Converts to Judaism are often treated as rare exceptions — surprised looks, intrusive questions, comments like “who’s the lucky girl.” Yet conversion is no anomaly. It is now more common than at any point in the last 2,000 years. You see it in synagogue pews. You see it in rabbinical leadership.

As Hanukkah approaches, with its call to make Jewish identity visible, I keep returning to what happens when people choose Judaism — and to the parts of our tradition that do not fit the story we usually tell.

We often repeat that Judaism doesn’t seek converts. But clearly, people are seeking Judaism. Hanukkah forces us to ask what kind of Judaism they are finding by looking at the holiday’s own complicated history with power and conversion.

We usually tell Hanukkah as a straightforward story of good and evil: a small band of Jews defends their faith against an empire, and a miracle in the Temple affirms that steadfastness can overcome adversity. The holiday’s defining commandment, pirsum ha-nes — publicly proclaiming the miracle — seems equally simple. We put the menorah in the window for all to see. Judaism doesn’t hide.

But if you look more closely at the history behind that beloved story, Hanukkah is also about force, conversion and the question of what kind of Judaism we choose to embody when we’re no longer powerless.

John Hyrcanus, a later Hasmonean ruler and direct descendant of the Maccabees, is rarely mentioned in Hanukkah celebrations. Yet his legacy haunts the holiday. A generation after the revolt, Hyrcanus used the political power of the Hasmonean kingdom to forcibly convert the neighboring Idumeans to Judaism. A movement that began as resistance to assimilation ended in the coerced assimilation of others. The people whose story we tell as a fight for religious freedom became, in time, the ones taking that freedom away.

It’s an uncomfortable truth, especially for those of us who, like me, chose Judaism. I didn’t convert to marry in or reclaim distant ancestry. I converted because I saw in Judaism a faith worth choosing: a tradition grounded in human dignity and a God who seeks relationship. For years I was told Judaism was always a non-proselytizing, purely voluntary faith, the opposite of traditions that sought converts — including Jews — through coercion.

But our own texts complicate that narrative. Near the end of the Book of Esther, in a verse most Purim spiels rush past, we read: “And many of the people of the land professed to be Jews, for the fear of the Jews had fallen upon them.” That is not a story of seekers drawn by theology, but of people compelled to join the Jews out of fear.

When Judaism welcomed seekers

Those coercive moments sit alongside a very different strand of Jewish history — one in which Judaism didn’t force, but attracted. In the late Hellenistic and early Roman era, Christian and Jewish sources describe synagogues filled not only with those born Jewish but with converts and “God-fearers,” people drawn to Jewish ethics, study and monotheism. As a convert drawn to Judaism by faith alone, I came to see myself not as an anomaly, but as part of that long line.

Centuries later, a similar universalist voice resurfaced in 19th-century America, especially in the early Reform movement. Rabbis such as Isaac Mayer Wise preached Judaism’s mission not as an inward inheritance but as a message about human dignity meant for the world.

In 1870, laying the cornerstone of Columbus, Ohio’s first synagogue, Wise told a largely non-Jewish crowd that Judaism’s purpose was to remind humanity that “God hath made man upright,” A direct rejection of the Christian doctrine of Original Sin. Synagogues etched Isaiah’s verse — “For My house shall be a house of prayer for all peoples” — onto their facades and welcomed neighbors of every faith inside. Converts were welcomed as a natural extension of that conviction.

That confidence, too, was battered by history. Mass immigration of Eastern European Jews, the Holocaust, and the urgent work of supporting refugees and the new State of Israel all pushed the universalist voice to the background. Yet, more people are converting to Judaism than at any point since Roman times.

Meanwhile, religious identity in North America has become unusually fluid. Many people describe themselves as spiritually seeking but institutionally unaffiliated, brushing against Jewish life through family, friendships or personal study.

And yet, the gatekeeping persists. Converts are asked to defend their legitimacy. Jews-by-choice face skepticism in Israeli bureaucracy and suspicion in American Jewish spaces. I’ve been told I “don’t look Jewish,” and once, at a community film screening, another attendee — a fellow Jew — grabbed my name tag and publicly questioned whether I was really Jewish.

Those moments aren’t just rude; they reveal a deeper anxiety about boundaries: the fear that if Judaism is too open, it will lose itself. It’s a fortress mentality, one that sees every door as a potential breach.

What Judaism we reveal now

Hanukkah offers another possibility. The holiday asks us to present Judaism so that others can see it. It remembers a moment when Jews refused to disappear, and it also reminds us that Jews have sometimes used political power in ways that betrayed our deepest values. To take Hanukkah seriously in our time is to recognize that Jewish history, like the histories of all faiths, holds moments of both coercion and holiness — and that we have a choice about which lineage to lean into now, when seekers are again at the door.

