At thirty-six, Sarah Hurwitz was a typical lapsed Jew. On a whim, she attended an introduction to Judaism class and was astonished by what she discovered: thousands of years of wisdom from her ancestors about what it means to be human. That class sparked a journey of discovery that transformed her life. Years later, as Hurwitz wrestled with what it means to be Jewish at a time of rising antisemitism, she wondered: Where had the Judaism she discovered as an adult been all her life? Why hadn’t she seen the beauty and depth of her tradition in those dull synagogue services and Hebrew school classes she’d endured as a kid? And why had her Jewish identity consisted of a series of caveats and apologies: I’m Jewish, but not that Jewish . . . I’m just a cultural Jew . . . I’m just like everyone else but with a fun ethnic twist—a dash of neurosis, a touch of gallows humor—a little different, but not in a way that would make anyone uncomfortable. Seeking answers, she went back through time to di