Over the past year or two, there’s been growing and justified concern about the troubling rise of antisemitism around the world. Much of the attention has focused on global dynamics that have little to do with what we’ve done and everything to do with who we are. That reality is painful, frightening, and deeply unjust.

At the same time, we have to acknowledge that, on a personal and human level, our behavior shapes how others perceive us. That doesn’t mean we’re responsible for their judgments — but it does mean we carry a responsibility to act in a way that reflects the values we hold and the people we aspire to be.

What happened to me today, though simple, gave me a moment to reflect. It doesn’t take away from the seriousness of the concerns we carry, but it did offer a different kind of clarity — a quiet reminder that even in small, everyday moments, we have the opportunity to represent something greater than ourselves. And sometimes, those moments can inspire hope — both in us and in others.

This past Friday, I visited someone in a hospital in New York City that offers valet parking. I handed over my car and went about my visit. When I returned home, much to my surprise, I noticed a phone sitting on my passenger seat. It wasn’t mine, and it was locked, so there was no way to identify its owner.

With Shabbos approaching, I brought the phone inside and set it aside. I noticed it again over Yom Tov, but was so distracted by the holiday that I forgot about it until this morning.

When I finally turned it on, I saw numerous missed text messages. Clearly, people were trying to reach the owner. Though I couldn’t access the messages, I noted the phone numbers and sent individual texts from my own phone:
“Hi, you recently texted someone whose phone I found in my car. If you know who it belongs to, please let them know I have it and would be happy to return it.”

Not long after, my phone rang. The voice on the other end was filled with relief and gratitude. He told me he’d figured he left the phone in someone’s car but had no idea whose. I apologized for the delay.

“Honestly,” he said, “I had already given up. Just yesterday I told my father I wasn’t going to keep trying.”

Then he added something unexpected: “I could tell you were Jewish — you have a Jewish accent.” (I’m still not sure what that means, but I let it pass.) When I confirmed that I was, he explained what had convinced him not to give up just yet.

His father had said: “You know, there’s a Jewish holiday going on right now. Maybe that’s why you haven’t heard anything. Aren’t there a lot of Jews who go to that hospital? If a Jew found it, he’ll return it.”

That was it. That simple confidence — that a Jew would do the right thing, even for a stranger — gave him the hope to wait just a little longer.

I’m not sharing this story to highlight any personal virtue. The truth is, returning a lost phone is basic human decency. Anyone reading this would have done the same. I’m sharing it because of what it reveals about the quiet power of kiddush Hashem — sanctifying Hashem’s name through our everyday actions.

It reminded me of the story of Shimon ben Shetach, whose students once bought him a donkey from a non-Jewish merchant. Hidden beneath the saddle, they discovered a valuable pearl. When they told their teacher he could now stop working — that this unexpected find had made him wealthy — his first question was: “Does the original owner know about it?”

When they answered no, he immediately told them to return it.

“I would rather hear people say, ‘Blessed is the God of the Jews,’ than keep all the riches of this world,” he said.

What happened to me wasn’t a test of integrity. It was an easy layup — the phone practically delivered itself into my car. But Shimon ben Shetach reminds us that sometimes doing the right thing requires real effort, or even sacrifice.

And people are always watching. As this phone owner’s father understood, they’re drawing conclusions — not just about us as individuals, but about our community and our values.

We live in a time when antisemitism surges from every direction, when our actions are scrutinized and our motives second-guessed. We should never have to prove our worth, but we can still choose to reflect the values we believe in, and perhaps even soften a world that’s grown cynical.

That father’s quiet trust didn’t come from nowhere. It was built on countless small acts by countless Jews, across generations, who chose to do right even when no one was watching.

The Gemara teaches that kiddush Hashem doesn’t always happen in the dramatic or heroic moments. It happens in the mundane — returning a lost item, keeping your word, dealing honestly, acting with restraint. It happens when we least expect it and when others least expect it from us.

We don’t have to live in fear of judgment or carry the weight of an entire people in every interaction. But we do have the gift of representing something greater than ourselves — of being part of a legacy of ethical responsibility that continues to shape how the world sees us.

The phone is on its way back to its owner. His faith in Jewish integrity has been quietly reinforced. And maybe, just maybe, the world became a little brighter today.

Of course, the world doesn’t always notice, but sometimes it does — and that matters