The question is not whether Judaism should send out missionaries. Rather, it is whether we will live as if Isaiah’s verse still says what we claim it does: that our house is meant to be a house of prayer for all peoples, including those who, in every generation, find their way to our door.

This Hanukkah, as we place our menorahs in doorways, balconies and windows, the question beneath pirsum ha-nes is sharp: What kind of Jewish confidence are we proclaiming — a brittle confidence that closes in on itself, or a steadier confidence that welcomes those moved by the stories and ethics we are illuminating?

The miracle is not only that the Jewish people have survived. It is that Judaism continues to draw people in. The doors we open — or keep shut — will determine who gets to stand in that glow with us.

The post The part of the Hanukkah story we ignore — and why it matters to converts like me appeared first on The Forward.

A few weeks after I moved to Jerusalem this fall, I was barred from entering the Tomb of the Patriarchs on a visit to Hebron. Three soldiers stopped me almost as soon as I stepped through the entrance. “Do you support Palestine?” one asked. “Are you a Muslim?” another demanded.

I was confused — perhaps I was at the wrong door? The occupation has made separate entrances for each religion, with one for Jews and another for Muslims. Passport in hand, I told the soldiers that I am Jewish, had just moved here, and was visiting the Tomb for the first time. I gestured to the chai, Hebrew letters meaning “life,” around my neck. It did no good.

I had forgotten that I was wearing a t-shirt from the Taybeh Brewing Company. The shirt had the company’s name in Arabic, with the word “Palestine” printed beneath it. The soldiers demanded my friends and I stand against a wall as they searched our bags. Their anger only intensified as I explained that Taybeh is a beer company, whose product is enjoyed across Israeli cities.

Eventually, their superiors arrived, and told my friends and I to leave. Something as trivial as a T-shirt was seen as damning enough to negate my Judaism, as well as whatever rights come with it in this Jewish state.

I have heard many stories like this: Jews are banned from holy sites, communal activities, and institutions central to Jewish life, simply for showing care for Palestinian existence. This fall, two friends of mine, both Jewish-American, Hebrew-speaking women, were deported from Israel for participating in an olive harvest in the West Bank.

The consequences of these red lines affect Jews in the diaspora as well as in Israel. I personally know many Jews who have had their Judaism treated as illegitimate because of their criticism of Israel. An Orthodox friend of mine was bullied out of her college’s Jewish society for displaying posters that paired Jewish liturgy with images of destruction in Gaza. Another friend’s brother was barred from a synagogue after he was spotted in a video of a pro-Palestinian protest. And in some rabbinical schools, recent efforts seek to blacklist applicants who question Zionism.

Yet rarely do I hear these stories told in Jewish activist circles and used as campaign fuel. That’s a mistake. If we want to build a movement capable of affirming a different version of Jewish life in this land and throughout the diaspora, we must talk about the ways in which Israel harms Jews.

The left often prioritizes spotlighting the urgent needs of Palestinians — rightly, and with good reason. Palestinians are unequivocally oppressed. Gaza lies in ruins; Palestinians in the West Bank endure unprecedented state-backed settler violence; and the full death toll of two years of war — plus continuing Israeli strikes in Gaza — remains unknown.

But the deescalation that has accompanied the current ceasefire has opened an opportunity for the Jewish left an opportunity to reflect and redefine its strategy. What future, exactly, are they fighting for? And how can they best go about that fight?

Too often, Jewish leftist spaces shy away from these questions. What does the egalitarian, diverse and thriving Jewish future the left seeks to build look like in Israel and beyond? How does this future address the many legitimate questions Jews have about their safety and identity there?

When the left fails to answer these concerns, it invites Jews to be skeptical of the merits of its vision. If the Jewish left cannot articulate a way forward to a meaningful future for Jewish safety, belonging and spirituality in Israel, Jews will continue to seek those things from the reactionary forces who paint morbid pictures.

That’s a bad outcome for Jews, as well as for Palestinians.

Right now, Israel’s government enforces a hierarchy of Jewishness. In doing so, it prioritizes versions of Jewishness rooted in nationalism, and erodes the vast historical treasure trove of diverse Jewish expression.

This is no accident. Systems built on injustice turn those affected by them against each other. The narrow definitions of “good Jewishness” advanced by Israel’s government only serve to weaken our people. The Jewish left must present a contrast: A strong plan for Jewish life in Israel that uplifts the spiritual and cultural traditions of the Jewish people, and coexists with a peaceful, free future for Palestinians. A vision of abundance, rather than the specter of scarcity that dominates today’s politics.

Of course, the alienation I and other Jews have experienced in Israel and because of Israeli policies pales in comparison to the violence, dispossession, and racism Palestinians have long faced under Israeli rule. But both emerge from the same supremacist logic. The same system that decides who is human enough to enter, pray, and live.

