ערב טוב.
סיפור אישי שקשור לדיונים הבאים:
באמצעו הֶעָשׂוֹר הראשון של מאה עשרים ואחד, היהדות הקונסרבטיבית האמריקאית עמדה בְּקִצָּהּ של מהפכה הלכתית. ואני לא הייתי מוכן.
בסביבוֹת הרבנים הקונסרבטיביים, נפוצות היו השאלות לגבי הומואים ולסביות ביהדות—האם מותר לתת להם סמיכה? האם מותר לסדר קידושין ביניהם? ועוד. בבית הספר התיכון הקונסרבטיבי שבו לָמדתי כסטודנט, היו שיעורים מוקדשים לנושא זה: למה יהיה מאושר אם נעבור על דברי חז”ל? למה יהיה מאושר אם נעבור על דברי התורה? אבל אני האמנתי שאי אפשר למצוא דרך הלכתית לעבור על פסוקים בעיָתִיִּים. הייתי משוכנע שבכל עוד שאנחנו מקדישים את התורה, אין לשום רב הסַּמְכוּת לומר שמותר לעבור על ויקרא פרק י”ח פסוק כ”ב. ואני ידעתי שכמעט כל היהודים הקונסרבטיביים הצעירים ושהרבה רבנים רצו להרחיב את האפשרויות של הומואים ולסביות בתנועה שלנו—אפילו אם נסתיר את דברי התורה במשך התהליך! הייתי מאוכזב ומתוסכל ועצוב. איך הייתי יכול להזדהות כיהודי הלכתי קונסרבטיבי ולעמוד לפני איזהי החלטה שמתנגדת בפני דבר תורה?
אני לא יודע מתי זה קרה, אבל כבר מזמן התנועה הקונסרבטיבית התאהבה בסיפורו של “תנור של עכנאי.” בקיצור, מתוארת באגדה זו מַחֲלֽוֹקֶת בין רבי אליעזר בן הורקנוס ורבי יהושע. רבי אליעזר בן הורקנוס היה בטוח שהיה טהוֹר התנוּר של עכנאי—איזשהו תנור מיוחד. ורבי יהושע והחכים אמרו שהתנור הוא טמא. אז מה עשה רבי אליעזר? הוא קרא לא-להים וְלַטֶּֽבַע לעזור לו ולהקים נִסִּים שיוכיחו שהוא—שרבי אליעזר—צודק! “אם התנור טָהוֹר כמו שאני אומר,” אומר רבי אליעזר כל פעם, “יהי רצונו רבונו העולם שֶׁאִיקְסְ יקרה!” אז הוא קורא לעץ חרוב שזז כדי לתמוך ברבי אליעזר. ורבי יהושע אומר שאינו מוכיח שום דבר. אז רבי אליעזר קורא לְמַֽיִם שהופכים את כיוון זרמם כדי לתמוך ברבי אליעזר. ורבי יהושע אומר שאינם מוכיחים שום דבר. אז נוטים הקירות של בית המדרש כדי לתמוך ברבי אליעזר. ורבי יהושע אומר שאינם מוכיחים שום דבר. ובסופו דבר, יוצאת בת קול א-לוהי והיא אומרת שרבי אליעזר צודק! אז רבי יהושע מצטט מִסֵּֽפֶר דברים, “לא בשמים היא,” כלומר: הבת קול אינה מוכיחה שום דבר! ועוד המסַפר מצטט מפרשת משפטים, הפרשה שלנו, בהגנת רבי יהושע, “אחרי רבים לְהַטֹּת.”
אבל יש כמה בעיות פה. אני יכול להבין למה הרבנים הזדהרו ולא האמינו בשלושת הנסים הראשונים בעד רבי אליעזר. אולי הם חשבו על הנסים האלה כקיסומים פגניים או מעשי כפירה. הנסים אינם בהכרח “נסים.” במילותֶיהָ החוֹקֶרֶת גילַת חָסָן-רוֹקֶם, בעיני כל תרבות, קל לשלול את אמִיתִיּוּתַם מעשים אל-טבעיים בפִתְגַם “הנסים שלנו, והקיסומים שלהם.”  עצים ומים וקירות ששומעים לדברי בן אדם אינם מוטיבים שקורים שוב הרבה במסורת שלנו, אז אינם נסים אלא קיסומים! אבל, בת קול!? בת קול היא בת קול! אי אפשר לומר “את קוֹל הא-להים ששְּׁנֵֽינוּ שומעים הוא קול א-לוהי רק באוזניך, ואינו בת קול בְּאׇזְנַי!”
ולגבי הציטוטים של רבי יהושע, מה נורא הם מקולקלים! “לא בשמים היא” הן מילות שמזכירות לנו שאנחנו יכולים להשתמש במשאבִּים שלנו כדי ללמוד פרטי החוקים, ולא הכל נשאר באיזהו מקום שְׁמִימִי וְסודי. ומה עם הציטוט מהפרשה שלנו, “אחרי רבים להטות?” בוודאי שכתובות המילים האלו בפרשה שלנו, אבל רבי יהושע מדלג על מילה אחת עיקרית: “לא!” “לא-תהיה אחרי-רבים לְרָעֹת ולא-תַעֲנֶה על-רֹב לִנְטֹת אחרי רבים לְהַטֹּת!” אם מותר לדלג על המילה “לא,” הדת שלנו יכולה להיות הפוכה. “תחמוד! תרצח! תגנוב!” וכו’.
אולי אינו ברור למה אני כל כך מתוכסל מהמדרש הזה. לרוב חיי, המדרש הזה עִצְבֵּן אותי. בכל שנת לימודים של בית הספר התיכון הקונסרבטיבי שלי—אם כן אני צודק—מורה שונה לימד את הטקסט הזה בכל שנה ושנה כדי להנהיג שיחה על הִתְקַבְּלוּתַם שינויים בהלכה מפי הרבנים. אבל, אני לא הִסְכַּמְתִּי עם רַבִּי יהושע וחבריו שניגדו לרבי אליעזר. הא-להים עמד בְּצִדּוֹ של רבי אליעזר! אך ההיסטוריה היהודית אמרה, “לא בשמים היא” בזמן שהיה הכל ברור לפניהם.
