Since October 7th, I’ve witnessed a phenomenon that defies both logic and precedent. In the wake of the Hamas massacre and the ensuing surge in global antisemitism, I have not only comforted congregants, written eulogies, and held space for grief—I have also found myself receiving more inquiries about conversion to Judaism than at any other point in my rabbinic career. And not just a trickle. A surge.
They come in quietly, at first. A DM on Instagram. A hesitant email. A conversation after services, when most others have gone home. They ask, “What does it take to become Jewish?” But what they really mean is: “How can I stand with you—not just politically, but spiritually?” They are not seeking safety. They are not trying to blend in. They are walking toward a fire that is still burning—and choosing to call it home.
This is not an isolated experience. Colleagues across denominations and continents are witnessing the same. The Miller Introduction to Judaism Program in Los Angeles has reported record-breaking enrollment. Online courses for prospective converts have waitlists. Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Renewal—everyone is seeing it. We don’t have full data yet, but the anecdotal swell is real and growing. We are living through a moment where the boundaries of Jewish peoplehood are being tested—and expanded.
Each of these seekers has their own story. One woman, raised as an evangelical Christian, told me she began lighting Shabbat candles after watching footage of Israeli families grieving. “I didn’t know why I was doing it,” she said. “It just felt like the only thing I could do that made sense.” A man who had studied Jewish philosophy for years but never seriously considered conversion now says, “I can’t not do this anymore.” A college student on a politically fraught campus told me, with tears in her eyes: “I’m tired of being on the sidelines of history. I want to be counted. Not as an ally. As family.”
These are not romanticized spiritual pilgrims seeking an exotic new identity. These are people who have looked at the Jewish story—complete with all its trauma and fragility—and said: This is where I want to be, not despite the pain, but because of it. There is something so utterly countercultural about that choice. We live in an age of self-optimization, personal branding, and carefully curated safety. And here are people deliberately tying their destiny to one of the most persistently persecuted minorities in human history. Why?
Because something in the Jewish story speaks not just to the mind, but to the soul.
The Covenant After Catastrophe
Tradition teaches us that a convert is like a newborn child (Yevamot 22a)—not because they become someone else, but because they are beginning a new lineage, a new story. And that story begins not with ease, but with covenant. Not with certainty, but with risk.
It’s tempting to think that conversion is a kind of spiritual consumerism—a picking and choosing of identity markers. But that is not what I am seeing. These people convert not because Judaism offers comfort, but because it offers meaning. They are not just interested in being inspired but in being claimed.
And for many, October 7th was the moment that crystallized that longing. It was not simply the horror of the attack, though that was enough. It was the world’s response—or lack thereof. It was the silence of peers, the equivocation of institutions, the vilification of Jews in the streets of major cities. For many seekers, this global abandonment functioned as a spiritual mirror. They saw the way the world turned on the Jews—and recognized themselves in the reflection.
I am reminded of Ruth. Not the sanitized version we teach to children, but the real Ruth: a Moabite widow with every reason to go back to her people, her gods, her safety. Instead, she clings to Naomi, an older woman with nothing to offer her. “Where you go, I will go. Your people shall be my people. Your God, my God.” Ruth does not convert for power or comfort. She converts for loyalty. For meaning. For destiny.
The midrash tells us that Ruth’s conversion was not merely personal; it was cosmic. She wasn’t just joining a family—she was binding herself to a covenant that transcended history. In choosing Naomi, she was choosing exile and homelessness, suffering and silence. And in doing so, she became the ancestor of King David and, ultimately, of the messianic line. Her story reminds us: those who join us in the hardest moments are the ones who reshape our future.
From Trauma to Theological Honesty
There is a long-standing unease in Jewish tradition about welcoming converts too eagerly. The Talmud even suggests turning them away three times before accepting them (Yevamot 47a), not out of cruelty but out of a deep respect for the weight of the choice. Judaism is not a sales pitch. It’s a peoplehood. It’s a wound and a wonder, both handed down together.
But there’s also a counter-narrative in our tradition—one that views converts not as second-class Jews but as first-rate moral heroes. The Torah commands us thirty-six times to love the ger—the stranger who joins us—more than any other commandment. Why? Because we were once strangers. Because we know the ache of being outside the circle. Because the convert knows what it means to choose this story when it would be so much easier not to.
