Jewish Museum Tour with Comedians & Thinkers: Identity & Hope

Stephen Fry:  

(Soft lighting. A museum corridor stretches behind him. Stephen Fry stands in frame, gentle smile, hands folded.)

Ah. Welcome. Welcome, dear friends.

Today, we embark on a journey not merely through a museum, but through the chambers of memory—some gilded with celebration, others scarred by silence. This is the Jewish Museum of New York—but truly, it might be better named the Museum of Resilience, or of Continuity, or of Astonishingly Good Humor in the Face of Utter Absurdity.

Here, ritual objects are not just ceremonial—they are time travelers. Portraits do not merely depict—they question. And a simple spice box, believe it or not, may well hold more history than a history textbook. This is not a place of passive looking. No, it demands presence. It asks you to laugh. To ache. To see.

To help guide us, we are joined by four luminous minds—each embodying different facets of the Jewish experience. Sarah Silverman, our witty guide, whose humor cuts and heals in equal measure. Jerry Seinfeld, ever the observer, who will notice what the rest of us miss. Ilana Glazer, fiercely modern and brilliantly irreverent. And Rebecca Goldstein, philosopher and poet of the soul, reminding us that Jewish thought is an act of ethical imagination.

They will lead us not through history alone—but through identity, exile, protest, and ultimately... hope.

Let us begin. And may we emerge not only informed—but transformed.

(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)

Topic 1: “A Lamp for Every Generation — Rituals, Objects, and What They Say About Us”

Featuring Sarah Silverman (tour guide), Jerry Seinfeld, Ilana Glazer, and Rebecca Goldstein
Location: The Jewish Museum, Gallery of Jewish Ritual Objects

Scene 1: The Gallery of Light

The group enters a softly lit room. A long glass case stretches across the wall, housing a glimmering parade of menorahs—some ancient, some wildly modern. The polished silver, brass, and clay gleam under warm lights.

Sarah Silverman (gesturing grandly):
“Welcome to the world’s most spiritual candelabra aisle. Think of it like Bed Bath & Beyond... but for the soul.”

Jerry Seinfeld (tilting his head at a 16th-century Polish menorah):
“Who looked at eight candles and said, ‘You know what’s missing? A castle and two lions playing poker’?”

Ilana Glazer (zooming in on a menorah shaped like a tree):
“This one looks like it was made by someone on shrooms who loves God and also Etsy.”

Rebecca Goldstein (softly):
“The menorah isn’t just decorative. It’s the only religious symbol Jews were allowed to bring out publicly in many periods of oppression. It was resistance in wax and flame.”

The guide leans forward.

Sarah:
“Also, can we talk about how every Jewish holiday basically boils down to: They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s light something and eat. The menorah is literally a victory lap.”

Scene 2: Touching Time (Without Touching Anything)

They move on to a new case: ritual objects for Shabbat, Passover, and weddings. Kiddush cups, ornate spice boxes, and hand-embroidered challah covers dazzle behind the glass.

Ilana (pointing to a spice box shaped like a tower):
“This is low-key the most extra thing I’ve ever seen. My family just used an old tea tin filled with cinnamon.”

Jerry:
“My aunt used a shoebox lid and called it a seder plate. That’s the Jewish way—‘use what you’ve got, now pass the gefilte fish.’”

Sarah:
“These objects are like our grandmothers: beautiful, slightly cracked, and full of memory.”

Rebecca (looking at a wedding canopy pole):
“Jewish rituals are time-travel devices. You say the same blessings as your great-great-grandparents, and suddenly time folds. That’s why these objects matter. They’re anchors in the storm.”

They pause before a 19th-century Kiddush cup engraved with Hebrew names long faded.

Ilana (quietly):
“So even if you didn’t grow up religious, this stuff still kinda... belongs to you.”

Rebecca:
“It belongs through you. You carry it forward, whether you realize it or not.”

Scene 3: Artifacts of the Unspoken

In a dim corner, there’s a modest display—a child’s yarmulke, a worn matzah cover, and a cracked seder plate.

Sarah:
“This was donated by a woman who fled Vienna in 1938. She brought nothing but this plate and her six-year-old son. Which, let’s be real, is more than I bring to brunch.”

Jerry:
“I wonder if she looked at this chipped plate and thought, ‘Worth carrying this instead of the good coat?’”

Rebecca:
“She was carrying more than a plate. She was carrying continuity. Even the cracked pieces matter.”