בהמשך של האגדה, נמצא אליהו הנביא (כרגיל), והוא נשאל מה עשה הקדוש ברוך הוא במשך הַוִּכּֽוּחַ. אליהו אומר שהא-להים “חייך ואמר, ‘נִצְּחֽוּנִי בָּנַי, נִצְּחֽוּנִי בָּנַי!’” לרוב חַיַּי, פירשו מוריי את המילה “נצחוני” כמו “אתם כבשתם אותי” או “אתם ניצחתם, ואני הפסדתי” או “אתם צדקתם, ואני טעיתי!” אבל, הרב דוקטור גורדון טוקר אומר שפירושו השורש נ.צ.ח. בסיפור זה מוכרח להיות “להתקיף.” טוקר מציין שראינו את השורש לפניכן: כְּשֶׁוִּכְּחוּ בבית המדרש וְנָטוּ הקירות בעד דברי רבי אליעזר, צעק עליהם רבי יהושע ואמר, “אם תלמידי חכמים מנצחים זה את זה בהלכה, אתם מה טיבכם?!” וּבְשׇמְעַם את דברי רבי יהושע, הקירות שוב מִזְדַּקְּפִים. לדעת טוקר, “לנצח” בסיפור זה הוא להתקיף  ולפגוע. כמו שהתקיפו התלמידים אחד את השני, כך חז”ל התקיפו את ופגעו בנִסֵּי הַטֶּבַע וּבְבַת קוֹל הָא-לֹהִי שירדה משמים כדי לפגוש את בני הא-להים. מה עשו אבותינו בביאתו אבינו שבשמים? הם פגעו בו.
וזהו הסיפור שבו השתמשו בכל דור ודור להוכיח את סמכותם הרבנים—אף על פי שהסמכות כואבת בא-להים ומסתירה את דבריו, ואף על פי שבהמשך הסיפור, סמכותם הרבנים גורמת לנידויו של רבי אליעזר וגורמת לבקשתו של רבי אליעזר שמתגשמת בהריגת הנשיא רבן גמליאל! מבחינה זו, הסמכות הזאת היא סכנה ואינה משמיע את קול הא-להים השמימי.
אז בפני לקח גרוע כזה, לא ראיתי שום הוכחה ששינוי במעמדם של הומואים ולסביות ביהדות קונסרבטיבית יִתְאַפְשֶׁר דרך תהליך א-לוהי. אך, לצערי, אפשר לומר שרבי יהושע וחז”ל כבשו את הא-להים וניצחו, וזהו התהליך ההלכתי ההיסטורי. אבל מה איכפת לי התהליך ההלכתי אם הוא שולל את הקול הא-לוהי? וידעתי מראש שֶׁאֵלֶּה שרצו לְשַׁנּוֹת את מעמדם של הומואים ולסביות ינצחו סוף סוף. אז מה הייתי יכול לעשות? האם באמת הם ינצחו, והיהודים הטקסטיים כמוני יפסידו?
בסוף הקיץ בשנת אלפיים ושבע, נכנסו לְכׇתְלַם בתי מדרש ג’יי טי אס הומואים ולסביות. פגשתי אותם (כמו שפגשתי כל שאר הסטודנטים) וגיליתי שהם היו נחמדים. וכמה ממנם היו רציניים בבחינת ההלכה כמוני, והיו רציניים באהבתם הטקסטים הקדושים שלנו, והיו רציניים בחיים תפילתיים ובשמירת כשרות ובשמירת שבת ובשמירת מצוות וכו’.
בסופו דבר, אני השגתי רעיון ממש מוזר אך חשוב: בפני ההומואים והלסביות הנחמדים שהיכרתי, לא ידעתי אם אכן האמנתי שהא-להים אסר על חַיֵּי הומואים ולסביות. אולי המילים האלו בויקרא נכתבו רק על ידי בני אדם שלא הבינו את הנִּסִּים של הא-ל ושלא הבינו את אנשים יוצאי דופן ושלא ידעו להבחין בין רצון בן אנוש ורצון בת קול. אף על פי שאני מאמין שמקורה התורה היא הא-להים, בבית ספר תיכון האמנתי שהתורה נכתבה מילולית על ידי בני אדם. בספרי תורה עתיקים וּבְכִתְבֵי יד תנ”כיים, יש לנו יותר מדי דוגמאות של שינויים קטנים (ולפעמים גדולים) שאי אפשר לי לחשוב שהא-להים עָרָךְ ישירות את השינויים האלה והתכוון בהם! אני לא זוכר בדיוק מתי, אבל כשלמדתי לתור ראשון, שמעתי את הפרופ’ בן זומר החוקר במחלקת המקרא של ג’יי טי אס, והוא דיבר על השקפתו התיאולוגית הפרטית שלו. הוא מאמין שהתורה היא תגובה אנושית לאירוע שבו צווה הא-להים את בני ישראל להראות את נאמנותם לא-ל בשמירת מצוותיו, אז התורה קשורה למפגש א-לוהי אמיתי,  אבל יש רעיוניות שנמצאים בתורה שלנו שאינם יכולים לבוא אלינו מא-ל שגם צדיק וגם רחום. טקסטים שמעודדים במלחמות עם הגויים ועוד דוגמאות שמתנגדות למִסְרָהּ התורה, מסרה רדיפת השלום: טקסטים אלה אינם באים ישירות דרך הא-ל אלא דרך אנוש עתיק קְסֶנוֹפוֹבִּי. ואחרי כמה זמן, אני באתי כבר להסכים איתו. יש מילים בתורה שאינן מהא-להים שבו אני מאמין. ורוב הזמן קשה לדעת מתיי הן מילות הא-ל ומתיי אינן מילות הא-ל. אבל לפעמים אנחנו יכולים לשמוע בת קול שצועקת עלינו לתוך אוזנינו ואומרת, “ניצחוני בני! ניצחוני בני! אתם התקפתם אותי! אתם הרסתם אותי!”
