Mordechi Rosenfeld had a feeling his Grindr joke, especially one featuring a Holocaust survivor, would be a huge hit.
At an elegant kosher steakhouse in Manhattan, Rosenfeld was unwinding after his recent stand-up performance at a Comedy Cellar outpost, where he’s honed his craft for over thirty years.
He had been experimenting with new material, including an extended riff about a personal experience on a gay dating app. Years prior, he had unknowingly chatted with someone who had an unexpected interest in the bedroom: World War II, specifically the German military.
The man he had been messaging appeared at his apartment door dressed in a Nazi uniform. At that precise moment, Rosenfeld’s neighbor, a Holocaust survivor living with dementia, stepped out of his own apartment for a nighttime stroll. The situation was, understandably, incredibly awkward. Rosenfeld often acted as his neighbor’s caregiver, frequently retrieving him from the lobby or hallway.
“Excuse me,” the man stammered, “I must have walked into the wrong room.”
Then came the punchline, delivered with energetic Long Island charm and a subtle Israeli lilt: The neighbor never again ventured out after dark.
The room, filled with men in black velvet yarmulkes and observant Jewish women in wigs, erupted in laughter. The joke was a little edgy for some, Rosenfeld admitted, but it landed because it was deeply Jewish.
“What we were talking about was not, ‘They’re hooking up and having sex’ — it’s how a Jew sees it,” Rosenfeld explained. “Many comedians are comedians that happen to be Jewish. I’m a Jewish comedian.”
For three decades, being a Jewish comedian meant performing in comedy clubs and on the synagogue circuit, making a living for Jewish organizations from Borough Park to South Florida. He built a devoted following, fans who knew him by his nickname, Modi. Yet, mainstream comedic success remained elusive.
Now, two years after the attacks of Oct. 7, which ignited the war in Gaza and fueled rising antisemitism globally, Rosenfeld, 55, is selling out theaters to thousands from Las Vegas to Atlanta, and from Paris to Tel Aviv.
It’s an anxious and divisive time for American Jews, but arguably a stellar moment for Modi.
Clips from his bits and podcast are being shared by hundreds of thousands on social media. Plans are in motion to film his second comedy special in December, and a show at Radio City Music Hall is slated for April.
Alex Edelman, the award-winning comic who admired Rosenfeld since childhood, spoke of his “renaissance” with reverence.
“I’ve seen him do comedy in Yiddish. I’ve seen him do comedy for Hasidic crowds and for crowds where there’s not a single Jew,” said Edelman, who, as a modern Orthodox teenager, owned a DVD of Rosenfeld’s stand-up routine. “There’s no one like him.”
Rosenfeld’s knack for blending his diverse identities — or “bubble hopping,” as he calls it — has been key to his recent breakthrough. He draws on his Judaism for material, telling jokes about family trips to Israel and the cultural distinctions between Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews, often punctuating them with Hebrew and Yiddish phrases. He concludes many of his performances with a collective singing of “Hatikvah,” the Israeli national anthem.
But now, he also draws humor from his marriage to Leo Veiga, a 33-year-old who was raised Catholic.
At a New York show, and on tour in Ohio later that summer, he asked if anyone in the audience wasn’t Jewish. Only a few hands went up.
Rosenfeld understands that this is his current fan base. However, he is actively trying to broaden his appeal — to discover how to connect with a more natural Grindr-joke crowd, while still delivering those profoundly impactful Holocaust-survivor punchlines. He aims, as he puts it, for the “Goyim, gays and theys.”
“I swear to you — and this is from my heart — I don’t see the world as Jewish and non-Jewish, gay or straight, thin or fat, Black or white,” he asserted. “I see people who buy tickets to my show, and people who don’t buy tickets for my show. That’s the only way I see the world.”
The current challenge is whether the larger, more secular world — where antisemitism and Israel are sensitive subjects — will embrace him in return.