Ilana (squatting to look eye-level):
“My family has a fork from my great-grandmother’s kitchen in Hungary. Every Thanksgiving someone fights over it. It’s just a fork. But it’s not.”

They all go silent for a moment.

Sarah:
“These aren’t just things. They’re proof that someone loved enough to remember.”

Scene 4: The Mirror of Memory

They arrive at a mirrored installation. Hanging from the ceiling are dozens of ritual objects, reflected in an infinite loop across the mirrored walls and floor.

Sarah (playfully):
“Welcome to the funhouse of Jewish continuity. Just don’t get dizzy—spiritual epiphanies not covered by insurance.”

Ilana:
“This is... kind of trippy. Look at this spice box floating forever. Like even our trauma has an afterlife.”

Jerry (touching the glass, serious now):
“You know what it is? It’s like no matter where you look, you’re in it. You’re part of it.”

Rebecca (smiling):
“The mirror reminds us—ritual doesn’t end with the object. It ends when we recognize ourselves in it.”

Sarah (after a beat):
“I used to roll my eyes at the idea of sacred objects. Now I just think... maybe we keep them because we don’t know how else to carry people we’ve lost.”

Everyone stays in the room a bit longer than planned.

Scene 5: A Blessing in Wax

They enter the final alcove. A single, massive menorah stands tall, unlit but imposing. On the wall is etched the Talmudic quote:

“For the candle is God’s light, and man is the wick.”

Rebecca (gentle, reverent):
“Ritual is the way the eternal borrows from the physical. These flames were never about light. They were about hope.”

Ilana:
“They’re also about showing up. Every Friday, even if the world is garbage, you light the candles anyway. That’s power.”

Jerry:
“I used to think all this stuff was about guilt. But maybe it’s about grace.”

Sarah:
“Maybe the secret to surviving as a people isn’t just in the words we say. It’s in the things we touch when we say them. And who we say them with.”

She lights a symbolic electric candle.

The room glows softly.

Final Reflection (Rebecca Goldstein):

“We came here looking at objects. But what we found were transmissions—vessels of love, faith, and survival, passed hand to hand. This museum isn’t about things. It’s about presence. And the quiet miracle of showing up again and again, for thousands of years, to light a lamp.”

Topic 2: “Funny, You Don’t Look Jewish — Portraits, Identity, and the Art of Being Seen”

Location: Jewish Museum Portrait and Identity Wing
Participants: Sarah Silverman (guide), Jerry Seinfeld, Ilana Glazer, Rebecca Goldstein

Scene 1: Staring Back Through Time

A room filled with portraits—oil paintings of rabbis, matriarchs, merchants, mystics. All eyes seem to follow you. The group enters slowly.

Sarah Silverman (grinning):
“Welcome to the most judgmental room in New York—and that’s saying a lot.”

Jerry Seinfeld:
“They’re all looking at me like I married the wrong person and don’t call enough.”

Ilana Glazer (peering at a stoic 18th-century woman):
“This one looks like she ran a synagogue, a bakery, and five secret rebellions—and still had time to guilt her kids.”

Rebecca Goldstein:
“To be painted in Jewish history was rare. Jews were often invisible—by law or by fear. So when they were seen, it meant something. It was a declaration: We exist.”

Sarah:
“And let’s be real: some of these folks look like they saw the Messiah, told him to wait, and went back to work.”

Scene 2: The Frame Doesn’t Fit

They move to a side exhibit of more modern portraits—photographs, surrealist self-portraits, abstract interpretations of Jewish identity. One features only a pair of hands.

Ilana (tilting her head):
“Where’s the face? This person is like ‘Here are my hands—deal with it.’”

Sarah:
“It’s called Jewish Guilt in Gesture Form.”

Jerry:
“Or Mother’s Hands, Eternal Disappointment Edition.”

Rebecca (serious):
“These pieces ask: how do you show identity when identity is layered, fragmented, and sometimes—hidden for survival?”

She points to a photograph of a Jewish woman who posed as Catholic to escape persecution.

Rebecca:
“She was erased by force, and this photo reclaims her story. It says, ‘I was here, even if history tried to forget me.’”

Ilana:
“That hits hard. Like, how many parts of us did our ancestors have to hide just to get us here?”

Scene 3: “You Don’t Look Jewish”

A central installation features mirrors etched with the words: You don’t look Jewish. Below each mirror is a quote from Jews across backgrounds—Ethiopian, Indian, Russian, Mizrahi, secular, Orthodox.

