The "Synagoga and Ecclesia in Our Time" sculpture by Joshua Koffman is seen on the campus of St. Joseph's University in Philadelphia. The sculpture shows Synagoga (Synagogue) and Ecclesia (Church) studying their sacred texts together. (CNS photo/courtesy St. Joseph's University)

The prophet Micah asked, “What does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (Mi 6:8). This threefold path of justice, kindness and humility provides a framework for interreligious engagement that transcends doctrinal differences and addresses our world’s urgent needs. As people of conviction around the world mark the 60th anniversary this year of “Nostra Aetate,” the Second Vatican Council’s “Declaration on the Relationship of the Church to Non-Christian Religions,” and witness the promising early months of Pope Leo XIV’s papacy, I find myself reflecting on the Jewish wisdom that has guided my own cross-denominational journey.

Interfaith work honors the divine not through sameness, but by lifting up human dignity in all its variety. Consider this aphorism from the Jewish text “Pirkei Avot” (4:1): “Who is wise? One who learns from all people.” In Jewish tradition, every person is seen as created b’tzelem Elokim (“in the image of God”), which means each life holds unshakable worth. When we cross boundaries of belief with genuine curiosity and care, we are doing more than building bridges—we are answering a spiritual call. Abraham opened his tent to strangers not out of duty but from deep conviction. In that same spirit, our communities must remain open to the wisdom others carry.

My path to this understanding has been anything but conventional. Growing up in Chicago and other places with an evangelical Protestant mother and a Jewish, though more secular, father meant that my childhood was steeped in a melting pot of religious conviction before I eventually embraced Orthodox Judaism as a young adult. 

My mother did not practice passive Christianity; she embodied lived spirituality rooted in a deeply personal and emotional connection to God. I watched her prepare meals for sick neighbors, counsel troubled youth and maintain unshakable belief through personal hardships. Her religious devotion was not abstract theology; it was kindness made manifest.

When I chose to pursue Orthodox Judaism seriously in my late teens, there could have been tension with my mother. What happened was quite the opposite: We always respected each other’s choices, and in times of great joy or sorrow, we knew we were together. This experience taught me that interreligious understanding begins not with theological agreement but with mutual respect and recognition of shared values.

Teachings about character that emerged in my youthful Christian education, and those early conversations with my mother about morality, transitioned me smoothly into similar Jewish values. For example, the Jewish teaching about meekness harmonizes with the words of Jesus found in Matthew 23:12: “For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Across religious lineages, modesty emerges as a cornerstone of true strength. When the declaration “Nostra Aetate” was released in 1965 under Pope Paul VI, it marked a watershed moment in Catholic-Jewish relations. For the first time in modern church history, there was a formal, public repudiation of centuries-old Christian antisemitism. The document also affirmed the enduring covenant between God and the Jewish people, a theological shift of profound consequence. Particularly striking was its invocation of Romans 9:4-5: “They are Israelites and it is for them to be sons and daughters; to them belong the glory, the covenants, the giving of the law, the worship, and the promises.”

This declaration signaled not merely a change in policy, but a new spirit of theological modesty and shared holy memory. What I find most inspiring about “Nostra Aetate” is that it speaks not just of Judaism’s continuing relevance but of the moral foundation that it helped establish for Western civilization. Far from diluting theology for today’s tastes, “Nostra Aetate” is an incitement to deeper conscience: We have a chance to strengthen roots that have been intertwined for two millennia.

The journey to “Nostra Aetate” was not easy or quick. For example, writing shortly after the Holocaust, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik urged caution in Jewish-Christian theological conversation, reflecting the trauma that still lingered in Jewish hearts and minds. In 1964, shortly before the publication of “Nostra Aetate,” Rabbi Soloveitchik wrote in the Jewish journal Tradition that “we are not ready for a meeting with another faith community in which we will become an object of observation, judgment and evaluation.”

But more than six decades later, there is a consensus that there is great value in nuanced, pluralistic interfaith engagement, for “the crown of a good name supersedes all other crowns” (Pirkei Avot 4:17). In our modern context, that good name might be earned through interreligious encounters that respect each heritage’s integrity while forging new paths forward.

Leo XIV and an opportune moment

We find ourselves at a historically opportune moment for Jewish-Catholic relations with Pope Leo XIV’s installation as bishop of Rome. He has longstanding relationships with the American Jewish community (and, like me, has deep ties to Chicago). His background offers a powerful counter-narrative to longstanding stereotypes of interfaith conversation as stiff, ceremonial or laced with misgivings. This nascent papacy represents not only continuity with past progress, but also the possibility of more daring collaboration rooted in shared social responsibility and prophetic moral courage.

In my experience as a rabbi and social justice advocate, the most lasting growth in building sustainable, trusting relationships happens not in academic debates, but in bonds formed across communities around shared study and stories. I strive to create spaces where Jews, Christians, Muslims and people from all backgrounds can explore holy texts and deepen their own journeys through others’ insights.

Such a vision of interreligious cooperation is grounded in the concept of tikkun olam—repairing the world—and resonates with Jesus’ call for the committed to be the “salt” and “light” of the world. When we move beyond theological discussion to shared action for justice, we discover our common humanity most profoundly. Whether feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, advocating for immigrants or protecting the environment, these acts of justice become holy meeting grounds where religious communities can work side by side without compromising their distinct identities.

We can share our stories honestly, not sanitizing them for comfort but offering truth in all its complexity. I am a rabbi, fully committed to halachic heritage (Jewish law) and the Jewish people. I am also the son of a Christian mother whose spiritual devotion profoundly shaped my development. These truths are not contradictory. They inform each other, sometimes creating tension, sometimes tenderness, always offering instruction.

When we study each other’s texts and doctrines—and our respective struggles and vulnerabilities—we demonstrate that no single religious lineage holds superiority over others. When we mourn together after tragedies or organize together for justice, we discover that holiness is not confined to one sanctuary. When we teach our children to honor—not fear—those who believe differently, we begin repairing a world fractured by suspicion.

My mother’s last words from hospice were a soft whisper of “thank you.” Now I express gratitude for the true gift of religious conviction, not the kind that segregates or shuns but the kind broad enough to foster love across divides, rooted enough to connect spiritual lineages without fear of proselytization or attempts at assimilation, and modest enough to keep us learning.

In a time when antisemitism is on the rise and social divides are widening, genuine interfaith solidarity is urgent and necessary. When we approach one another with humility and work together with a clear moral compass, our differences don’t have to be barriers. Instead, they can serve as the foundation for building trust, allowing us to heal a world defined by fear and misunderstanding. As the sage Rabbi Yochanan taught in the Babylonian Talmud, “Wherever you find the power of God, you also find God’s humility” (Megillah 31a).

It is this humility that must guide us now.

The musician Brian Wilson, who recently died, captured this same spirit in his 1988 song “Love and Mercy”: “Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight/ So love and mercy to you and your friends tonight.” This refrain echoes the deepest moral charge of faiths coming together to solve real problems. Authentic spiritual leadership does not come from asserting theological dominance. Rather, it comes from honoring the dignity of others. Love and mercy are not just sentiments. They are the most sacred charges for our time.

Rabbi Dr. Shmuly Yanklowitz is the author of 24 books on Jewish ethics and has written for The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, The Guardian, and the Atlantic, among other secular and religious publications.