I Know It When I See It

Jonathan Tobin's recent article in JNS, Biased media fuels American Jewish opposition to Israel, argues that many American Jews believe Israel is committing genocide because they’ve been shaped by a relentlessly biased media and have little connection to Jewish identity or Israel itself.

This article blames a biased media. That misses something deeper, something I’ve noticed for decades in parts of the American Jewish Left. I’ve never quite been able to define it, but like that famous judge, I know it when I see it.

Every American Jew has met them: the “Berkeley Jews.” The ones manning the PLO booth on University Avenue. It’s a kind of sickness, perhaps a lingering infection from the 1920s and ’30s, when it was fashionable to be espouse radical political ideas. (It still is in some circles.)

I saw it again just months ago at Congregation Beth Israel in Austin. Men in Torah study speaking as if parroting propaganda made them intellectually brilliant and morally superior, when in fact they were repeating a blood libel.

And then there was the woman straight out of Orwell: blindly devoted to the party line. She knows the slogans better than she knows the history of Israel. When she says, “I believe the State of Israel has a right to exist,” she hopes you won’t notice that everything after “but” cancels out the first half of her sentence, and by extension, the right of any Jew, even herself, to breathe free air anywhere.

What drives this? A desire to set themselves apart from those “other Jews,” the supposedly evil or unenlightened ones? Some sociological phenomenon of the diaspora? A psychological one? I don’t know.

Some call them self-hating Jews. I think that gives them too much credit. They’re not self-hating. They’re self-absorbed! They love their own image so much that they’ve lost the ability to see reality, or to care for other human beings, Jewish or otherwise.

The Scapegoat Lives!

When we say “scapegoat” in English, we are referring to someone who is punished for our misdeeds. But that isn’t how the Torah describes the sa'ir l'Azazel.

In Leviticus 16, the High Priest places the sins of the people onto a goat chosen “for Azazel,” ties a crimson thread onto its horn, and sends it alive into the wilderness. It is not sacrificed. It is not punished instead of us. The goat simply carries our sins away from us, back toward Sinai, into the desert, back to the place where we spent 40 years in the presence of God.

Our modern figure of speech misses the point: the biblical goat is not destroyed but released. Our sins are not wiped away; God graces us with a moment in which we are released from our sins.

The Talmud relates that when God forgave the people each Yom Kippur, the crimson thread turned white, fulfilling Isaiah’s promise: “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow” (Isa. 1:18).

Even without the Temple, Yom Kippur still gives us this gift. For part of this day, we are freed of our sins long enough to recognize them. On this day, we feel the pull toward holiness. Just as each passing hour strengthens our resolve to continue the fast, this day loosens the habits that bind us to our sins.

But we are human and we will sin again, perhaps the very moment the fast ends. (If I am any indication, we may even struggle to keep our thoughts pure during the day itself.)

Yom Kippur gives us a moment when God sees us as pure, and we feel the weight of sin lifted from us. It is a moment to taste what it feels like to live without guilt. We can see more clearly what our sins are and resolve to live differently in the year ahead. Unlike the scapegoat, we can't return to the Wilderness of Sinai, but we can strive to live well where we are, and seek, once more, to draw close to God.

How Medieval Rabbits Hopped into My Dining Room

When the first Passover seder falls on a Saturday night, Jewish tradition weaves together the rituals of leaving Shabbat and entering the festival. On that evening, there is a special sequence of blessings, remembered through the acronym, YaKNeHaZ:

• Yayin – blessing over the wine
• Kiddush – sanctifying the day over wine
• Ner – lighting the candle
• Havdalah – blessing marking the end of Shabbat
• Zman – reciting Shehecheyanu, the blessing for special occasions

Together these form the sequence YaKNeHaZ.

For Jews in medieval Ashkenaz, the sound of the acronym recalled the German phrase “jag den Has,” meaning “hunt the hare.” This coincidence sparked whimsical marginal illustrations in medieval haggadot, where hunters and rabbits became playful stand-ins for the liturgical order.

I’ve always been fascinated by this quirky intersection of language, ritual, and art. And when I started looking for artwork for my new home, I knew I didn’t want something that simply said, “Yes, I took Art History 101,” which, in fact, I didn't.

So with the help of AI, I created a series of illuminated-style images inspired by the hare-hunt tradition. My plan is to print, mat, and frame them as a cycle for my dining room wall. Each image reflects both the pun and the unfolding of seder night:

• The Hunt - a medieval pun with hunter, dog, and hares.
• Havdalah Amidst Rabbits - a candle raised, a cup of wine, and rabbit companions.
• Reading the Haggadah - man and rabbits together, remembering the exodus from Egypt.
• The Festive Meal - seder plate, matzah, and wine shared under a  full moon and starry sky.
• Shofar and Celebration - the hunt transformed into sounding the horn in hope of Elijah’s arrival.

For me, this project feels like reclaiming a bit of Jewish visual history, the lighter, more playful side of medieval manuscript art, and bringing it into a contemporary Jewish home.

Soon, when I hang them right to left (like Hebrew text) or perhaps top to bottom, they’ll read as a miniature illuminated Haggadah cycle. My dining room wall will tell not just the story of ritual order, but also the story of how Jews across time have used humor, puns, and imagination to enrich tradition.

Because ritual, like art, has always thrived when it leaves space for playfulness and laughter.