Sarah (reading aloud):
“‘You don’t look Jewish’—a phrase said by people who need a map and a library card.”

Jerry:
“Yeah. What does looking Jewish mean? My cousin Steve? My aunt Rita? One has eyebrows like a forest. One has none.”

Ilana:
“When people said that to me growing up, I thought, Maybe I should be louder. Which... worked out.”

Rebecca:
“This room is a rebuttal to erasure. It says: there’s no one way to look Jewish. Identity is not a costume—it’s a thread of memory and choice.”

They all look at their reflections. For once, no one jokes.

Scene 4: The Portraits We Don’t Have

They gather around an empty frame surrounded by light. A plaque reads: For the faces we lost, and the ones never painted.

Sarah:
“This is the most Jewish art thing ever. An empty frame. Like we’re supposed to feel guilty just looking at it.”

Jerry:
“Or maybe we should leave a tip.”

Ilana (suddenly solemn):
“Some people never got portraits. They were too poor. Or too hidden. Or too dead before anyone cared.”

Rebecca:
“This isn’t a void. It’s a prayer. Every face that wasn’t seen in time, is seen now.”

Sarah (quieter):
“It’s weird. The longer I stand here, the more I see.”

Scene 5: Reclaiming the Gaze

The final room holds living portraits—video screens of Jewish people sharing stories. Some are funny, others heartbreaking. A child in Uganda says, “My Jewish name is Shalom. It means peace. I try to live up to it.”

Ilana (watching tearfully):
“This is it. Not just faces—but voices, too.”

Jerry:
“It’s like every one of them is saying: I’m not a type. I’m a person.”

Sarah:
“This museum should hand out tissues. And bagels.”

Rebecca:
“Portraiture isn’t about vanity. It’s about dignity. When Jews paint or film themselves, they reclaim the gaze that once condemned them.”

The group watches as an elderly trans woman tells how Judaism helped her feel whole. Her face glows on the screen.

Final Reflection (Rebecca Goldstein):

“We say ‘remember’ more than any other word in Judaism. To see and to be seen is sacred. These portraits—painted, photographed, or spoken—aren’t about capturing beauty. They’re about preserving presence. In every brushstroke, every glance, we’re reminded: ‘I am still here.’ And that is a miracle.”

Topic 3: “Exile and Return — The Eternal Suitcase of the Jewish Soul”

Location: Jewish Migration and Diaspora Gallery, The Jewish Museum, NYC
Featuring: Sarah Silverman (guide), Jerry Seinfeld, Ilana Glazer, Rebecca Goldstein

Scene 1: The Map of Departures

They step into a dimly lit gallery. A giant wall map shows Jewish migration patterns over centuries—lines ripple from Jerusalem outward like veins.

Sarah Silverman (gesturing to the web of arrows):
“Welcome to Jewish JetBlue, brought to you by persecution and resilience since 70 CE.”

Jerry Seinfeld (squinting):
“Is this a map or my family’s vacation plan that always ends in a deli?”

Ilana Glazer (pointing to Morocco, Russia, Argentina):
“Literally every arrow says: They left. What a flex. We moved, rebuilt, moved again—and somehow still brought kugel.”

Rebecca Goldstein:
“This isn’t a travel map. It’s a trauma cartography. But it’s also a spiritual one. Exile, in Judaism, became a metaphor for longing, for learning how to return—externally and inwardly.”

Sarah (whispering):
“So much movement... and yet, never lost.”

Scene 2: The Suitcases We Carry

A room filled with physical artifacts: battered trunks, a violin, immigration papers, a cookbook wrapped in a dishtowel, a small siddur (prayer book) missing its cover.

Sarah:
“Some people pack for vacation. Jews packed for forever.”

Jerry (holding up a passport photo):
“My grandmother carried two dresses and a block of tea. She said, ‘The tea is for emergencies. The dresses are for hope.’”

Ilana (pointing at a child’s toy donkey):
“This is heartbreaking. A kid packed this like, I’ll need comfort where I’m going. And probably didn’t know where that was.”

Rebecca:
“Jewish exile wasn’t just about being kicked out. It was about how to hold on—to rituals, to family, to self—when everything around you changes.”

Sarah:
“And we wonder why our parents told us to bring a sweater everywhere.”

Scene 3: Letters from the Edge

On the walls, projected letters and journal entries from Jews in exile—from Spain, Iraq, Ukraine, Yemen, Ethiopia, and Ellis Island. Translations flicker beneath the originals.