אבל בתוך הכאב של הא-ל, נרגש סיבוכם בני אדם. להטות אחרי הרבים או לא להטות אחרי הרבים? בתחילה, נוטים הקירות של בית המדרש. הם לא נוטים אחרי הרבנים אלא הם נוטים אחרי רב יחיד, ובשמעם את קול הרבנים, הם מזדקפים ולא נוטים אחרי הרבנים הרבים. והתורה היא עץ חיים שמחזיקים בה, אבל אי אפשר לאחוז בחורבן בית המקדש. ולכן, רבי אליעזר הוא היחיד שיכול להבין שאי אפשר להחזיק בעץ חרוב—עץ, שלפי צלילי שְׁמָהּ (“חרוב”), מסמלת את חורבן הדת העתיקה. ולכן קופצת עץ החרוב כדי לומר שצודק רבי אליעזר וטועים הרבנים. אבל הרבנים אינם מבינים שזה נס שתחיה הנגישות לא-להים; בעיניהם, זה סתם קיסום. אז אולי בְּמֵי תורה רבי אליעזר יכול להראות שהזרמים משתנים בתקופה החדשה של הרבנים. אינו ברור אחרי מי להטות בעת החדשה: אחרי הרבים? אחרי רבי אליעזר? אחרי התלמידים? אחרי הרבנים? בית מדרש הוא מקום מסובך. והאופצייה האידיאלית—לשמוע ישירות לדברי בת קול—מסורבת על ידי רובם חז”ל ומאושרת רק על ידי רבי אליעזר.
כמו הרבנים בתקופת רבי אליעזר, אני בשנת אלפיים ושש לא הייתי מוכן למהפכה הלכתית. לא הייתי מוכן להכיר את פני הא-ל ולזהות את צלם הא-להים הנמצאים באיזור רוחני שעליו חז”ל לא ידע: נשמות החברים ההומואים והלסביות שלי. הם היו רציניים כמוני, וכמו רבי אליעזר שהכיר את הנסים יותר טוב מכל שאר אדם בדורו, החברים שלי ההומואים והלסביות הבינו שלפעמים נמצאים בטבע ההפך של מה שמצפים; ולפעמים ההפך הוא ממש יפה. לפעמים אנחנו צריכים להתנצל בפנינו שהאמונות שלנו היו מזוייפות—שאפילו אם נטינו בכיוון אחד אפשר גם להטות מחדש בכיוון אחר או אפילו להזדקף! ולפעמים יסודותיה האמונה נמצאים נהרסים כחורבן, ואי אפשר לדמיין מסורת גְּמִישה בפני החורבן, אבל ידע רבי אליעזר שעץ החרוב, התורה הנהרסת, קופצת וזזה בתקופת הִתְחַדְּשות היהדות. אומרים פעמיים בכל יום “שמע ישראל,” אך לא שמע והֶחֱרִישׁ כְּחֵרֵשׁ רבי יהושע כשהשמיעה הבת קול, ורבי אליעזר היה היחיד שהיה מוכן לשמוע.
מבחינתי, הסיפור של תנורו של עכנאי אינו סיפור שמוכיח את סמכות הרבנים אלא הוא סיפור שמשבח את האינדיבידולאיות של המאמין בנסים מודרניים, והמאמין הבודד, והמאמין בקדושת היוצא דופן שמקודם לא יכולנו להסביר. הסיפור שואל: מתיי נחרבה עץ החיים העתיקה? האם נוכל לשתות מים שזורמים בכיוון חדש? באיזה כיוון מותר להטות? והאם נשמע את הקול של הא-להים כשהוא ידבר איתנו? האם נהיה מוכנים—מוכנים להיות ברכה ולא להשתמש בדת שלנו כחילול השם?
אסיים את דבריי לפניכם באזהרתו וּבִבְרָכָתוֹ של  אחד המנהיגים הקודמים של תנועת החסידות, הרב אלימלך מליזענסק. בספר פירושו על התורה, נועם אלימלך, הוא מתרכז במילים “א-להים לא תקַלֵּל” שמופיעות בפרשה שלנו וכך הוא כותב:
נראה לפרש דְּהִנֵּה התורה מלמדת אותנו את הדרך אשר נלך בָּהּ להִנַּצֵּל מן הַדִּינִים שלא ישלטו בָּֽנו—דְּהַֽייְנוּ שצריכים אנחנו להמתיק הדינים שגם הם יסכימו עמנו לרחמים (וחלילה להתגרות עמהם לקַלְּלָם חס ושלום) רק להמתיק אותם. וזה שאמר הכתוב “א-להים לא תקלל,” רוצה לומר “הדינים לא תקלל.”  וזהו “זֹבֵֽחַ לא-להים יׇֽחֳרָם בלתי לה’ לבדּוֹ”: פירַשׁ כשתרצה לזבוח הדינים. “יחרם בלתי לה’ לבדו…” “יחרם” הוא לשון “הֶקְדֵשׁ”… וזהו “יחרם לה’ כו’”—פירוש העיקר: להביאם אל הקדושה לה’ לבדו ולהׇפְכָם לְרחמים ממילא.”
עד כאן לשונו נועם אלימלך. אנחנו חייבים לשאול: האם אנחנו מוכנים לומר שאנחנו מוכנים לקרב ולהכניס באופן עמוק אלה שנראים כמו מקללי דינים? והאם בכל זאת התמונה היא מראית עיין מזוייפת? האם הדינים הם דינים אמיתיים? האם הם נסים או סתם קיסומים? האם אנחנו מוכנים להמתיק את הדינים? האם אנחנו מוכנים לשמוע לקול הא-להים שיביא אותנו לשלום? האם אנחנו רבי אליעזר? האם אנחנו רבי יהושע? האם אנחנו נוטים? התשובה היא קרובה ונמצאת בְּלִבֵּֽנוּ. בסופו דבר, לא בשמים היא.
ערב טוב.

