The bathroom door was locked, the fan humming in that soft, white-noise way that makes you feel hidden from the rest of the world. I sat there, half-focused on the porcelain beneath me, half-focused on the melting butter pecan ice cream in my hand. The cold sweetness coated my tongue, the nuts crunching just enough to keep me anchored in the moment.

Somewhere between the second and third spoonful, my thoughts drifted upward—past the ceiling, past the clouds, past the idea of the infinite—to God Himself. I wondered, not in a theological debate sense, but in that weird, half-distracted way you do when you’re on the toilet: if God exists, does He pick sides the way people think He does? Is He swayed by the same petty lines humans draw? Could the creator of galaxies hold something as small and ugly as antisemitism?

The thought sat in my head like an uninvited guest. The ice cream kept melting, the air felt heavier, and I wasn’t sure if I was looking for divine justice or divine bias. Either way, I was sure: God hates the Jews, too.