Trump Converts!

With hostage negotiations between Israel and Hamas at a critical stage, my thoughts have turned to Donald Trump.

This is his chance: To broker the Middle East peace deal that Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu and every U.S. president since Harry Truman has been unable to make — the deal that would force his critics to begrudgingly admit, “Yeah, he may be a convicted felon and a sex abuser, and a bully, a boor and a sociopath, but by gum, he did it!”

But has he the courage to fully commit? With a Nobel Peace Prize at stake, will he convert to Judaism to show the Palestinians he means business? Trump has dropped hints. Writing on Truth Social about the depth of his devotion to Israel, the president was blunt. “I am the best friend that Israel, and the Jewish people, ever had,” he said, adding, “and it’s not even close.”

I’m in a unique position to assist him, should he choose to convert. I’m a Jew. A Reform Jew. I know reform is not one of Trump’s favorite words, but the president is not deeply religious, and in some quarters, particularly among Orthodox Jews, Reform Judaism is considered Jewish Lite. Who better to guide him, as he crams for his pre-peace accord bar mitzvah?

Preparation for this ceremony, which in Judaism signifies one’s entrance into manhood, is normally an intensive, time-consuming process. You meet regularly, for months, with the rabbi. He or she will select a portion of the Torah that you must read in Hebrew, ideally with a degree of fluency. You must memorize and recite prayers, also in Hebrew. Generally, there’s a short speech you must compose and deliver — thankfully, in English — that relates to the Torah section you’ve been assigned. All this can present a challenge for a bar mitzvah candidate with poor study habits. Trump has a well-known aversion to preparation. Well, at 12, so did I.

Trump’s quandary would be this: Should he dedicate a portion of his Mar-a-Lago weekends to religious instruction or to playing golf and hawking merchandise?

Then again, he may see no quandary at all, just clear opportunity: Peddling, for instance, a Trump-endorsed Tanakh — the Hebrew bible — addended with MAGA-embossed sheet lyrics to “Hava Nagila” for $59.99 (the same low, low price as his God Bless the USA Bible, as advertised on Truth Social), potentially winning him both money and poll approval.

Either way, I would be there to manage the details: Hiring a linguist to translate Trump’s Torah reading to phonetic English, so he could sidestep learning Hebrew. Arranging for an aide to meet for an hour with the rabbi, who then would provide Trump with a PowerPoint summary of Jewish history and philosophy. Outsourcing his bar mitzvah oration to his social media team. Procuring a hair clip to hold his yarmulke in place. Mapping a seating chart for the celebratory dinner. (Who to place at Nick Fuentes’s table?) Compiling a list of gifts received and their monetary value, so he’d know who had shown him proper respect and who had not. Withdrawing cash from his campaign fund to pay the rabbi.

All in all, it would mean a nightmare of responsibility for me, with little promise of reward. Trump’s spiritual advisors exit his orbit as damaged and disillusioned as his Cabinet appointees. Take televangelist Paula White-Cain, the president’s current spiritual advisor, who hesitated before publicly endorsing him for re-election. Possibly, this was because the bulk of White-Cain’s congregants are working-class people of color and she didn’t want to risk hemorrhaging any more of her flock than she already has.

There is always hope, but I imagine a similarly messy end for myself. I can see the president now, standing tall on the pulpit, torah scrolls rising like twin towers in the dimly lit ark behind him, his expression a mask of solemnity as he prepares to deliver his bar mitzvah speech. He thanks the rabbi, his family, friends, dignitaries and assorted guests. He is about to commence…

…then abruptly pauses.

“Oh no…,” I think. “He’s going off-script.”

Trump has decided to preface his speech with a prayer — one the linguist has printed out for him phonetically. He lifts his head and scans the parishioners, certain he has the Hebrew pronunciations memorized. Without consulting his crib sheet, he begins:

“Barack atah Illinois….”