Shabbat shalom,
About two weeks into settling into Israel, a cab driver asked me what I do.
“סטודנט,” I replied.
Curious to know what I’m studying, he asked me, “מה אתה לומד?”
I broke the news to him that I’m a rabbinical student. “אני לומד להיות רב.”
“Ahhhhh,” he said. “נווה שכטר?”
I was surprised that he guessed correctly. “כן. מכון שכטר.”
“קפלן!” he said.
Not quite understanding, I repeated: “קפלן?”
“כן. קפלן! מרדכי קפלן!”
Not expecting an Israeli cab driver to know about Mordechai Kaplan, I told him there was a connection between Kaplan and the Schechter Institute.
“לפני הרבה שנים,” he said, “אני נסעתי אותו לאיירפורט!” I was astonished. I had no clue that איירפורט was a Hebrew word. More importantly, something in that one cab ride with Mordechai Kaplan somehow moved or changed this cab driver. Otherwise, why would this guy remember this one ride with some American rabbi affiliated with some tiny American movement and even more marginally affiliated with some Israeli movement whose membership comprises less than 1% of the Israeli population? Driving קפלן was somehow an extraordinary experience for this cabbie.
I told the cab driver that I had no idea I was sitting in such a holy cab. But this cabbie definitely knew.
At JTS, I hear a lot about “myth”—that we can appreciate  Torah even if none of it is historical or real or even necessary. But, to me, a myth is something I have been fooled into believing, so the language of “myth” doesn’t work for me. My own approach is slightly different: Judaism is an epic poem, and I am eager to live it everyday. The metaphors of poetry are code for reality, and these symbols become the way I articulate real life. In that sense, I want to believe that just about the whole Torah did happen and does resonate with real life. And I’ve gotta get better at understanding the poetry of the Torah: To what do the metaphors allude? How can I interpret these metaphors to uncover the layers of reality beneath each story—beneath each word? I want to become a better reader because Judaism is the most beautiful poem I know.
Yet some things we associate with Judaism are very ugly.
Each month, I pray with Women of the Wall. I’ve been getting the feeling that there is nothing inherently holy about the Kotel. Whatever sanctity it has must come from what we are willing to bring to it. Some days, when all’s quiet on the Western Wall front, I can contemplate the history and holiness of that Wall. Some days, when the Women of the Wall and their allies are called “pigs” and “infidels,” I struggle to see the sacred. Kedushah is never inherent. We must bring kedushah to wherever we want to see it.
So, I believe there is great potential for kedushah in the Land of Israel, and the Land of Israel holds great potential for ways we can concretize the metaphors of a promised land, or of redemption. And I could find meaningful ways to incorporate these same religious concepts spiritually and internally, entirely independent from the existence of the State of Israel. But, the State of Israel’s here now, and a good chunk of the Jewish people has chosen to embody their religious ideas into this land. For me, because it is a physical entity, there is no choice but to work towards an Israel that must embody a vibrant and reputable Judaism.
In my own daily life, the greatest threat I know to Israel is internal: the religious tensions between the binary of secular Israelis and religious Israelis. This wound becomes severely painful when anyone who is neither chiloni nor charedi becomes negligible. Can the Jewish State host a Judaism that is critical, thoughtful, and religious? Or is this a State whose greatest pride in progressive Judaism is driving Mordecai Kaplan to the airport, only to fly him back to the United States—sending liberal Judaism back to Galut where that sort of mishegos belongs? If Jerusalem is Tziyyon, then, to me, it must be metzuyyan, “remarkable” and “noteworthy.” But if the Jerusalem of Tziyyon represents a Judaism devoid of nuance and moderation, that’s not “remarkable,” and we’re not in Tziyyon. We’re in Mitzrayim: a state of mind so צָר—so narrow—that all we feel is צָרוֹת, tzuris, troubles, woes. In Mitzrayim, it can feel too narrow to escape. But in the epic poem of Judaism, our exodus from Mitzrayim is an essential narrative.
Introducing Shemot, they say the Ba’al Shem Tov said:
וְהִנֵּה הָאָדָם הוּא עוֹלָם קָטָן,
Every person is a small universe,
וְיֵשׁ בּוֹ מֹשֶׁה וְאַהֲרֹן וּמִצְרָֽיִם.
And within every person, there is a Mosheh, an Aharon, and a Mitzrayim.