Ilana (reading from one letter):
“‘I lit the Sabbath candles in a borrowed room, using oil from a stranger.’ That just destroyed me.”

Jerry:
“Who writes this in the middle of a war? It’s like poetry smuggled in a prayer.”

Rebecca:
“Language became sanctuary. Even when homes were lost, the words—those sacred rhythms—stayed. Sometimes whispered. Sometimes illegal. But always present.”

Sarah:
“This is why Jews invented the guilt trip—it’s portable.”

They linger before a torn letter where only three words remain: “I am alive.”

Scene 4: Return as a Question

The next room displays modern stories of return: Jews revisiting ancestral villages, synagogues reconstructed from ruins, young adults discovering family names etched in stone.

A video shows a woman in Poland weeping before a street sign bearing her grandmother’s maiden name.

Ilana:
“I’ve never been to the shtetl my family fled. But sometimes I dream about it, like I lived there.”

Jerry:
“My cousin went to Belarus and said, ‘It was like walking into someone else’s memory—except it was mine.’”

Rebecca:
“Return isn’t just physical. It’s emotional, intellectual. A reckoning. Jews have always asked: What does it mean to go home... when home is a ghost?”

Sarah:
“Or when home is Brooklyn and a bagel, and you still feel like you left something behind in your DNA.”

Scene 5: The Eternal Wanderer, The Eternal Flame

In the final room stands a sculpture: a bronze figure walking forward, head slightly turned back, holding a lit candle against the wind.

Sarah (quietly):
“I feel like this is every Jewish story distilled. You leave, but you carry the light.”

Jerry:
“And the wind is always there.”

Ilana:
“But you don’t blow it out. You protect it. You pass it on.”

Rebecca:
“Jewish history is exile as curriculum. We didn’t just survive displacement—we turned it into a moral framework. Empathy. Adaptation. Remembrance.”

Sarah:
“And jokes. Let’s not forget the jokes.”

They stand in silence as the sculpture flickers.

Final Reflection (Rebecca Goldstein):  

“Exile made the Jewish people philosophers of memory and masters of reinvention. Every suitcase packed in fear became a library. Every border crossed planted a new seed. And in every generation, despite the scattering, we return—not just to place, but to purpose. We are not where we began, but we still light the same flame.”

Topic 4: “Rebellion in Ink — The Jewish Voice in Modern Art and Protest”

Location: Modern Jewish Art & Resistance Exhibit, Jewish Museum NYC
Featuring: Sarah Silverman (guide), Jerry Seinfeld, Ilana Glazer, Rebecca Goldstein

Scene 1: Brushstrokes of Defiance

The group steps into a vivid gallery. On the walls: Chagall’s floating dreamscapes, Ben Shahn’s stark social protest images, and pieces from Jewish artists silenced by totalitarian regimes.

Sarah Silverman (raising her eyebrows):
“Welcome to the loudest quiet room in the museum. These paintings may not talk, but they definitely scream.”

Jerry Seinfeld (staring at a Chagall piece):
“Why is everyone flying? No one has gravity, and there’s a goat playing the violin.”

Ilana Glazer:
“Because reality was too harsh—so they painted dreams. Surrealism wasn’t an escape, it was survival.”

Rebecca Goldstein:
“Jewish modern art emerged at a crossroads: exiled bodies, liberated minds. It was spiritual defiance, visual midrash—commentary in color.”

They pause in front of a Nazi-labeled “degenerate art” piece.

Sarah:
“They called this dangerous. Imagine fearing a painting.”

Ilana:
“Maybe they knew—truth in ink is more explosive than bullets.”

Scene 2: Protest on Canvas

The next room explodes with visual resistance—artworks protesting sweatshops, fascism, racism, police violence, apartheid. Ben Shahn, Leonard Baskin, and newer artists stand side by side.

Ilana (pointing at a fist drawn in blue ink):
“Look at this—Jewish art has always punched up. This one’s practically yelling, Don’t just remember—do something.”

Jerry:
“I like that it’s messy. There’s no filter here. It’s not trying to be pretty. It’s trying to be real.”

Sarah:
“Which makes it the opposite of Instagram.”

Rebecca:
“Jewish ethics demand a response to injustice. These artists turned moral outcry into visual poetry. They weren’t just painters—they were prophets with paintbrushes.”

Sarah:
“And here I thought all Jewish rebellion was just arguing over dessert.”

Scene 3: The Art That Was Burned

In a dim room, screens show images of Jewish art destroyed in book burnings, raids, and war. Ashes flicker as projection. One corner holds salvaged fragments—a corner of a painting, a burned sketch.

