Growing up at a Reform temple in suburban Boston, Sarah Hurwitz learned that Judaism is just “four holidays, two texts and a few universalistic values.” 

When she left home, she largely eschewed all Jewish observance for two decades, she reflected in a recent interview with Jewish Insider. In that time, she got two degrees at Harvard and reached the pinnacle of Washington success, serving as a senior speechwriter, first to President Barack Obama and then to First Lady Michelle Obama. If she engaged with Judaism at all, it was with a light touch — she was merely a “cultural Jew,” as she usually called herself. 

“I just didn’t realize there was Jewish culture. I just meant, ‘Oh, I’m anxious and kind of funny,’” Hurwitz told JI last month. 

Approaching a midlife crisis, Hurwitz found her way to an intro to Judaism class at a Washington synagogue nearly a decade ago. She embarked on a journey of learning Jewish traditions and studying Jewish texts that sparked her first book, the 2019 Here All Along, a joyful and accessible primer to Judaism. 

“Its thesis was, ‘Isn’t Judaism amazing?’ Not a lot of Jews are going to disagree with that thesis,” Hurwitz said. 

She is doing something different with her new book, As A Jew: Reclaiming Our Story From Those Who Blame, Shame, and Try to Erase Us, which was published this week. 

“This is definitely a book with an argument. It is definitely edgier than my first book,” Hurwitz said. 

That’s because in As A Jew, Hurwitz is grappling with a question that struck at the core of who she is, or at least who she was until a decade ago. Why, she asks, was she always qualifying her Judaism? She was always a “cultural Jew,” an “ethnic Jew,” a “social justice Jew,” she writes. Hurwitz was never simply a Jew, one word, proud, head tall. 

In her new book, as she tackles the millennia of antisemitism that led her to unwittingly minimize her own identity, she is asking questions that others who similarly distort or diminish their Jewish identity may not want to face. 

“I was really trying to make others comfortable with me, right? I didn’t want them to think I was one of those really Jew-y Jews, which … why would that be bad, again?” Hurwitz said. “Why did social justice have to be my Judaism? Why couldn’t Judaism be my Judaism?”

This doesn’t mean Hurwitz is criticizing people who engage with Judaism through a social justice lens, or through culture, or any other avenue besides religious observance. Her own personal Jewish learning journey has not made her an Orthodox Jew. The argument she’s making is that Jews should engage with Judaism … well, Jewishly — by learning what Jewish texts have to say about social justice, rather than taking some universal values like “care for the vulnerable” and calling that your Judaism.

“Social justice is also a gorgeous way to be a Jew when you actually know what Judaism says about social justice,” said Hurwitz. “When I was this kind of contentless Jew, I don’t really know what I was doing. I was often just articulating my own views and opinions and kind of attributing them to Judaism.” 

She begins with a basic question: The Holocaust happened because the Nazis hated the Jews. But why did they hate the Jews? OK, the Jews were the scapegoat after World War I. But why the Jews? That unanswered question makes it hard for anyone to identify modern-day antisemitism, Hurwitz argues.

“These poor kids, it’s very confusing, because they’ve gotten Holocaust education, and they’re like, ‘That’s antisemitism education,’” said Hurwitz. “And then you get to campus and there are no Nazis, and you’re like, ‘What is this?’”

To answer that, she goes back thousands of years. The book examines Judaism in the context of the historical movements that have tried to crush it, or at least confine it: early Christianity, the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the Enlightenment, the Holocaust. Not each of these eras sought to eliminate Judaism, but each one presented a particular idea of the good kind of Jew. 

Throughout history, some Jews always tried to adapt to the mores of the day and disavow essential parts of Judaism in order to fit in. The only problem, writes Hurwitz, is it didn’t work. You can be Jewish, but not too Jewish. Like when modernity swept across Western Europe in the 19th century, and Jews could suddenly become citizens of France and Germany — so long as they placed their country’s identity above their Jewish identity.

“This book was very much my journey to stripping away all those layers of internalized antisemitism, anti-Judaism, all of that internalized shame from so many years of persecution, and just saying, ‘You know what, no, I’m a Jew,’” said Hurwitz.