You and I are all little universes. In my little universe, Mosheh is not a person named Moses. His name Mosheh, meaning “to draw” or “to pull” renders him the Tanakh’s name for that force in the universe that seduces us towards religion: Divine persuasion, Divine love, or what Rabbi Brad Artson calls “the Divine lure.”
In my little universe, Mosheh is a great force, but sometimes Mosheh doesn’t do the trick. Mosheh is “כְבַד־פֶּ֛ה וּכְבַ֥ד לָשׁ֖וֹן”—of impeded mouth and impeded tongue. Beautiful and persuasive as the Divine lure may be, when Mosheh is no good, you gotta send in the sibling Aharon. In my little universe, Aharon is an Aron, an ark, a sacred home and decorative covering for the ineffable Mosheh who cannot speak or even be heard or understood by others. Aharon takes the words of Mosheh and embodies them as he dresses them nicely, presenting the words of Mosheh just as any ark or any home to our sacred words should. Without Aharon providing an elegant home for the Divine voice that Moses trembled to replicate authentically, some might have never heard that still, small voice of the Divine Lure, for Mosheh was not a great speaker.
Mitzrayim is easy for me to find in my little universe. I know what tzuris stresses me out. I have to listen carefully to my Mosheh, and, when I don’t hear the Divine voice, sometimes I need to look at nature to remember that God is emanated in the universe in ways other than Mosheh’s words, which, without a little help from Aharon, I can rarely hear. When Mosheh and Aharon work within me and when I let myself listen, I can eventually find myself freed from my Mitzrayim within.
In No’am Elimelekh, the 18th Century Chasidic master Elimelekh of Lizhensk examines the beginning of this week’s Parashah, Bo. One could say it’s chutzpadik for God to tell Mosheh to ask Par’oh to free the Hebrews and then for God to harden Par’oh’s heart over and over. But, No’am Elimelekh says that this is a healthy model for expressing and recognizing God’s greatness. Noam Elimelekh’s take is that the righteous Mosheh confronted the evil Par’oh on a regular basis. Evil people are not persuaded to serve God upon seeing or hearing about God’s wondrous acts. But, if you badger a rasha like Par’oh frequently enough on a regular enough basis, eventually that rasha will have a change of heart—a softening, not a hardening. Additionally, coming by so regularly with his predictable promise of a new act of God for Mitzrayim to witness, Mosheh is drawn ever closer to God; Mosheh—in the heat of his passion for the Divine—has to tell the progeny of his people of God’s wonders.
No’am Elimelekh says that, by engaging with the other, you inform or remind yourself, your kin, and your so-called “enemy” what wonders you see and what good your Divine self brings to the universe. It’s really a win-win for everybody—even when it feels like loss after loss.
About two months ago, a cab driver argued with me over whether liberal Judaism was legitimate. A kippah on his head, this cabbie was familiar with Orthodox life. He explained to me he doesn’t understand all of the laws he follows and doesn’t always like following them, but rules are rules. Yet, a freezing Shabbat devoid of heat is an uncomfortable way for him to spend his day of rest. I told him that it was a bizarre invention of the rabbis when it was determined that how we feel and experience ritual and the lessons we learn from aggadah and Jewish narrative must be completely divorced from the factors that determine our rulings in halakhah. For about 10 minutes, we talked about how difficult it is to balance what we need spiritually and what tradition has asked of us. The conversation was deep and honest, and, when I arrived at my destination, I thanked him for the chat. As I left the cab, he said, in Hebrew, “I don’t know who is right, but may it be that that one day we will know the truth.”
His hope might be Messianic, but, in my opinion, it is only this kind of serious and engaging dialogue that can build a Yerushalayim: a yerushah—an inheritance or heritage—of shalom—of wholeness. But we’re living in an age where Yerushalayim is not just a metaphor for a nice religion. Today, we need to be willing to determine when we live in Mitzrayim, what the words are of our Mosheh, and how our Aharon can articulate these words. We must be prepared for daily confrontations with our Par’oh. It is only through this earnest and honest religious dialogue that we can leave our Mitzrayim and work together to repair a fractured Jewish State, turning it into a wholesome heritage—a yerushalayim. If Israel must embody Judaism, we must strive for Tziyyon, for notability, and for diversity. We must work towards turning the Jewish State into a far more nuanced and articulate Jewish Statement.

