The dry cleaner in my Jewish neighbourhood looked first at the stoles I had laid on the counter, then at my clerical collar. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘When I was training, my boss told me always to clean the rabbi’s prayer shawl free of charge. So I think I ought to clean your robes free of charge too.’  And he did, for all the 8 years I lived there.

When I hear of Jews being targeted for hate crimes, I think of that generous dry cleaner and so many others like him – Jewish neighbours, shopkeepers, doctors, artists, rabbis I have known. Then there are the Jews whose talents have enriched my life, from Barbra Streisand to Yehudi Menuhin, How could anyone hate them just for being Jewish?

When I read of Muslims being shot while they prayed, I remembered all the gentle and hospitable Muslims I’ve known: the meals cooked for me by Iranian friends; the wise and kindly Pakistani student adviser; the competent Arab surgeon.

I’m lucky. My father worked with missionary organisations and I grew up knowing people of a wide range of nationalities, cultures and skin tones. It never occurred to me those things might be sources of distrust or dislike. When it came to different shades of Christianity, however – that was another matter. In our Chicago suburb Catholics did not mix with Protestants. We had separate schools, and I don’t remember our ever talking with our Catholic neighbours. My father was a conservative evangelical and distrusted those with more ’liberal’ or catholic views.

Chief Rabbi Ephraim Mirvis quotes historian Simon Schama as saying, ’there are now two kinds of people in the world:  those who are happy to live and engage with people who are not like themselves, and those who are not.’

What drives those who hate others just for being different? A psychologist would be better able to answer that question. In brief, however, there are several possibilities.

Some are crippled by a sense of inadequacy, and shore up their own ego by considering others inferior to them. ‘I may not be a hunk, an athlete or a brainbox, but at least I’m a member of the master race.’

Others cannot face the dark side of their own natures – the negative qualities and weaknesses we all have – and project them onto a whole race or group of others. ‘It’s not me who’s greedy or immoral or fanatical, it’s people who belong to that other religion.’

There are those who are guilty but cannot (or will not) deal with that guilt, so focus on the supposed guilt of others. I have known two clergymen who preached fiery sermons calling others to repent, but who turned out to be living double lives. One was a paedophile; the other, a married man, was eventually outed after advertising for sex. He had been enjoying casual liaisons for 25 years, despite challenging other clergy who had affairs.There are many such examples among clergy, politicians and others. It’s not only the guilty who behave in this way; shame and anger can be directed outwards in similar fashion. Before I had come to terms with my abuse I was pretty good at preaching hellfire and damnation. I wince to think of it now.

There are people who find the world complex and frightening – as indeed it is – and find it easier to focus the fear on others rather than come to terms with living in uncertainty. Jews – or Muslims, feminists, LGBT people, Brexiteers or Remainers – are responsible for all the ills that beset us. Eliminate them, and there will be nothing left to fear.

These are just some of the mechanisms by which people come to see a group of people as ‘the enemy’. In reality there may be a mixture of these, and perhaps more, conscious and subconscious motivations at work when we find ourselves fearing and disliking other people. We all suffer from one or more of them to some degree. In addition, we absorb attitudes and prejudices from those around us; in churches these are often propped up with a ‘theological’ or ‘biblical’ justification.

The trouble is that when we class any group or type of people as ‘the problem’ or ‘the enemy’, we can justify treating them badly. In extremes, this can result in physically harming or even killing them, as we saw with the recent tragic massacre in Christchurch. Most people guilty of prejudice don’t go to those extremes, thank God. But bias can prevent us from hearing each other and result in discrimination and injustice.  On some Christian social media sites remarks such as the following are sadly common:  ‘”Openly gay pastor” translates to “rebellious lost sinner who doesn’t know the Bible”.’  For ‘openly gay pastor’ you could substitute ‘woman pastor’, ‘person who doesn’t oppose abortion’, or several other categories. Some Christians would exclude anyone who doesn’t believe and live exactly as they do.

We cannot do much about others’ prejudices, but how do we deal with our own? My negativity about Roman Catholics was banished when I moved next door to a very friendly Catholic family.  One evening, over a bottle of wine, we discussed the differences between Catholic and (evangelical) Anglican theology. I found that often when we used different language we meant the same thing; and when we used the same words we meant something different. Eventually Terry commented, ‘The trouble with you Protestants is that you’ve thrown the Mother out with the bathwater.’ I saw he was right – and during our long friendship I developed a reverence for Our Lady.

I might not have been so open to that conversation, without a realisation which had come to me a few years earlier. I had been taught that no one could be converted to Christ without first realising the extent of their sin (hence the evangelical tendency to ‘name and shame’ sins).  But I was working on a sermon one day when it struck me, out of the blue, that it was not my job to convince people of their sin:  that is the work of the Holy Spirit. My work is to proclaim and to live, as far as I can, the love of God and the forgiveness we find in Christ.