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At his first annual Interfaith Breakfast—held, fittingly, in the grand reading room of the New York Public Library, where even the stone lions seemed to nod approvingly—Mayor Zohran Mamdani delivered a masterclass in scriptural cherry-picking that would make a fruit salad blush.
"Beloved New Yorkers of all faiths," he began, arms wide like a prophet addressing the ummah [in Islam that is the community of believers], the congregation, and the yoga class down the block, "our city’s sanctuary status is not mere policy. It is divine mandate! As the Torah commands in Exodus 23:9: ‘Thou shalt not oppress a stranger: for ye know the heart of a stranger, seeing ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.’" He paused for dramatic effect, letting the ancient Hebrew echo off the domed ceiling. [The same book where G-d promised the Land of Israel to the Jews - but don't tell Mamdani that...]
He continued seamlessly: "And from the Quran, Surah An-Nahl 16:42: ‘As for those who emigrated in the cause of Allah after being persecuted, we will surely bless them with a good home in this world.’ The Prophet Muhammad himself—peace be upon him—was a stranger, fleeing to Medina. ‘Islam began as something strange,’ he said, ‘and will return to being strange, so glad tidings to the strangers!’"
The crowd of 400 faith leaders—rabbis, imams, priests, pandits, and at least one Buddhist monk who looked mildly confused—murmured approval. Mamdani, raised by a Muslim father and Hindu mother, a Mormon Aunt and a New Age Spirtual Guy Uncle, was the living embodiment of New York's spiritual smoothie: a little Leviticus here, a dash of Bhagavad Gita there, hold the parts that don't poll well in Brooklyn.
"And let us not forget the Gita," he added, "which urges us to see the sorrows of others as our own. Or Buddhism's call to extinguish hatred and ignorance. Every great tradition tells us: welcome the stranger! Defend the persecuted! For if ICE agents arrive ‘atop a pale horse,’ leaving ‘wreckage’ and ‘families torn apart,’ then we must stand as one against such cruelty."
The applause was thunderous. Cameras flashed. X lit up with rainbow emojis and tearful prayer hands.
But then, in a separate but thematically linked statement later that week, the mayor turned his righteous indignation toward the Trump administration's removal of the Pride flag at Stonewall National Monument.
"I am outraged," Mamdani declared, voice trembling with the same moral fervor he'd used for Deuteronomy. "New York is the birthplace of the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement. No act of erasure will silence that history. Our city has a duty to honor this legacy, invest in our LGBTQ+ community, defend their dignity, and protect every one of our neighbors—without exception."
Again, the crowd roared. Protesters raised replacement flags. GLAAD issued glowing statements. The mayor marched in spirit (and probably in person soon) for trans rights, gender-affirming care, and sanctuary protections for queer New Yorkers.
Yet in the quiet moments—perhaps while sipping chai in his office, scrolling past yet another glowing profile of his "pro-LGBTQ+ platform"—one might wonder if the mayor ever flips a few more pages in his well-worn Quran.
For instance, to Surah Al-A'raf 7:80-81, where the people of Lot are condemned for approaching men with desire instead of women, an act described as unprecedented excess and abomination. Or to the hadith collections where the Prophet reportedly curses those who imitate the opposite sex or engage in such acts, with scholarly consensus across centuries treating homosexual intercourse as a major sin warranting severe earthly and divine displeasure. Or the Hebrew Bible which mandates capital punishment for homosexual acts.
But those verses? Those traditions? They remain mysteriously unquoted at interfaith breakfasts. No invocation of Lot's doomed city when defending Stonewall. No "glad tidings to the strangers" extended to those who might feel strange under traditional readings of the very faith the mayor so eloquently cites for migrants.
Instead, the scripture flows like a carefully curated playlist: love the stranger, yes; welcome the persecuted, absolutely; but the man who engages in sexual relations another man? That track is skipped, the skip button pressed with the speed of a politician dodging a gotcha question.
Perhaps it's all part of the grand New York interfaith vision: quote the parts that build coalitions, fund offices, and win endorsements. Ignore the parts that might alienate voters in Greenwich Village or require an awkward pivot from "Islam built on migration" to "Islam also built on... other rules."
After all, why let dusty prohibitions cramp the style of a modern mayor who can quote Exodus, An-Nahl, and the Gita in one breath, then pivot to Pride flags in the next?
In Mayor Mamdani's New York, faith is a beautiful, inclusive buffet. Help yourself to the welcoming verses. The ones about judgment? Leave them on the warming tray for someone else. Preferably someone running for office in a less progressive zip code.
And so the city marches on—sanctuary for immigrants, sanctuary for queer neighbors, and sanctuary for selective scripture. Glory to the stranger, indeed. But make sure to have tunnel vision, quoting only those verses that are convenient to further Mamdani's agenda.