Hurwitz pitched this book before the Oct. 7 Hamas attacks that sparked a wave of global antisemitism. But she says the events of the last two years have only furthered her argument that Jews throughout history have felt the need to separate from parts of their community to earn the approval of the rest of society.

“Oct. 7 did not change the overall argument at all. It unfortunately, in many ways, gave this devastating, heartbreaking, new evidence from the argument,” Hurwitz said. 

Hurwitz hopes to reach a broad audience. But she spent a decade and a half enmeshed in Democratic politics professionally, and she particularly hopes to can reach Jews on the left who have distanced themselves from Zionism partly as a condition of their belonging in progressive spaces. 

“I am hoping that I can speak particularly to Jews who maybe have identified as Democrats, who are a little bit more on the left, and I can tell them why I am a Zionist. I can tell them why I think it is so important that Israel exists,” Hurwitz said. “I can make that argument, and I’m hoping that it will be credible coming from me, in a way that maybe it wouldn’t from others.”

The biggest Jewish food event of the summer began like so many other great Jewish moments: with a story. In this case, that was the story of Noah’s Ark. Or at least that’s what it felt like on Sunday, as an unexpected rainstorm pelted New York City just moments before thousands of foodies were supposed to arrive at Governor’s Island for an afternoon of eating.

But like in that ancient biblical tale, the rain stopped and the sun poked through, paving the way for humanity to survive — or, at least, to nosh. And to nosh really well. 

The Great Nosh Picnic was the most significant undertaking yet for Naama Shefi and the Jewish Food Society, the nonprofit she founded in 2017 to promote Jewish cuisine. Since then, Shefi has become something of a tastemaker when it comes to identifying the next generation of Jewish culinary talent and nurturing the traditions from which they emerged. (Part of JFS’ mission has been to preserve Jewish culinary history, including with an archive of recipes from Jewish immigrants from around the world.) 

Her mission with the Great Nosh Picnic was even bigger. She wanted to create a large-scale celebration of Jewish food and Jewish culture that would rival other major citywide cultural events like the Pride Parade, St. Patrick’s Day and Cinco de Mayo. 

“I live in New York City, a city whose culture and Jewish culture are so deeply connected,” Shefi told Jewish Insider. “I live on East Broadway Street on the Lower East Side, and you feel this connection on the street. But still, we don’t have any whole city celebration to emphasize that and to include everyone, and that was really the motivation.”

“We’re trying to create a movement,” Shefi continued, “and this is honestly just the beginning.” 

Her plan is off to a good start. The event sold out all 2,500 tickets the first 48 hours after tickets went on sale last month. A buzzy Instagram post from New York magazine helped, and before the event started, 5,000 people were on a waitlist for tickets. 

More than a dozen vendors set up tents around a grassy lawn overlooking lower Manhattan. Each attendee received a branded Great Nosh Picnic tote bag, which included a picnic blanket (waterproof, conveniently), sharing plates and a deck of cards. People were spread out lazily on a sea of checkered blankets, enjoying specially crafted dishes from some of New York’s hottest chefs. Toddlers ran around under an overcast sky, which for much of the afternoon shielded people from the worst of the punishing heat wave promised by forecasters.

The picnic idea was loosely inspired by Shefi’s upbringing on a kibbutz in Israel. The seasonal dishes, paired with fresh fruit, cheese and bread available for purchase in a “provisions” tent, were meant to provide a “much more fresh, stylistic, beautiful and lush” representation of Jewish cuisine than she is used to seeing reflected in the American Jewish community.

“I grew up on a kibbutz celebrating Shavuot and having this celebration in the form of a picnic, a community gathering on the grass every year,” said Shefi, referring to the Jewish holiday that falls in late spring and marks the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. “It’s so poetic and beautiful, the connection to the land and farming and seasonality.”