The Scene

Men praying in the Men’s section specifically with Women of the Wall were few. I only counted one friend of mine and myself.

It was a cold, windy morning with a slight drizzle. This means the weather wasn’t clear enough for the reappearance of the guy who shouted some angry polemics at me last month. Nobody bothered to substitute for him.

I stood fairly close to the mechitzah (partition) that divides the men from the women. I was able to hear the women’s voices just clearly enough to sing along from my side of the Wall.

No one stopped me. I was permitted by all.

Today was the first time I’ve prayed with Women of the Wall without talking to a single police officer or curious onlooker. I felt a greater sense of freedom today than I have ever felt at the Wall.

The Birds

Amidst this quietude and liberty, my friend Sam pointed out to me a whole collective of birds watching over us as we prayed.

Contemplating those birds seated at the top of the Wall before us, my mind immediately turned to all those birds intermittently referenced in the Psalm for Rosh Chodesh (Psalm 104): “Alongside them, the birds of the sky dwell, and amidst the foliage, they give voice;” (verse 12), “thereupon birds nest, and, for the stork, the cypresses are her home” (verse 17).

The Psalm for Rosh Chodesh envelopes the worshiper with flora and fauna from all over the natural world as the human choir joins a choir of birds.

The Dream

Reflecting on the chirping birds above and the officers presiding almost invisibly in the back, I find increasingly profound inspiration in Sam’s musing.

Today, I felt my actions were carefully watched by neither police officers nor other men. I was just there. Praying. With birds.

If anyone other than the Divine needs to watch me in my prayer, and if I need to be aware of their presence, I hope that they won’t always be police officers.

Today was quiet enough to give me hope that maybe one day we won’t need policing at the Wall. Maybe we won’t need to fear there that one Jew will hurt another because of our differences. Maybe the only ones who will come to watch us at the Kotel will be birds.

It might be a Messianic dream, but I don’t think we’re too far away.

After all, wouldn’t that be a real Rosh Chodesh?

Honestly, I’m not much of a protest person. I prefer personal, rational, civil discourse. Nonetheless, without protests and big to-dos, I know it can be almost impossible for a cultural upheaval to take place.

I got to the protest an hour late (bad traffic). But things were only getting started when I got there.

I was pleased to see that speakers came from all sorts of places along the religious spectrum: secular, Reform, Modern Orthodox, and even Ultra-Orthodox.

The message everybody gave was essentially the same: we’re not going to take it anymore. Beit Shemesh cannot be a place where an aberrant Ultra-Orthodox Jew feels at home to drive other Jews out of town. If you spit on one little Israeli girl, then you are spitting on the entire nation.

The mother of Naama Margolese spoke briefly at the rally, and, following her, 8 men spoke and concluded each speech with the lighting of one candle on a Chanukkiyyah that was on the stage.

After these 8 men spoke, we finally heard the voice of a woman again–Opposition Leader Tzipi Livni. But, until she spoke, the crowd was pretty restless. There were many murmurs about haddarat nashim–”the exclusion of women”–coming from the event organizers themselves! Why weren’t the women speaking?

Slowly but surely, the crowd began to shout for “Nashim al habbamah!” (“Women on the stage!”). This chanting went on so long and so loudly that I couldn’t hear most of the final few male speakers. Once Tzipi Livni took stage though, a hush fell over the crowd (and so did a lot of shushing).

In deciding whether or not I wanted to go to the rally at all, I questioned whether or not I could bring anything to the crowd. Fortunately, I did! I brought 3 stickers from the Masorti Movement that looked like this:

It roughly translates into the following:

May no one ever shut your mouth in the name of the Torah! “All the women emerged after her with drum and dance… Miriam called to them, ‘Sing to the Lord!’” Exodus 15

The message is a little long, but pretty empowering.

I gave out one sticker to a little girl who saw me holding these stickers. Passing by me, a middle-aged woman asked me for a sticker too. Envious of her friend with the sticker I distributed, another young girl asked me for the sticker. So did another one, but I was out of stickers!

In the absence of enough stickers, one of the girls held up her sticker, and her friends took out their phones to shoot photos of this sticker that was even cooler than I expected!

Growing up as a Conservative Jew in the United States, I was often told that Israelis have never heard of the Masorti Movement. Yet, I cannot counthow many times I heard the speakers at last night’s rally say that Beit Shemesh–and all of Israel–must be a safe home to secular, Reform, Masorti, Modern Orthodox, and Ultra-Orthodox Jews!

I don’t know how much Israelis know about Masorti Jewish living, but it seemed pretty clear to me that thousands of Israelis actually do know that Masorti Jews exist. And not only that, but those girls thought that Masorti made some cool stickers.

Finally, I must stress that nearly every speaker acknowledged that the Ultra-Orthodox Jews who spit on other Jews, who actively call for the segregation of women from men, and who make Israel look bad are in fact not representative of the entire Ultra-Orthodox Jewish community. Ultra-Orthodoxy should not be equated with tendencies towards hateful actions and attitudes.

I must say that I was impressed by the amount of nuance in the speeches delivered last night. I joined with thousands of people who called for the end of hatred, segregation, and elitism. We all called for diversity and love in a Zionist state.

