With Passover beginning this week, and all that is currently going on in the world, I’ve been thinking a lot about religion and community.
Passover, for Jews around the world, is a powerful reminder of resilience. Of survival. Of a people who endured oppression and found their way to freedom. It’s a story that has been told, retold, and lived through generations… binding families and communities together through shared memory and meaning. Sitting at a Seder table, surrounded by tradition, story, and ritual, there’s a deep sense of connection… not just to the people in the room, but to something much larger. To history, to identity, to belonging.
But at the same time, it also brings something else into focus for me. Because embedded in that same story is another narrative… the idea of us as a people set apart, a people who stand alone, a people who must always be vigilant, always aware, always prepared. And that’s where the double edge begins to show.
To be clear, this isn’t about personal faith. Faith can be deeply human, connective, and meaningful. What I struggle with is what happens when belief becomes organized… when it turns into systems that define who belongs, who doesn’t, and too often, who to fear.
Religion is one of the most powerful forces for connection humanity has ever known. It brings people together around shared beliefs, shared rituals, and shared identity. It creates community, continuity, and a sense of belonging that can span generations. For many, it offers comfort in uncertainty, meaning in hardship, and a framework for living a life of purpose. At its best, religion builds community in ways few other forces can. It reminds people they are not alone… it encourages generosity, compassion, and care for others. It gives people language for hope.
➡️ But that’s only one side of the story.
Because the very thing that unites people within a faith can also divide them from those outside of it. The same shared identity that creates belonging can create boundaries. And those boundaries, especially when reinforced by certainty, doctrine, and tradition, can harden into something much more dangerous.
History, and frankly the present, is filled with examples of religion being used not just as a source of meaning, but as a justification for exclusion, conflict, and even violence. Not because belief itself demands it, but because certainty, when left unchecked, often does. And if we’re being honest, power and money have always been part of that equation… fueling institutions, protecting influence, and at times amplifying the very divisions they claim to rise above… with intention.
And nowhere is that more visible than in the more orthodox and fundamentalist expressions of religion. When belief shifts from personal faith to absolute truth, when it moves from “this is what I believe” to “this is the only truth,” the space for dialogue disappears. Difference stops being something to understand, and starts being something to correct, control, or eliminate. That’s where religion stops being a bridge… and starts becoming a barrier.
But there’s another layer that’s harder to talk about, and just as important. Religion doesn’t just shape belief, it can also shape behavior through influence, authority, and, at times, fear. Because fear is powerful and Fear can unify people quickly. It can create urgency, loyalty, and a sense of shared threat. And when people feel threatened, they’re far more likely to rally, to contribute, and to follow.
That dynamic has been used in many ways across many faiths, but one example that stands out to me personally, because I have lived within it my whole life, is the way support for Israel is often framed within Jewish communities, especially here in the U.S. The message, implicitly or explicitly, is that without a strong Israel, Jews everywhere are at risk… that Israel is not just a nation-state, but a necessary protector of Jewish safety worldwide. And from that framing flows a constant call for financial support, often tied not just to cultural or humanitarian connection, but most often to military strength…. and to supporting those organizations that share and support that narrative.
Now, to be clear, the fear itself isn’t imagined out of nowhere. Jewish history is filled with very real trauma, persecution, and existential threat. But that’s exactly what makes it so powerful… and so easy to leverage. Because when fear is tied to identity and survival, it becomes incredibly effective at driving both financial support and ideological alignment. It discourages questioning. It frames dissent as risk. And it can turn complex geopolitical realities into simplified narratives of “us versus them.”
And that pattern isn’t unique to Judaism or Israel. Across religions, fear of the “other,” whether cultural, ideological, or spiritual, has often been used to strengthen internal cohesion while justifying external division. It’s one of the oldest and most effective ways to unify a group… by defining what it is not.
Which brings us back to the core tension. The same systems that create belonging can also create dependency. The same stories that preserve identity can also reinforce isolation. The same narratives that offer protection can also limit perspective. And that’s where my discomfort deepens.
Because when belief systems begin to rely on fear to sustain themselves, whether for loyalty, control, or funding, they move further away from connection… and closer to manipulation. That doesn’t negate the meaning religion holds for so many people, but it does raise an important question… at what point does community-building cross into boundary-enforcing? At what point does shared belief become leveraged fear?
Just like hope can both lift us and weigh on us… religion can both connect us and divide us. And sometimes, the very forces that bring people together are the same ones that keep them apart. Recognizing that doesn’t weaken the conversation. It’s what makes it honest…
Connection should never require division. If it does… it’s not connection.