we all go to heaven in a little rowboat.

i’ve always been absolutely enchanted—positively spellbound, even—by the peculiar and utterly dazzling social alchemy that seems to hum beneath the surface of the jewish people, a strange and ancient magic that allows us to knit ourselves together in friendship and kinship, even across the widest chasms of ideology, theology, and culture. as a gay, liberal, secular, jew—proudly so, i often find myself perched on the very edge of the more traditional expressions of jewish life, peering in like a curious passerby through a warmly lit window. and yet, despite the distance, despite the differences, there’s this invisible, unbreakable filament that tugs me back, that whispers,you belong here, even when you don’t quite fit.

what absolutely floors me—like a punchline delivered by god herself—is how easily, how effortlessly it seems, that jews can turn strangers into friends, even those who’ve never lit a shabbat candle or cracked open a torah. i’ve seen orthodox families break bread with muslim neighbors, queer jews forge unshakable bonds with christian allies, and secular activists link arms with deeply religious co-religionists, not out of obligation, but out of this deep, almost ancestral instinct for connection. we argue, oh do we argue—we dissect every word, challenge every assumption, turn every dinner table into a beit midrash of chaos and laughter and tears. and yet, somehow, we stay at the table. we don’t walk out. we don’t unfriend. we don’t exile.

but then—oh, then—there’s the goyim.