This week, the Jewish community in Charlotte was the unfortunate recipient of Jew hatred; a vile antisemitic poster was placed on the door of the Charlotte Jewish Day School. An old story, perhaps apocryphal, came to mind. An elderly rabbi in a pre–World War II Eastern European town was walking down the street when he was viciously attacked with a wooden board by an assailant screaming, “Christ-killer!” Shocked bystanders rushed to help him to his feet. As the attacker fled, the rabbi shook his bloodied head and remarked, almost in wonder: How extraordinary are human beings. He so wanted to hit a Jew—but couldn’t do it without a reason.
That observation remains painfully relevant. Today’s surge of antisemitism follows the same pattern. Those who hate Jews feel compelled to cloak their hatred in justification. First comes the animus; only afterward do the excuses emerge.
Over the centuries, those excuses have shifted but never disappeared. Jews have been accused of slaughtering Christian children and using their blood to bake matzos, poisoning wells, spreading plagues, manipulating governments, provoking wars, and controlling economies. The charges contradict one another, yet their sheer number reveals the truth: when hatred exists, “rationales” will always be found.
Today, the cry of “Christ-killer” has been replaced with “baby killer.” Jew-haters shout it at Hasidim walking peacefully through American, European, or Australian streets—as if those individuals somehow bear responsibility for events in Gaza. It is absurd, but absurdity has never been an obstacle to hatred.
Jews have been persecuted for being communists and for being capitalists, for being globalists and for being insular, for being powerful elites and for being impoverished outsiders. The inconsistency is the point. No explanation is ever the real cause.
What, logically, does Israel’s military campaign—whatever one’s view of it—have to do with assaulting a Jewish pedestrian, torching a synagogue, or gunning down Hanukkah celebrants? Nothing. But logic is not what drives antisemitism. Pretexts suffice.
At its core, modern antisemitism, like its historical predecessors, is not a political position but a psychological fixation. The violence, vandalism, and denunciations are not responses to Jewish actions; they are expressions of an obsession looking for permission. And permission, tragically, is never hard to find.
So, how should we react to Antisemitism, the world’s oldest hatred? Firstly, we must avoid a mistake many Jews made over time. For centuries, some Jews believed the way to combat anti-Semitism was to embrace political ideologies that promised enlightenment, universality for humanity, and social justice. Although Jews joined these movements, they were never fully embraced by them—and anti-Semitism continued. Loyal assimilated German Jews, including WW I heroes who had earned Iron Crosses for bravery to the Fatherland, were not spared deportation to concentration camps. No matter what Jews do, they are never fully accepted—even by their own comrades in arms.
Jews have tried ideologies, philosophies, and even converting to different religions in order to deal with anti-Semitism. Herzl thought the problem was that we don’t have our own land but history has shown that even having the State of Israel hasn’t curtailed anti-Semitism.
Anne Frank was bothered by Anti-Semitism and came to this conclusion in her Diary:
Who knows, it might even be our religion from which the world and all peoples learn good, and for that reason and only that reason do we suffer. We can never become just Netherlanders, or just English or representatives of any country for that matter. We will always remain Jews.
We have a mandate to transmit a message to the world; there’s a loving G-d who expects us to be humanity’s models for compassion, equal justice and dignity for all. A non-Jewish 20th century sociologist, Ernest van den Haag, wrote in The Jewish Mystique: “The Jews gave the world G-d and the world has never forgiven them.”
What should we do when the world hates and tries to destroy us? We strengthen our Jewish identity by engaging in authentic Jewish experiences. We attend a Torah class or weekday or Shabbat prayers or one of the many other opportunities for authentic Jewish engagement. But cowering away in fear and pretending we don’t have an important mission that (has and) will benefit the world, is a tragedy.
Here’s a metaphor to describe that way of thinking. If you had a daughter with beautiful red hair who came home from school crying, saying the kids made fun of her hair, one of the worst things you could do would be to color her hair. By doing so, you would validate those who mocked her. What would wise parents do? Tell her about famous, intelligent, and beautiful women who had red hair and how it is a benefit, not a detriment.
When people go after us for what we represent, the reaction should not be to color our hair (i.e., assimilate and forget our unique Jewish identity). Instead, we should embrace the very thing they see special in us and learn about it and embrace our beauty.