We asked that the pietists and the atheists live side by side alongside everyone in between, and that none of our beliefs and actions ever lead to the pain of others: that we never spit in the face of our neighbor, the face of our people, and the face of ourselves.

We’re not going to take it.

Counting Blessings

I didn’t count how many men prayed in the men’s section parallel to the Women today, but it was a good number.

Four girls celebrated their becoming benot mitzvah (Jewish adults) during today’s Torah reading. Their male friends and relatives comprised a good portion of the men I didn’t recognize today.

You might remember that, in my last post, I mentioned how sweet it was that Oren remembered me. Well, maybe I forgot what he looked like, maybe he sweetened up, or maybe he just wasn’t there today.

The police officers were much quieter and more polite than the authorities had been the past two months. Part of that might be because I offered them left over sufganiyyot, Krembo, and cake from a party I had last night.

They declined the offer, but they graciously thanked me.

Very Little Drama

To keep things fun, the screaming guy from two months ago made a reappearance. “Every month, they come here!” he shouted in Hebrew. “Don’t they have anything else to do?” (The answer is: most of “them” are in fact working women, students, or busy mothers of busy homes. These women have other things to do. I’m not sure if this guy does though.)

Anyway, our Mizrachi friend who loves to yell got particularly inspired today and chose to shout out a Hebrew recitation of Psalm 92: A Song for Shabbat. His pronunciation was pretty good, but it was also really loud and annoying. To help things out, he added in his own commentary to the Psalm. (“…like a cedar in Lebanon. Who is Lebanon? The enemies! Our tradition hasn’t changed for thousands of years, but they…” or some similarly terrible homily about Women of the Wall being an abomination. He also asked “Who is the palm tree?” and explained that it was the righteous ultra-Orthodox.)

At a certain point, my tolerance for his random, haphazard insights turned for the worse, and I walked over and asked him to be a little quieter. One of the officers ran up to me and, in a calm voice, asked me to return to praying at my seat (which was right next to the mehitzah–victory!).

But I was not the only person who didn’t dig the screaming dude. There was a moment where nearly all the black hatters within 40 feet of him all turned towards him, staring with unsympathetic faces. These haredim stopped what they were doing (praying) and just waited for him to stop what he was doing (bugging everybody).

He eventually lost his steam and stopped.

I don’t know what political side they were on, but a few clearly Orthodox men later came over to me and asked me, in a non-judgmental tone, who the group was with which I was praying. Before I could give these folks articulate answers, the officers asked them to go back to where they had been praying.

It felt to me like the soldiers were honestly and earnestly looking out today for the Women of the Wall.

Solidarity

At the end of our time at the Wall, I saw an officer in the back I hadn’t noticed earlier before. He looked a bit like Oren. But that didn’t stop me from offering my leftovers. He smiled and laid his hand on my shoulder. He didn’t even say no. He introduced himself; his name was Yossi.

“Ani itkhem,” he said. I am with you. But in the plural. I am with all of you.

• no violent religiosity
• no intentionally obnoxious religiosity (i.e. loud singing today was clearly not directed against Women of the Wall)
• approximately 25 women
• approximately 5 men
• approximately 4 soldiers guarding the mehitzah dividing the women’s and men’s sections of the Western Wall
• one of these soldiers, apparently named Oren, who, upon seeing me today, recognized me from last time, and immediately told me to step away from the “fence” (by which he meant the “mehitzah“) and strongly suggested I go pray with some men who were already praying (I explained though that I wasn’t praying with these guys; Oren didn’t like that…)
• Oren later told his fellow soldiers that, not only did he remember me from last time, but I apparently annoyed him last time, and, last but not least…
• soldier-buddies asked Oren jokingly if he’d like to join me in my singing Hallel with Women of the Wall, and his response was No, but he’d like to hit me.

On one hand, I feel uncomfortable publicizing this. On the other hand, I feel that Oren put himself out there, and my final critical words I want to say about him are the following: as far as I’m concerned, Oren was the biggest problem at the Wall today.

Everything else was pretty nice and quiet, meaningful and inspiring. (Some of the non-Oren soldiers even sang along with Hallel, even though it was led by women, and some of these soldiers were wearing kippot on their heads! Oren wasn’t, by the way.)

When all was said and done, I was late for class, so I caught a cab. Much to my pleasure and surprise, the ride filled me with hope for religious pluralism in the Jewish state.

I told the cab driver he’d be taking me to the Schechter Institute.

I explained to him where it is (Avraham Granot 4) and what it is (a semi-liberal/semi-traditional rabbinical school).

The cab driver was a kippah-bearing man who told me he got up at 5 AM this morning so he could pray and then go to work.

He said he meant no harm but that he had no understanding of why people might deviate from the words of the Sages.

I told him a few reasons people might: that there have been arguments and disagreements throughout history and that there has always been a tension between the spirit and the law in Judaism.

He listened to me very carefully.

He told me of all the strange and challenging things Jews do because we must.

I listened to him very carefully.

I told him I believe in thoughtful change in Judaism.

I said I tremendously respect his way of life, and he said he respected mine.

I said we might both be wrong, or we might both be right.

When I left the cab, he blessed me and said he hopes that we will both find the truth.

Oren, I hope that you will find the truth too.

I’d post the lyrics and info here; however, it is all available at jonahrank.bandcamp.com.