‘Moshiach Energy’
On a bright morning, Rosenfeld stands in gym shorts and a T-shirt, recording himself on his sun porch. He dons a yarmulke, kisses the corners of his prayer shawl, and takes out his tefillin — the leather boxes worn on the forehead and upper arm during weekday prayers — to begin his morning ritual, whispering Hebrew prayers into the camera.
When he posted the video to social media, he titled it “ASMR: putting on tefillin.”
It’s a regular practice for Rosenfeld, who leads services at his modern Orthodox synagogue in the East Village, studied cantorial singing at a Hasidic yeshiva, and maintains a kosher home. But it’s presented with a modern twist, designed to appeal to all his audiences — the observant fans familiar with tefillin and secular viewers more acquainted with ASMR videos online.
“There are probably only 30 comedians in America that can do his numbers in major Jewish markets like Miami and New York City,” said Mr. Rosenfeld’s agent, Michael Grinspan. “But he’s still not a household name.”
Rosenfeld views comedy as a sacred mission, he explained one sunny Sunday afternoon at his second home in western Connecticut, which he purchased last year.
By the pool in the meticulously kept backyard, Veiga was entertaining a group comfortable socializing in Speedos. Inside, Rosenfeld was engrossed in the Talmud, the centuries-old compilation of rabbinical discourse.
He recounted the story of two *anshaye b’dicha*, or people of jokes, praised by the prophet Elijah for bringing joy. There was an aspect of the tale Rosenfeld never quite grasped: Why, he wondered, did the ancient Jewish rabbis feature two comics instead of just one solo performer?
The answer came to him one night, while dancing shirtless at a techno rave on ketamine with his husband. The comic cannot be alone. The comic must collaborate with others to mend divisions through laughter.
A second revelation about his work struck him when Rosenfeld was reading a Torah portion where God describes Jews as the “chosen people.”
“They weren’t chosen to be the strongest and the most powerful and the richest,” he stated. “Jews were put on this earth to create healing energy.”
These insights crystallized into a personal mantra that now guides his comedy: “Moshiach energy” — Messiah energy.
For Rosenfeld, this slogan reflects a Messianic concept inspired by Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the last leader of the Chabad-Lubavitch Orthodox movement. Rosenfeld interprets it as a directive to infuse the world with positive energy to help usher in the Messiah.
Through his comedy, Rosenfeld endeavors to offer a respite from the polarizing politics that engross many in his audience. Like some of his fans, his political views are complex. He expresses concerns about the stances on Israel articulated by Zohran Mamdani, the Democratic nominee for mayor in New York City, but also about President Trump, despite his appreciation for what he perceives as the president’s support of Israel.
However, he stated that tackling the complexities of Israel and the United States is not his objective. “My show is a pause for laughter” amidst all the current events, he explained.
The son of Israeli immigrants who moved to the United States when he was a child, Rosenfeld discovered his faith as a teenager on Long Island.
His observance deepened during his college years at Boston University, where he spent a significant amount of time studying at a Lubavitch center near campus. He honed his Yiddish, a language he heard from his grandparents, and absorbed the rhythms of legendary comics like Shimon Dzigan and Israel Schumacher, a renowned Yiddish comedy duo.
“I’m like, ‘Oh my God, the timing, the cadence, the words,’” he told Marc Maron in an interview on his “WTF” podcast. “It’s another level of comedy.”
Early in his career, Mr. Rosenfeld was an easy act for Jewish charities and community groups to hire: He worked clean and was “hamish” — a Yiddish word that means warm and familiar.
After college and a period at a yeshiva in New Jersey, Rosenfeld took a job as an investment banker where he was, according to his husband, a “personality hire.” Dyslexic and diagnosed with A.D.D., Rosenfeld found the intricacies of finance challenging.
He excelled, however, at imitating the office secretaries.
A friend convinced him to try stand-up, and Rosenfeld was instantly hooked. He caught the tail end of the Catskills scene, began performing at the Comedy Cellar, and worked clubs nationwide. He sought his rabbi’s blessing before every show.
