As so often in history, so in our time, a gross disorder in Christendom was heralded by a wave of anti-Semitic persecution.

Had we been used to thinking of Christendom as an entity, we should have been more alarmed when this happened. The Jews are a sign, a witness. Mediaeval consciousness was tormentingly aware of the presence of these strangers with its sublime or sinister meaning. It was angry with them: the Jews whose conversion was to precede the Second Coming delayed the kingdom of glory by their refusal. They stood for the official sign of disbelief, but also for God’s answer to it; they were man’s denial of the Incarnation, yet the Incarnation had made their wounds the wounds of Christ.

Was it part of their business to harry the Christian conscience? Did not their spiritual pride quicken humility? Was not their lack of faith somehow a testing of the fruits of faith? Did they not even mysteriously escape God’s condemnation so long as there was an excuse for not recognising His Son in those who should manifest Him? Perhaps they were like hard seeds left in a wintry soil, closed up until the water of baptism had softened it and charity had made it gentle for the slow shoots to break out into the daylight of faith. This might not happen until the end of the world; meanwhile, the world had to suffer it and be prevented from crystalising into mineral perfection.