The food was roughly kosher-style: no pork or shellfish, although some chefs mixed meat and milk. One stand, a collaboration between Israeli chef Eyal Shani and American food writer Jake Cohen, featured a certified kosher dish, a deconstructed sabich, or fried eggplant, sandwich. Each tent served a dish devised by a pairing of chefs, matches that Shefi helped set up, yenta-style. 

There was a marbled rye roti reuben (corned beef, grueyere, bamboo kraut, mango slaw) created by Katz’s Deli and Thai Diner. (The staff working that booth wore matching shirts: “Because it’s iconic and we love to do iconic sh**.”) Across the way, a mash-up between Gertrude’s, a newish Brooklyn hotspot, and Dhamaka, from the Michelin-starred Indian chef Chintan Pandya, featured lamb pastrami on a chapati, with green chutney and dill sour cream. Elbow Bread and the Korean restaurant Sunn’s — which are on the same block on the Lower East Side — offered banchan bialys, available with smoky eggplant, kimchi or garlic cucumber.  

Schnitzel was repurposed as “schnitz and chips” by the Brooklyn cafe K’far with Dame, a British seafood restaurant, and served with tahini and schug. La Boite, an Israeli-owned spice company, partnered with the mobile pizza oven Slow Fires for a corn and labneh pizza, cooked with saffron and topped with La Boite’s spice blends. 

It was a languorous afternoon, where appropriate dining times and orders did not matter; a chicken appetizer could be followed by an ice cream main course and a bagel dessert. 

But there were plenty of real desserts, too. A lemon poppyseed “bagel” (read: cookie) ice cream sandwich from Russ & Daughters and Morgensterns. Another sandwich, with mini black and white cookies straddling a piece of cheesecake, from the baker Caroline Schiff and the restaurant Juniors. A malted cinnamon babka from Breads Bakery and East Village bakery Hani’s. 

Elsewhere, the modern Judaica artist Susan Alexandra, known for her whimsical designs, oversaw a beading station where patrons young and old made friendship bracelets, choosing from brightly colored beads that featured Hebrew letters and Jewish stars. At the “Grandmas Tent,” older chefs led cooking demonstrations with younger family members, with generous samples passed around afterward. 

Not everyone at the picnic was Jewish. Some may simply have wanted a taste of cuisine made by award-winning chefs without having to manipulate Resy or OpenTable for a reservation. 

“We are inviting the entire city to join the Great Nosh,” Shefi said. “The excitement went way, way beyond the Jewish world.”

Still, the grounds had the feel of a catwalk where New York’s Jews could strut their stuff, whether that meant a “Shalom Y’all” t-shirt or curly hair puffing up in the humidity or a giant chai necklace coupled with the now-ubiquitous hostage dog tag. One bulky man in a sleeveless sweatshirt rocked a huge Magen David tattoo on his upper arm. A couple strolled around in matching hats, his reading “Brooklyn Reb” and hers reading “Brooklyn Rebbetzin.” When DJ Mark Ronson played a set to close out the afternoon, one woman held a raw cauliflower in the air as she danced. 

Governor’s Island became a place where, for a few hours, Jews could be themselves, unselfconsciously, with no politics and no religious ritual beyond being together. (Well, there was a rabbi asking men to wrap tefillin. But would it be a Jewish event if there weren’t?) 

Everyone heading to the picnic, reachable only by ferry, floated past the Statue of Liberty — the same beacon that greeted the iconic Jewish immigrant chefs and business owners of the Lower East Side who laid the groundwork for Sunday’s modern feast a century or more ago when they first arrived in America, seeking a better life. The anti-Jewish hatred the unofficial founders of American Jewish cuisine sought to escape is now firmly ensconced in this country and on the streets of New York. 

But once inside the festival, any hint of that antisemitism, and the challenges that American Jews have lived with since the Oct. 7 terror attacks, vanished.

“While we can struggle with the state of affairs, we can and also need to find joy, find ways to connect with what it means to be Jewish, and that’s very personal and different for different people,” said Niki Russ Federman, the fourth-generation co-owner of Russ & Daughters. “But I do think that food is one of the great unifiers of the Jewish community. … We need something like this more than ever.”