It was the summer of 1989. I was a doctoral student at Princeton Theological Seminary.
I was not only the only Jew in that program; I might have been the only Jew on campus.
Every morning, the students would choose scriptural texts for devotionals. One morning, one of my fellow students, a very nice Anglican from Canada, chose to read a passage from the New Testament that railed against "scribes, hypocrites, and Pharisees."
I stood up and said, as evenly as possible: "If you want me to pray with you, fine."
"But, do not ask me to sit here, and listen to the texts that killed my ancestors."
"I am a Pharisee."
There was shocked silence.
