On Interfaith Dialogue
Shabbat Parashat Shemini
April 26, 2025
A rabbi friend of mine spent a few days this week in Erbil, Iraq. He was there for the First Kurdistan National Prayer Breakfast, a four-day gathering of over 400 political and religious leaders from around the world, united under the theme: “The Way to Unity in Faith.”
The Kurdish Prime Minister gave a moving keynote. He said, “We are not only rebuilding homes and cities, but renewing our promise to protect freedom of religion, promote coexistence, and foster peace.” Powerful words - Words I wish we heard more often from leaders in the West.
And yet I find myself asking: What is the value of these interfaith gatherings? Not this one in particular, but the genre as a whole. Can we really build unity across faiths or are we just politely pretending?
This Shabbat gives us good reason to ask. This week, Pope Francis died – a religious leader of global stature. And next week, Canada votes in what could be a defining election for our nation’s values. Between these events, we find ourselves in a moment that demands we ask: What is the role of faith in the public square? And how do we, as Jews, engage with other religious communities honestly, without illusion?
Let’s start, as we should, with our Torah reading. In Parashat Shemini, we read that Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu “offered before the Lord alien fire, which He had not enjoined upon them”. In response, they are consumed by divine fire.
All of the commentators ask: What did they do? Only some ask, and was it really wrong?
I’m going to share six interpretations of this story. Each points us toward a different theology, or a different idea of what God wants from us, or what kinds of conversations we should be having with other faith leaders.
According to Interpretation #1, they were drunk. They died because worship, with the possible exception of Simchat Torah, must be grounded. It is a lesson easily shared across the interfaith breakfast table.
The second interpretation. They acted without being commanded. They died because they substituted their creativity for obedience. A warning that in Judaism being commanded matters.
Jews, classically, understand our relationship to God as being premised on mitzvah – not in its colloquial sense of ‘good deed’, but in its original sense of sacred obligation. Mitzvot are divine commandments that – no matter how we live our lives – we are nevertheless obligated in keeping. They are the foundation if not the entirety of service to God.
Yeshayahu Leibowitz, the Israeli philosopher, once contrasted Judaism with Christianity by comparing two stories: the Binding of Isaac and the Crucifixion. In Judaism, man obeys God’s terrifying command. In Christianity, God sacrifices His son for man. “This is the great contrast between theocentric religion [Judaism],” he writes,” in which man strives to serve God, and the anthropocentric religion [Christianity], in which God fulfills man’s need for salvation.” Judaism is about serving God. Christianity is about being served.
It’s a sharp distinction – and it tells us something crucial: Real interfaith dialogue can’t begin by pretending those differences don’t exist.
Let’s talk about that phrase many of us grew up with: “Judeo-Christian values.” It sounds warm, inclusive, like a shared foundation.
But it wasn’t born out of shared theology. It was born out of shared fear: first of fascism, then of communism. It was a political alliance, not a religious one.
And over time, the phrase has drifted. Today, it’s often wielded by the Christian right, as a way of opposing not just secularism or modern sexual norms, but Islam—and sometimes, progressive Jews as well. That’s why I don’t use it. Because it's too slippery to be meaningful – and too easily co-opted to be safe.
The truth is, Judaism and Christianity share some texts, but we read them differently. We share some ethics, but we live them differently. And we serve God… very differently.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, of blessed memory, was deeply committed to interfaith dialogue. In the first edition of his book The Dignity of Difference, he wrote:
“God has spoken to mankind in many languages: through Judaism to Jews, Christianity to Christians, and Islam to Muslims.” The idea that there was divine Truth to be found outside of Judaism though was beyond the pale of acceptable Orthodox thinking.
The passage was redacted from the second printing.
Rabbi Sacks’ legacy includes his commitment to dialogue with religious leadership of other faiths. Yet he refused dialogue with Reform and Conservative rabbis. To him, interfaith was acceptable. Intrafaith was not. That too is part of his legacy.
Idea #3: The intentions of Nadav and Avihu were good, but they lacked faith that God would send a heavenly fire to consume the offering and thereby introduced an alien, human-made, fire. They died as punishment.
Judaism, the argument goes, is deed over creed. What we believe matters much less than what we do. Such prioritization is heresy in other religions. Jews I think have a hard time relating to the faithfulness of religious Christians.
Idea #4: Their intentions were good, but they erred in their understanding of God’s command, choosing to use coal from outside of sacred precincts. They died as punishment.
Textual interpretation is the Jewish mode of halakhic analysis. A modern teshuva on, for example, the use of electricity on Shabbat, would be non-sensical to most Christians and closer to the modes of Muslim jurisprudence. The way we go about answering questions can be fundamentally different for Jews than for others.
Idea #5: Nadav and Avihu rendered a halakhic decision in the presence of Moshe their teacher. In the hierarchy wilderness Israelite religion, Moshe was at the top of the totem poll. Nadav and Avihu perhaps had some discretion when Moshe wasn’t around, but in his presence, Moses reigned supreme. They died for this transgression.
It is difficult not to think of papal supremacy if not infallibility when considering this idea. Today, the notion that Truth resides in one human, to whom all others have to differ, is antithetical to the Jewish argumentative tradition.
Interestingly, the sages who share this opinion during the rabbinic period don’t have the same hierarchy. There are still teachers and students and the rule of not rendering decisions in front of one’s teacher still applies, but there is no one leader who presides over everyone. Rabbinic society, like ours today, is a more pluralistic one.
Finally, Idea #6: Nadav and Avihu brought their fire too close to God. And God embraced them – with a fatal kiss. They died not in punishment, but in intimacy.
This reading opens the door to a softer truth: maybe God welcomes many kinds of fire, as long as the heart behind it is sincere.
That would be a beautiful basis for interfaith dialogue. But it is – let’s be honest – a minority view.
This June, I’ll be participating in an interfaith conference here in Toronto. I’m going, but not because I think we all agree. I’m going because I think we need to tell the truth.
I want to tell my fellow faith leaders what October 7 felt like for us. I want them to understand how lonely it has been. How painful their silence – or their missteps – have been. How we are still grieving.
And I want to listen, too. I want to understand where we can work together – on issues of social justice, on providing for the poor and the needy. I want to build bridges, but only ones strong enough to hold the weight of our real differences.
Because pretending we all believe the same thing doesn’t bring peace. It brings fragility. Dialogue that demands agreement is not dialogue – it’s erasure.
And I’m not one too be erased.