Jerry:
“This… feels like a funeral for color.”

Ilana (softly):
“They weren’t just trying to kill people. They were trying to erase the ideas people made.”

Rebecca:
“Art is identity rendered visible. When they burned the canvases, they weren’t erasing art—they were trying to erase souls.”

Sarah (blinking fast):
“You know what? Every time a Jewish artist paints again, it’s like spitting in the ashes. But with glitter.”

The screen dims. A single word appears in Hebrew: Hineni — Here I am.

Scene 4: Scribbling in the Margins

They enter a graffiti installation. Street art by Jewish feminists, queer Jews, Soviet dissidents, and current political artists decorate the walls like a collage of holy rebellion.

Sarah:
“This is like Moses meets Banksy.”

Ilana (reading one scrawl):
“‘If you can’t pray it, protest it.’ Oh hell yes.”

Jerry:
“I once got in trouble for writing on a bathroom stall. Now it’s activism?”

Rebecca:
“Scribbling in the margins is a deeply Jewish tradition. Midrash was rebellion with ink—asking questions where others saw answers.”

Ilana:
“And this wall is full of questions. You can feel the urgency in every brushstroke.”

A hidden speaker whispers lines of Jewish poetry beneath the buzz of the room. The group stands still, listening.

Scene 5: The Prophets of Now

In the final room, a circular wall displays rotating video portraits of contemporary Jewish artists. Each explains how their work speaks truth—on climate, race, identity, and memory.

One young artist says: “I don’t want to paint pretty things. I want to paint necessary things.”

Ilana:
“Mic. Drop.”

Sarah:
“Jewish artists don’t just light candles—they burn the whole system down with a paintbrush and still make it beautiful.”

Jerry:
“Here’s the thing—this art doesn’t soothe. It stirs. And maybe that’s the point.”

Rebecca:
“Jewish modern art is not a retreat from suffering. It’s a response to it. An insistence that dignity belongs to the defiant.”

Ilana:
“And the dreamers. Don’t forget the dreamers.”

The lights dim. The final video plays:

“Every color I paint is a prayer I wasn’t taught. Every line I draw is a truth I wasn’t allowed to say. This is my Judaism.”

Final Reflection (Rebecca Goldstein):

“Jewish rebellion isn’t always loud. Sometimes it comes as a question. Sometimes a sketch. Sometimes a scream in blue. But always—it comes with conscience. In every generation, when silence could’ve meant survival, Jewish artists chose to speak. They painted the pain. They carved the outrage. And they made beauty where others built walls. This isn’t just art. It’s our moral memory—hung here, for us to never forget.”

Topic 5: “From Darkness, Light — Holocaust Memory and the Future of Hope”

Location: Holocaust Memory Wing, The Jewish Museum, NYC
Featuring: Sarah Silverman (guide), Jerry Seinfeld, Ilana Glazer, Rebecca Goldstein

Scene 1: The Room of Silence

The group enters a low-lit room lined with floor-to-ceiling black stone. Names are etched into the walls. A faint light glows from above.

Sarah Silverman (quietly):
“This is the only room where I never tell jokes. I’ve tried. They vanish in the air like they know better.”

Jerry Seinfeld (reading a name):
“I always think—this could’ve been my uncle. Or me. Or the guy who made the bagels I eat every Sunday.”

Ilana Glazer (eyes scanning the walls):
“This room doesn’t yell. It just... waits for you to feel something.”

Rebecca Goldstein:
“The Holocaust isn’t an artifact. It’s a rupture. And what we build from that silence is a test of our humanity.”

They stand in silence. No one fills it.

Scene 2: Echoes in the Suitcase

Inside glass cases sit worn shoes, children’s drawings, yellow stars, and a single violin with no strings. A suitcase is opened to show a family photo, a spoon, and a torn siddur.

Sarah (pointing):
“This suitcase belonged to a boy who survived. He died at 89 in Queens. He taught math. Played chess. Had four grandkids.”

Jerry:
“That’s the revenge, isn’t it? Not anger—existence.”

Ilana (voice trembling):
“They packed for a future they didn’t know they’d reach. Who packs crayons during genocide?”

Rebecca:
“Hope is irrational. That’s what makes it holy.”

The violin remains untouched in the center of the case, almost humming with memory.

Scene 3: Letters from the Fire

Projected letters and diary entries play slowly across the wall. Voices read the words—some from Anne Frank, others anonymous.

