May 18, 2026|ב' סיון ה' אלפים תשפ"ו American Jews at 250: Between Acceptance and Antisemitism By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

If I were to ask you which of the following seemed more likely: that a President of the United States would publicly encourage Jews across the country to observe Shabbat, or that a major mainstream newspaper would publish a modern-day blood libel accusing Israel of using dogs to rape Palestinian prisoners — which would you choose?

Most of us would probably say that the first sounds almost unimaginable, while the second sounds like something we hoped belonged to medieval Europe, not the modern Western world.

And yet, this month, both happened.

On the one hand, we are living in an era of unprecedented openness, support, and visibility for Jewish life in America. On the other hand, we are witnessing the return of ancient antisemitic tropes repackaged in contemporary language and granted legitimacy by respected institutions.

That tension — between acceptance and hostility, flourishing and vulnerability — may actually help us understand something profound about what it means to live as Jews in the modern world.

This year America celebrates 250 years of independence, and President Trump declared May Jewish American Heritage Month. As part of the broader “Rededicate 250” celebration — a national moment of prayer, praise, and thanksgiving — President Trump encouraged Jewish Americans to observe a national Sabbath from sundown on May 15 until nightfall on May 16.

And what I find so astonishing about President Trump’s announcement, is not just that he calls upon all Jews to observe Shabbat, but he is even makpid about bein hashmashot – from sundown on May 15 until nightfall on May 16. I don’t know whether he also wants us to hold like Rabbenu Tam for the end of Shabbos, but at least he’s makpid about bein hashmashot.

Now, just to be clear, there were many ways other than Shabbat to celebrate Jewish American Heritage Month.

Trump could have declared: “In honor of Jewish American heritage month, every Jew should complain about antisemitism, shul politics, and yeshiva tuition — preferably in the same conversation.”

Or: “In honor of Jewish American heritage month, every Jew should make a donation to a Jewish institution and then immediately explain how they would run it better.”

Or he could have encouraged us to perform one of the other 612 mitzvot in the Torah.

Why Shabbat?

What is it about Shabbat that so uniquely captures Jewish identity — and especially Jewish identity in America?

Perhaps the obvious answer is that Shabbat is a day of rest, reflection, and gratitude. As President Trump himself wrote, it is an opportunity to set aside time for “rest, reflection, and gratitude to the Almighty.” Just as Christians and Rabbi Meir Yaakov Soloveichik are participating in Rededicate 250 to thank God for America – Rabbi Soloveichik actually is the only non-Christian speaker at the National Mall tomorrow – just as the Christians are using tomorrow as an opportunity to thank God for America, Shabbat allows Jews to pause and express gratitude for the blessings of this country.

But maybe there is something even deeper happening here.

Because, unbeknownst to President Trump — unless Jared Kushner told him — this is not just any Shabbat. It is Shabbat Parshat Bamidbar, the Shabbat immediately before Shavuot, the holiday of Matan Torah.

And perhaps there is no more appropriate way to celebrate American Jewish history than through Shabbat specifically on the eve of Shavuot.

Let me explain.

Does anyone know who the first traditional Jew in the New World was, even before American independence?

A man named Asser Levy.

Asser Levy was born in Vilna, moved to Amsterdam, and eventually arrived in New Amsterdam in 1654, possibly with twenty-three Jewish refugees fleeing Recife. At the time, Peter Stuyvesant, the governor of the colony, tried to prevent Jews from serving in the militia and imposed special taxes upon them. Levy appealed to Holland and won. He secured not only economic rights for Jews, but also the right for Jews to serve in the military — something unprecedented in that era.

But what is most remarkable is not simply that Asser Levy fought for Jewish rights. It is that he fought to remain Jewish.

He and his wife Miriam lived in a world with no synagogue, no kosher restaurants, no Take Me Out to Oceanside whatsapp chat where they could get a delivery from a Kosher restaurant across the Atlantic, no Jewish schools, no eruv, no infrastructure, no community support system. And yet they still tried to maintain Jewish life.

Levy petitioned for exemption from slaughtering hogs, suggesting a concern for the laws of kashrut. Records indicate that he and Miriam maintained two sets of many kitchen utensils, apparently attempting to separate meat and milk even in the sparse conditions of the New World. They owned wine cups and what may have been a besamim box for Havdalah. We do not know exactly what level of observance they maintained. But we know this much: Judaism mattered to them enough to sacrifice for it.

