Some time ago, a new Jewish family moved into our community and asked me to help them put up their mezuzah. It was a simple request. I love to do it.

We stood at the front door, and just as I was about to begin, they hesitated. They asked quietly and apologetically if I could put the mezuzah on the inside of the house instead.

They asked this not because they did not believe in the mitzvah, and not because they did not want Jewish life in their home. They asked this because they were nervous about what it might mean to have their Jewishness visible from the outside. They were talking about safety: About being noticed and about what it feels like to be marked.

That moment stayed with me because it reminded me of something that takes place in our parasha. In this week’s Torah portion, God tells the Israelites to place blood on the doorposts of their homes. When the final plague comes, those houses will be passed over. It marks who lives inside.

For the first time in the Exodus story, the Israelites will be different publicly. Their homes will be visibly marked. And that difference will determine how they are treated.

That reality feels close to home right now. For me, it happened this week at an MLK commemoration outside of San Diego. I am thinking of my friend, Rabbi Hanan Leberman.

Hanan is not a headline. He was like a younger sibling growing up. His older brother was one of my closest childhood friends, and we spent many Shabbatot in and out of each other’s homes.

This past week, Hanan, who serves as a rabbi at a conservative synagogue, was excluded from participating in an MLK celebration in San Diego. He was not excluded from speaking because he opposed the values of the event. He was excluded because he is Jewish, and because his Jewish identity and connection to Israel made the organizers uncomfortable.

I don’t need to tell you the irony here. This took place at an event honoring Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who was not only a Zionist, but a man who encouraged us to judge people by the content of their character.

Hanan was marked like blood on a doorpost. The event became a place where a Jewish man was told that his identity disqualified him from participating.

People think that anti-Semitism looks overt, like a swastika painted on the wall of a public school. This is not what antisemitism looks like. It is instead the quiet and persistent message that we are not like everyone else. It is when at a rally when we are told that our very participation needs an explanation. Or, that our safety or our inclusion depends on whether others decide to tolerate us.

Egypt does not hate the Israelites for anything the Israelites had done. The oppression begins because the Israelites were perceived as different by the Egyptians. The Exodus story does not pretend otherwise.

And yet, let us not forget that the blood on the doorposts in Exodus, or the mezuzot on our doors, are not there to invite harm. They are there to mark God’s protection. The blood is not only for the Egyptians. It is for the Israelites. Antisemitism tells us that being Jewish is somehow a liability. But the mezuzah tells us that we belong somewhere, that we are not alone, and that our home is part of a larger story.

Ultimately, the family did decide to put the mezuzah outside of the house. With good reason. The story of the Jewish people does not begin with Yetziyat Mitzrayim. It begins with the affirmation of our identity.

We may be marked. We may be different. But may this Shabbat remind us that our difference is not something to apologize for, and our belonging is not something anyone in the world, from Egypt to Atlanta to San Diego, gets to take away from us.