offer help from a distance; He promises to uphold us—to hold us up so we don’t collapse under the weight of our dread.

Practical Application: This is a verse to memorize and hold onto. Speak it to yourself in the car, on the walk, in the quiet moment before you enter a difficult space. "He is with me. He is my God. He is strengthening me right now. His hand is holding me up." It affirms that our safety ultimately rests in His grip, not the approval or prejudice of others.

The Echo of Jesus’s Heart

In the Gospels, we see the heart of God embodied in Jesus, and His heart beats fiercely for the vulnerable and the persecuted.

From Matthew: Acknowledgment and Reward

"Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven." - Matthew 5:10-12 (NIV)

While our faith and our Jewish identity are intertwined, this verse speaks profoundly to the experience of being targeted for who you are. Jesus doesn’t minimize the pain of persecution—He validates it. He calls it what it is and then does something extraordinary: He calls the persecuted "blessed." This isn’t a call to seek out suffering, but a divine promise that the pain of unjust hatred is seen, known, and will not have the final word. A great reward—a divine justice and a eternal safety—is coming.

Practical Application: This verse helps reframe the experience. The hatred is not a sign of God’s absence or our failure; it is, in a mysterious way, a marker that we are on the side of something true and eternal. It allows us to grieve the injustice while simultaneously hoping in the ultimate justice of God. It gives us permission to say, "This is wrong, but my God is making it right."

Building Sanctuaries of Spirit and Community

So how do we live in the tension between our very real fear and these very real promises? We become active participants in creating the safety we crave.

We create sanctuaries in our own hearts through prayer and meditation on Scripture. We build sanctuaries in our homes, where our identity is celebrated and cherished. And crucially, we work to create sanctuaries in our communities—spaces of welcome and unwavering support for one another.

We must be the ones who speak up, who stand beside our Jewish brothers and sisters, and who actively work against the tide of hatred, both silent and loud. We can be the answer to the prayer for a safe place to breathe for someone else.

A Shared Mission of Love and Safety

This work—of offering encouragement, of being a refuge for one another, of standing against hate—is a shared mission. It’s how we become the hands and feet of God, offering tangible safety in a fearful world.

If this reflection has resonated with you, if you too long for a world where every soul can simply be without fear, then you are already part of this community. Here’s how we can support each other:

· Through Prayer: Pray for protection over Jewish communities worldwide. Pray for peace in the hearts of those who carry this anxiety. Pray for the eyes and hearts of those who harbor hatred to be opened to love.

· Through Encouragement: Reach out. Send a note of support to your Jewish friends and neighbors, especially in times when headlines are frightening. Let them know they are seen and valued.

· Through Sharing: Share stories of hope and resilience. Amplify voices that preach love and understanding.

· Through Giving: Consider supporting organizations that fight antisemitism, promote interfaith dialogue, and provide security for Jewish institutions. Your support can literally help create safer physical spaces.

This isn’t about a single transaction; it’s about weaving a tighter net of grace and protection around our communities. It’s about saying, "You don’t have to carry this fear alone. We are in this together, and our God is with us."

As I finally turn the key and push the heavy library door open, the familiar smell of books washes over me. The anxiety doesn’t vanish completely—the memory is too long, the world too broken. But it is met by a deeper, quieter truth. I am not alone. You are not alone. We are held, we are seen, and we are called to be safe harbor for one another, until the whole world learns to finally, and fully, rest in the ultimate peace of its Creator.

Shalom, dear friend. May you find your safe place to breathe today.