And that is perhaps the real story of American Judaism.

Not merely Jewish success.
Not merely Jewish acceptance.
But Jewish sacrifice in a society where Jews were finally free enough not to sacrifice at all.

Perhaps this is exactly why the Sfat Emet says something so remarkable about this Shabbat before Shavuot. He writes:

“בשבת שלפני שבועות צריכין להכין לקבלת התורה”
“On the Shabbat before Shavuot, one must prepare to receive the Torah.”

And then he explains:

“השבת ניתן קודם התורה שהיא הכנה לקבלת התורה”
“Shabbat was given before the Torah” – according to Chazal it was given at Marah before Sinai –  “because it is the preparation for receiving the Torah.”

But why?

The Sfat Emet explains that the Torah was given specifically in a midbar, a wilderness:

“ומדבר הוא הביטול לבטל הכל להיות כמדבר רק לשמוע דבר ה'”
“The wilderness is bitul — to nullify everything, to become like a desert whose only purpose is to hear the word of God.”

A desert has no ego. It does not impose itself. It is open, empty, receptive.

And that, says the Sfat Emet, is what Shabbat creates within a Jew.

All week long we build, produce, compete, answer emails, check phones, chase success, and impose ourselves upon the world. Then Shabbat arrives and we stop. We relinquish control. We step back from melacha, productivity, and mastery over the world.

For one day, we become a little more like a midbar.

And that is why Shabbat Bamidbar always comes before Shavuot.

Because before a Jew can receive Torah, a Jew must first become a midbar.

Torah cannot simply enter a person filled only with ego, distraction, and personal ambition. Torah requires humility. Receptivity. Sacrifice. The willingness to place something greater than ourselves at the center of our lives.

And maybe that is why Shabbat became the symbol of Jewish American Heritage Month.

Because Shabbat is the great act of Jewish freedom — not freedom from obligation, but the freedom to choose obligation.

Every Jew who closed a store on Saturday and lost business.
Every immigrant who refused to work on Shabbat and lost a job.
Every family that sacrificed comfort, convenience, or social acceptance to remain connected to Torah.

That is the midbar mentality.

That is preparation for Matan Torah.

And perhaps this also explains how Jews survive moments like the one we are living through now — this bizarre reality where unprecedented acceptance exists alongside the recycling of medieval blood libels in respectable modern settings.

The Jewish people never survived because the world consistently loved us or understood us. We survived because Jews across generations remained connected to Sinai even when the surrounding world was unstable, hostile, or confusing.

The same culture that celebrates Jewish contribution can suddenly revive ancient hatred. That can feel frightening. But our future has never depended entirely on the moral clarity of society around us. It has depended on whether Jews continue to hear the voice of Sinai.

And that connection is renewed every Shabbat.

So perhaps this Shabbat Bamidbar before Shavuot carries a special message for us.

Before we can stand again at Har Sinai, we must first become a little more like the midbar itself — humble enough, devoted enough, and open enough to hear the word of God.

And maybe that is the challenge of Jewish life in America today.

Not simply whether we are accepted.
Not simply whether we succeed.
Not simply whether Jews are visible, influential, or prosperous.

But whether, in a society that gives us every opportunity to blend in, we still choose to live differently for the sake of Torah.

Whether we are still willing to sacrifice for Torah in small but meaningful ways.
Whether Shabbat still interrupts our schedules.
Whether Torah still shapes our priorities.
Whether Jewish identity is something convenient or something that truly demands something of us.

Because ultimately, the future of the Jewish people will not be determined only by presidents, newspapers, politics, or even antisemitism. It will be determined by whether Jews continue to build homes, families, and communities centered around Torah and mitzvot.

That was the legacy of Asser Levy.
That was the message of Shabbat before Matan Torah.
And that remains the mission of every Jew today.

So this Shabbat, perhaps the question is not only whether we are grateful for America, though we certainly should be. The deeper question is: what are we prepared to give up, even in a free and open society, in order to remain connected to Torah?

Because the Jews who built American Jewish life were not only those who benefited from freedom. They were those who used freedom to remain deeply committed to Judaism.

And that choice begins again every single Shabbat.