Why Goat Yoga Isn’t Freedom — and Korban Pesach Is:
Rav Noach Weinberg on the Inner Pharaoh and Real Liberation
Believe it or not, goat yoga is a phenomenon. People roll out yoga mats in pursuit of serenity while small goats wander freely—climbing on backs, chewing sleeves, and doing whatever suits them. The goats are completely at ease, and—seemingly—many of the yoga enthusiasts are as well. Marketed as an experience of mindfulness and freedom, goat yoga draws its appeal from watching these untethered, independent animals who appear utterly unconcerned with anyone else’s expectations.
But that image of “freedom” is worlds apart from the goats that appear in Parshat Bo.
As the Jewish people prepared to leave Egypt, God commanded them to bring a Korban Pesach, a Passover offering taken from a lamb, sheep—or a goat. That detail is significant. In ancient Egypt, sheep and goats were objects of worship, symbols of power and divine authority. Bringing one into a Jewish home, tying it up for several days, and then slaughtering it openly was not merely a ritual act; it was a public declaration that the Jewish people no longer feared what Egypt held sacred.
This act marked a critical step toward redemption. The soon-to-be-released slaves could not leave Egypt physically until they had already left it psychologically and spiritually.
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch explains why the Torah specifically allows a goat for the Korban Pesach. Commenting on Exodus 12:5, he writes:
“The goat (עז) bears the character of greater independence externally toward others, and hence עז also means to offer opposition, to be obstinate. The goat shows his horns to every stranger, but to his shepherd he is as obedient and pliant as the sheep.”
The goat represents a very particular kind of independence. It resists anyone who tries to dominate it, yet willingly submits to the one it recognizes as its true guide. Rav Hirsch suggests that this was the model of freedom being taught on the night of the Exodus. By offering a goat, the Jewish people demonstrated that they would no longer submit to Egypt’s gods or values. At the same time, they freely and consciously chose to place themselves under the guidance of the Almighty.
Here lies the quiet irony of goat yoga. The goats look free because they do whatever they want—but they are not choosing values or exercising moral judgment. They are simply following instinct.
Judaism does not define freedom as the absence of restraint. It defines freedom as the ability to choose whom and what we serve. Parshat Bo teaches that true liberation does not come from lowering standards or emptying life of obligation; it comes from rejecting false masters and committing to something higher—even when that commitment is demanding. The Jewish people did not leave Egypt by becoming more comfortable. They left by becoming more responsible.
Rav Noach Weinberg expressed this idea powerfully in his teaching on Passover. The holiday is called zman cheiruteinu—the season of freedom. But freedom from what? Rav Noach would ask: Did you know you’re a slave? All of us are, in some way. Slavery does not always look like chains and bricks; often it sounds like a voice inside us.
Think about something simple, like exercise. You decide you want to get fit. You want to eat better. You commit to change. And then the body starts talking: This will kill you. I need that cupcake. I can’t handle this. I’m going to break down.
Who’s stopping you? You want it—so do it. But instead, we listen to those voices and believe them. Over time, the body becomes the boss. It rules us. It bullies us by telling us what we can’t do. That voice is Pharaoh. Not ancient history, but an inner force saying: You can’t change. You can’t grow. You can’t handle this. That is real slavery.
Rav Noach explained that Passover begins with spring cleaning because before we clean our homes, we are meant to clean our lives. We examine all the things we truly want to do—but don’t—because we feel stuck, afraid, or incapable. And just before Passover, we burn the chametz and declare: This is nonsense. This does not control me. Freedom doesn’t begin when we leave Egypt; it begins when Egypt leaves us. The moment you stop saying “I can’t,” you have already begun to leave.
The Exodus was not merely an escape. It was the birth of a people capable of true independence—strong enough to resist external pressure, yet humble enough to submit to God. It is a life of choice, the opposite of instinct-driven living, and far deeper than the surface-level freedom we often celebrate today.
Goat yoga may promise calm by lowering expectations. The Torah promises freedom by raising them. The goal was never to live like goats, following every impulse—but to live as free human beings, capable of choice, commitment, and covenant.