“If I die, let me be remembered not for how I was killed, but for how I lived.”
—13-year-old Rivka, Theresienstadt

Ilana (tears falling):
“She wrote that in pencil. Probably in hiding. Probably scared. And still—still—she thought about how she’d be remembered.”

Jerry:
“It’s unbearable. And yet... I can’t stop reading.”

Rebecca:
“They weren’t just victims. They were poets, parents, rebels, lovers, comedians. Entire worlds. These letters? They’re rescue boats.”

Sarah:
“I used to think silence was the most respectful response. Now I think—listening is.”

The group stands facing the letters until the last one fades.

Scene 4: Seeds of the Future

They enter a bright space filled with art by Holocaust survivors and their descendants. Drawings of gardens, reborn families, Passover tables. A wall is covered with photographs of Jewish weddings after liberation.

Sarah:
“This is the plot twist. After the camps, people fell in love again. Had kids. Laughed. Ate gefilte fish even when it was gross.”

Jerry (smiling softly):
“You know what’s more Jewish than suffering? Getting up the next day and setting the table anyway.”

Ilana:
“This room says: We didn’t just survive. We grew.”

Rebecca:
“Post-Holocaust Jewish life wasn’t about forgetting. It was about insisting. On joy. On continuity. On life without apology.”

Sarah:
“This is resistance too. Just in high heels and a wedding band.”

Scene 5: A Candle for the Next Generation

A circular room glows with light from dozens of memorial candles. In the center, a digital flame flickers, surrounded by children’s recorded voices saying, “Never again. I remember. I will tell the story.”

Ilana:
“This is the future. These voices. These flames.”

Jerry:
“It used to be about memory. Now it’s about meaning.”

Sarah:
“I want to bring every kid here. Not to scare them. To empower them.”

Rebecca (looking at the digital flame):
“We keep the memory not to live in sorrow, but to prevent repetition. Every name remembered is a barrier against dehumanization. Every candle lit says: The story didn’t end there.”

Sarah (softly):
“We’re the light now.”

Final Reflection (Rebecca Goldstein):

“The Holocaust left a scar so deep, it echoes across time. But scars are also signs of healing. Every candle lit in remembrance is also lit in resistance—against silence, against forgetting, against injustice in every form. The Jewish response was never just to mourn—it was to rise. And in every generation, to say, with trembling defiance and unwavering hope: Am Yisrael Chai. The Jewish people live. And they carry the light forward.”

Final Reflection by Stephen Fry

(Same corridor, a single candle now flickering behind him.)

Well.

We have stood among menorahs that outlived empires. We have seen faces painted not just in pigment, but in longing. We’ve touched, through glass, the trembling hands of those who packed faith into suitcases and fled. And we’ve heard voices—written, spoken, drawn—that refused to be silenced, even by the unspeakable.

You see, the Jewish story is not merely one of survival. It is a masterclass in human meaning-making. In turning wandering into wisdom. Pain into poetry. Memory into mission.

How many cultures, after such devastation, would respond not with vengeance, but with art? Not with erasure, but with candles?

And perhaps the most extraordinary rebellion of all—joy.
Yes, joy. Laughter. Birth. The sheer audacity to fall in love again, to write comedy, to throw a wedding beneath the very sky that once looked on Auschwitz.

This museum does not ask you to become Jewish. It asks something far more important: to become more human.
To remember what we carry.
To cherish what we create.
And to honor the flame—especially when the night is long.

Thank you for walking with us. Go gently, and may your own light, however small, help others find their way.

Short Bios:

Sarah Silverman
Comedian, actress, and writer known for blending sharp satire with social commentary. Her Jewish heritage often inspires her work, mixing humor with vulnerability.

Jerry Seinfeld
Legendary comedian and creator of Seinfeld, celebrated for observational humor and cultural insight. Raised in a Jewish household, his comedy often draws from personal tradition and identity.

Ilana Glazer
Co-creator and star of Broad City, Glazer infuses her work with bold, feminist, and Jewish perspectives. Known for her irreverent style and unapologetic voice.

Rebecca Goldstein
Philosopher and novelist whose work explores the intersection of reason, faith, and Jewish thought. A MacArthur “Genius” Fellow, she brings depth and empathy to modern philosophical dialogue.

Stephen Fry (Narrator)
British author, actor, and wit with Jewish ancestry. Known for his eloquence, intelligence, and humane voice in matters of history, identity, and moral reflection.