To challenge this system, the Jewish left must include Jewish stories of exclusion in the narrative of our politics—not to distract from Palestinian suffering, but to expand understanding of what this movement truly aims to accomplish: A good future for Jews and Palestinians, equally. After all: How can a state that punishes Jews for wearing the wrong t-shirt claim to protect us?

The post The Jewish left is misplaying its hand — by not focusing enough on Jews appeared first on The Forward.

A protest outside a prominent New York City synagogue has prompted a bill that would ban demonstrations within 25 feet of houses of worship and reproductive health care clinics. But free speech advocates say the proposed restriction raises constitutional concerns that could put the measure on shaky ground.

“This bill, especially as written, would ban an enormous amount of protests in New York and contradict pretty well established First Amendment protections for protest on sidewalks and public streets,” Carolyn Iodice, legislative and policy director for the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression, told the Forward.

If passed, the bill could tee up a legal clash over how to balance the protection of worshippers with protesters’ First Amendment rights.

State Assemblyman Micah Lasher, who introduced the bill, defended it in an interview with CNN: “There needs to be some reasonable space so that people who are trying to enter a house of worship or reproductive care facility can do so without having to run a gauntlet,” he said.

Mayor-elect Zohran Mamdani was reportedly receptive to the idea of limiting protests near houses of worship during a conversation with Rabbi Marc Schneier, the son of Park East Rabbi Arthur Schneier. Later, Mamdani told the Forward that he would consult community leaders and  legal experts before determining whether he supports the legislation.

Why was the bill introduced?

Lasher said he introduced the legislation partly in response to a protest outside Park East Synagogue, where demonstrators objected to an event inside promoting immigration to Israel. Protesters chanted slogans like “death to the IDF” and “globalize the intifada.”

Mamdani condemned the demonstration and said New Yorkers should be free to enter houses of worship without intimidation. But he also said that “sacred spaces should not be used to promote activities in violation of international law,” referring to the promotion of Jewish settlements in the Israeli-occupied West Bank.

That statement drew outrage from some Jewish leaders who view making aliyah, or immigrating to Israel, as a core Jewish value. Two weeks later, UJA-Federation of New York hosted a rally outside Park East Synagogue, where speakers condemned the protesters’ rhetoric.

Speaking to the crowd, Rabbi Arthur Schneier backed the legislation and urged attendees to call their representatives to express support.

“Legislators, keep your eyes open,” Schneier said. “This is what we want.”

What are the constitutional concerns?

In weighing constitutionality, courts consider whether a law restricts more speech than necessary to achieve the government’s interest.

In this case, if the state’s goal is simply to ensure physical access to places of worship, there are already laws in place, according to Iodice. A 1994 federal law, the Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances Act, makes it illegal to use force, threats, or physical obstruction to block access to reproductive health services or houses of worship.

If the government’s goal is to ensure congregants can worship without emotional distress, the bill may be too broad, according to Alan Brownstein, a constitutional law scholar and professor emeritus at UC Davis School of Law.

“Suppose you had three people and they had a sign that said, Reconsider attending this house of worship, because the clergy oppose same sex marriage. And that’s all you had, three people with signs and they’re 20 feet away,” Brownstein said. “Is that traumatizing? Is that so disturbing to people who are going to attend a house of worship that we have to prohibit it?”

It’s also unclear what the bill means by “demonstrating,” he said. Some definitions — like two or more people engaging in expressive conduct — could apply to a wedding ceremony outside a synagogue as easily as a protest.

Legislators also cannot ban speech they dislike while allowing speech they approve. So if the bill only targets protests but permits supportive demonstrations, that creates another legal problem, Brownstein said.

The distance requirement could also be an issue. The bill requires demonstrators to stay 25 feet away from not only the building, but also its parking lot, driveway, and sidewalk, which could make the actual restriction larger, Iodice said.

In a densely packed area like Manhattan, that could eliminate a lot of protest space.

“Banning protests across wide swaths of Manhattan, as a realistic matter, that’s not going to fly constitutionally because of how much speech it restricts,” Iodice said.

There is some precedent for this kind of restriction: Laws creating protest-free buffer zones have been used in a variety of other contexts, including at funerals and abortion clinics in other states.

But it’s an open question whether those cases translate to houses of worship, Brownstein said, because healthcare clinics and cemeteries don’t participate in public discourse in the same way a synagogue or church does.

He considered a hypothetical law barring demonstrations within 25 feet of a political party’s headquarters, in what would be an obvious attempt to silence opposing views.

“Now, houses of worship aren’t political campaign headquarters,” Brownstein said. “But if anyone argued to me that religion is not a major voice in public discourse and debate in the United States, I don’t know where they’ve been.”

The post A new bill would ban protests near synagogues, after the Park East protest. Is that legal? appeared first on The Forward.