In our post-October 7th world, this commandment has acquired a new urgency. Many Jews are grieving, frightened, and angry. Many are retreating inward. But the arrival of converts interrupts that retreat. It reminds us that our story is not only one of survival—it is one of invitation. Of covenant renewed.
And yet, we have to be honest: integrating converts into Jewish life isn’t always smooth. Jewish communal spaces are often saturated with assumptions—about Hebrew fluency, about Jewish day school, about who “really” belongs. In some corners, there’s even a suspicion that those converting now are doing so for attention, or political cover, or emotional overidentification. We must resist that cynicism with everything we’ve got. Because these individuals are not asking to be tokenized or tolerated. They are asking to be counted.
Judaism is Not a Bloodline
One of the most insidious lies of modern antisemitism is that Judaism is merely an ethnic identity. A tribe. A closed club. But Judaism has never been reducible to bloodlines or borders. It is a covenantal identity—rooted in shared obligations, not shared chromosomes.
It’s worth remembering that some of our tradition’s greatest voices were not born Jewish. The sage Onkelos, who authored the authoritative Aramaic translation of the Torah, was a Roman noble who converted. Rabbi Meir, one of the foundational voices of the Mishnah, was descended from converts. The Messianic hope in Jewish tradition is not ethnically insular—it is grounded in the belief that the world can change, and that those who seek to be part of that change will find a home among us.
This is why the language of “conversion” is somewhat misleading. These individuals are not turning away from something—they are turning toward something. They are becoming more fully themselves. As the writer and convert Leah Vincent put it: “I didn’t become Jewish. I discovered that I had been Jewish all along.”
The Fire and the Future
It is impossible to ignore the historical irony of this moment. For much of Jewish history, conversion was a death sentence. In medieval Europe, those who converted to Judaism could be burned alive. Even today, in parts of the Muslim world, converting to Judaism is illegal—or grounds for social and familial excommunication. And in Western democracies, those who convert often face subtle, sometimes overt, challenges within Jewish communities that pride themselves on inclusivity but struggle with true pluralism.
And yet—they come.
They come not because Judaism is easy, but because it is true. They come not because Jews are popular, but because the Jewish story is compelling. They come not because they wish to escape the world, but because they want to help repair it.
The 20th-century philosopher Emmanuel Levinas wrote that “the entry into Judaism is an entry into a difficult freedom.” That’s what these converts are choosing—a difficult freedom. A freedom defined not by the absence of danger, but by the presence of responsibility. A freedom grounded in covenant, in mitzvah, in the sacred weight of belonging.
It is no small thing to join a people in their moment of pain. But to do so without illusion, to do so with eyes wide open—that is something holy.
A Communal Response
So what are we to do with this moment?
First, we must embrace these new Jews fully—not just as learners or allies, but as fellow travelers in the wilderness. We must listen to their stories. We must make room for their insights. We must dismantle the quiet hierarchies that treat born Jews as more “authentic” than those who have chosen this path. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, of blessed memory, wrote: “What we are is God’s gift to us. What we become is our gift to God.”
Second, we must allow their commitment to rekindle our own. The presence of new Jews in our midst is not just an affirmation of our survival—it is a challenge to deepen our engagement. If someone is willing to risk so much just to enter the covenant, how can we take that covenant for granted?
And third, we must tell this story. Loudly. Publicly. Proudly. The narrative of Jewish life since October 7th has been one of grief, fear, and betrayal. That is true—and it must not be minimized. But it is not the whole story. Alongside the rage and the loneliness, there is a quiet revolution of belonging underway. There are souls choosing the fire—and calling it holy.
Conclusion: Seeing the Hand of God
So yes—I have seen a surge. A surge of seekers. A surge of courage. A surge of covenant.
And in that surge, I see something more than demographics or spiritual trends. I see the hand of God.
Because if Jewish history has taught us anything, it is that destruction is never the final chapter. The Temple fell, and Torah flourished. We were expelled from Spain, and Kabbalah flowered in Safed. We came out of Auschwitz, and built a state.
And now—after the horror of October 7th, after the isolating chill of the world’s betrayal—new Jews are walking into our story with open eyes and open hearts.
They are not naive.
They know the danger.
And still—they come.
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