“You hear comics that say they’re comics because of some sort of child trauma or adult trauma,” remarked Donny Moss, a friend who booked Rosenfeld’s first stand-up gig in 1993. “He just was a very funny person who knew it and had this gift and did the work.”
Rosenfeld submitted sets with less overtly Jewish material to Comedy Central and late-night shows, albeit unsuccessfully. Still, he amassed a substantial following through events for synagogues, Jewish charities, and other community groups, allowing him to become a full-time comedian.
“You have no idea what a tough crowd is until you are in front of 1,200 Jews who have just eaten,” he quipped. “If you don’t grab them within the first five to eight words, they just get up and leave. ‘Yeah, that’s enough. I’ll be in the lobby.’ My competition was the lobby. Jews love a lobby.”
He wasn’t publicly out professionally, but he wasn’t closeted either. Friends and family knew he dated men. Mostly, Rosenfeld said, he simply worked.
“When my voice was developing, it was developing into a Jewish voice, not a gay voice,” he explained. “I was gay, but my gayness was limited to sleeping with men. It wasn’t my defining characteristic.
“I worked ceaselessly,” he continued. “Every night, two or three comedy shows. Every weekend, either the Catskills or whatever organization hired me. I was working. I didn’t have time to be gay.”
From the kitchen, Veiga offered a different perspective: “Modi is a highly functional bisexual. That’s why it never became a prominent issue.”
‘Orthodox Ellen DeGeneres’
For much of his career, Rosenfeld adhered to a simple principle: “Know your audience.”
In a literal sense, Rosenfeld prides himself on being “an audience’s comic,” customizing his set for his crowds rather than for critics or comedy connoisseurs. But the phrase also carries a spiritual double meaning, referencing an instruction inscribed above Torah scrolls in many synagogues: “Know in Front Whom You Stand.”
“Am I standing in front of God? Absolutely,” Rosenfeld affirmed. “God is one. Oneness. So my audience and I, when we are laughing together, that’s God.”
“Moshiach energy,” or “Messiah energy,” is a personal philosophy for Mr. Rosenfeld and also a catchphrase for his merch, which include yarmulkes embroidered with the words.
Word of his talent spread over the decades. Rosenfeld performed for former Vice President Mike Pence at a Republican Jewish Coalition meeting in Las Vegas, delivered jokes to groups of Hasidic men in Brooklyn, and entertained thousands of Jews at suburban synagogues.
He famously roasted Senator Joe Lieberman (“the spine of a Democrat, the principles of a Republican, and the wrinkles of Jimmy Carter”) and the conservative commentator Ben Shapiro (“that little bar mitzvah boy they put on the talk shows to annoy the other guests”) at annual benefits hosted by Commentary magazine. (“I never thought I would hear, let alone laugh at, a ‘Hitler-Goebbels-Shabbat elevator’ joke,” Lieberman said later when he took the stage.)
Then 2020 arrived, and during the pandemic, live shows came to a standstill. Yet, the organizations that hired Rosenfeld still needed to keep their members and donors engaged.
“Everyone called up, we need Zoom shows — the U.J.A., R.J.C., C.J.C., R.J.J., J.J.J., all the J’s — and I mastered how to do Zoom shows that I was great at,” he recalled, referring to his sudden shift to performing for thousands of Jews online.
Veiga, who became Rosenfeld’s manager, suggested posting some of the clips on social media. Rosenfeld developed viral characters: a garrulous Israeli named “Nir, not far,” and Yoely, a Hasidic Jew offering his perspective on secular television shows.
As pandemic restrictions eased, Veiga began organizing live shows, negotiating with Hasidic leaders and synagogue presidents about fees, security, and more complex issues such as rules for performing on holidays. His audiences were eager to see the person — and the couple — behind the jokes on social media. The couple decided to formally announce their marriage with an interview in Variety.
He saw his role not only as making people laugh but also as welcoming gay individuals into the observant community, assuring “people who are Jewish, who are gay, know that it’s OK.”
Edelman lauded him as the “Orthodox Ellen DeGeneres” for his pioneering role in fostering acceptance for L.G.B.T.Q. couples within the observant community.
Leo Veiga, Mr. Rosenfeld’s husband, is 22 years his junior and was raised Catholic. Their marriage now provides material for Mr. Rosenfeld’s act.
As he dined with his husband at the kosher restaurant in Lower Manhattan after his set, Rosenfeld was repeatedly approached by fans requesting photos and autographs.
An Orthodox woman came up to their table and mentioned that she had taken a party bus with her girlfriends to one of Rosenfeld’s shows on Long Island the previous year, leaving her husband and seven children at home. It was “girls’ night,” she explained, fawning over both Rosenfeld and Veiga.
“These people started with him on his comedic journey from the very beginning,” said Rabbi Gavriel Bellino, Rosenfeld’s rabbi and close friend. “He can say almost anything at this point because the connection is so deep.”
The couple noted that his original, observant fans have remained loyal. They often refer to the couple as “Modi and his gay husband.”
“As if I’m not gay, but my husband is,” Rosenfeld joked.
‘I Always Prayed for It’
On Oct. 7, 2023, Rosenfeld and Veiga were in Tel Aviv, concluding a tour during the Jewish holiday of Sukkot. Following the Hamas-led attack on Israel, they managed to catch the last flight to France. Three days later, at a show in Paris, he initiated a new tradition of concluding his sets with the singing of “Hatikvah.” He received a standing ovation as he left the stage.
Anti-Israel protests outside the theater prompted the French police to ask Rosenfeld to cancel his final scheduled performance. He complied.
As anxiety among his fans intensified, Rosenfeld’s following surged. He sold thousands of tickets in London, New York, Sydney, and Melbourne. He also performed in Vienna, Berlin, Munich, and Warsaw, as part of what Rosenfeld termed a “reparations tour.” Those shows, too, were highly attended, once Veiga assured the audience that private security would be provided for the venues, he stated.
He released his first comedy special in April 2024, titled “Know Your Audience.”
The newfound fame even surprises Rosenfeld, who largely attributes his success to his husband, whom, as he tells crowds, he met on the New York City subway in 2015.
“I always prayed for it: The goal was touring comedian and then it happened,” he said, adding, “I found a husband who suddenly took charge of the business.”
As Mr. Rosenfeld has done more material about being gay, he said he has seen little impact on the number of requests he receives for shows from Hasidic and modern Orthodox organizations.
Really Knowing Your Audience
Linda Shaw had never visited the Funny Bone, a comedy club nestled between a Legoland store and an Auntie Anne’s pretzels in an outdoor shopping mall in Columbus. But when Rosenfeld scheduled a show, she drove from her home in Cincinnati with a group of girlfriends and several of her cousins.
Shaw, 56, was raised as a conservative Jew, the daughter of two European parents. She married a non-Jewish man but raised her daughters as Jews.
So much Jewish humor “casts a negative light on Jewish life, and being an observant Jew,” Shaw observed. Then, there’s Rosenfeld.
“You have him, who does it in a way that allows you to laugh and embrace your Judaism,” she remarked.
Rosenfeld’s opening act, a Christian comic chosen for his “clean” style, struggled to tailor his performance to this specific audience. His biggest laugh came from a casual line: “How many people here go to church?”
At the Funny Bone in Columbus, Mr. Rosenfeld drew a crowd that doesn’t normally come to comedy clubs.
Rosenfeld delivered a 90-minute set that featured many of his recent greatest hits, material his fans say helps them feel understood and seen at a time when they feel disconnected from the broader world. He included jokes about the popular “mission trips” to Israel sponsored by American Jewish organizations and Israeli tour guides.
He recounted being in Israel on Oct. 7, hearing the air raid sirens, and witnessing the pop singer Bruno Mars being evacuated from the hotel in a convoy of cars.
Even in that life-or-death moment, Rosenfeld knew his audience.
“I said, ‘Leo, thank God they got Bruno Mars out of there,’” he narrated. “I said, ‘If a bomb hits this entire panel and both Bruno Mars and I die, I will get zero press.’”