Did I mention that it is free to hear? And most of the tracks are really inexpensive to download…

Enjoy!

I feel that I’m beginning to understand that abstract Jewish idea of transmitting tohorah (purity) or tume’ah (impurity) to a vessel.

Tume’ah is transmitted when a deceased body is in the presence of of a living person, or when a menstruating woman comes in physical contact with another body, or when a nasty reptile crawls into some jug you own.

I might struggle to find spiritual meaning in cases like these, but I’m beginning to understand why someone might actually want a religion where tohorah and tume’ah can be transmitted.

This morning, I strongly considered that the Western Wall might have no inherent kedushah (holiness). Perhaps in the glory days of the Temple, that Wall was witness to millions of sacred rituals, all of which sought out deeper connections between the tangible universe we see and the Divine we seek. The Wall once housed myriads of acts so pure that kedushah permeated the Temple beyond the human imagination.

Today, I stood at the Kotel (the Western Wall), but I hardly sensed kedushah. The Wall felt more like the backdrop to a battlefield for religious warriors. And I hate to say that I felt like one of them.

The Stage

When I arrived towards the far-right edge of the Men’s section, right near the mehitzah that separates the women from the men, I was at first relieved to see a few armed men in uniform, attentively overseeing the actions of the Y-chromosome folks.

I walked up to one of these soldiers and asked him if he was there because of Women of the Wall (who meet monthly for prayer). I hoped he’d say, “Yes” (but in Hebrew–this conversation was in Hebrew). Instead he said something vague about him just being there, and he then asked unconvincingly if there’s something he can help me with. I said, “No,” and I thanked him for doing this work that I see as so important and holy; Women of the Wall needs their support (these women get a lot of flack from outspoken radicals). I don’t remember the soldier’s exact answer to my gratitude, but it ranged somewhere between “Alright” and no response at all.

Time marched along, and women began to trickle into the women’s section. The Women of the Wall began to pray together. Very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very quietly. I had no idea where they were because it was so quiet. All I could tell was–if I would look through the mehitzah (which I did a few times, just to check that everything’s alright)–women were gathering together in prayer.

Act One

In response to the inaudible meditations of the Women of the Wall came one white-bearded, long-bearded, well-aged man with a thick Mizrahi (“Eastern”/Judeo-Arab) accent. This particular fellow began to shout very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very loudly. He was in the back–close to those men in uniform, and right next to a full minyan of men praying on their own in the back-right corner of the men’s section.

“Infidels!” “Pigs!” “This is forbidden by the Torah and the Talmud and the Shulhan Arukh!” Those are just some of the things that emerged from his mouth. He probably took 5-10 minutes to shut up. He persisted in shouting inaccurate yet insinuating comments about Women of the Wall.

At a certain point, this man was so loud that I came up to him and informed him that his shouting made it hard for me to pray with any amount of intention (“I’m sorry. I’m trying to pray.”). Hardly digesting my words, he informed me that I was an infidel pig violating Torah, Talmud, Shulhan Arukh, yada yada yada yada yada. I calmly said again to him, “I’m sorry. I’m trying to pray.” He continued shouting.

I turned to one soldier and asked if it was actually legal for someone to disturb people’s sacred prayer service in a place of such sacred history. The soldier barely looked at me and said that this was, of course, perfectly legal.

So I resumed praying through this shouting (occasionally reminding the shouting man very quietly, “I’m sorry. I’m trying to pray.”).

After some of this (quiet) back and (loud) forth, a soldier shouted to me, “Is this guy disturbing you?”

So, I said, “Yes.”

“Well, he’s not disturbing me.”

Of course he wasn’t disturbing the soldiers standing at the side, bareheaded, chatting with each other through their cigarette smoke. I gave up on believing that these soldiers were going to be especially helpful to the cause of Women of the Wall this morning.

After the shouting man gradually subsided, a man dressed in all black–shoes, pants, suit, and hat–suddenly had an idea! Sing the final paragraph of the Amidah really, really loudly (this guy was not actually reciting the Amidah prior to this; he clearly likes to be loud; and I’d say it was strategic). He began to sing with his full heart (good and bad qualities present), “Sim shalom” (“Grant peace”), and a chorus of scattered men from the Y chromosome section joined in, happily drowning out the barely audible voices of the Women of the Wall.

It was at this point that a friend and I turned to each other (there were only three men actively supporting Women of the Wall in the men’s sections). “If they’re allowed to shout,” he said. “So are we.” I agreed. I suggested that we should loudly sing the prayers the Women of the Wall were singing. Let those honest, earnest voices be heard.

To do so, I figured I’d check and see what the Women of the Wall were up to in the service. I got up on a chair to look over the mehitzah and check in. A soldier yelled at me to get down from the chair. It was not okay for me to stand on a chair to help support a minority group; however, it was alright for other men and women to look over the mehitzah by standing on chairs, and it was alright for men and women to talk to each other through the holes of the mehitzah. Of course though, I am an infidel pig violating Torah, Talmud, Shulhan Arukh, yada yada yada yada yada.

So, I put my ear up against the mehitzah to listen to what the Women of the Wall were up to. In response, a soldier asked me to step away from the “fence” (the word-choice of which sounded awfully similar to some Fence dividing Palestinian and Israeli territories).

Thank God for being sneaky. After moving away, I decided instead to tilt my head awkwardly so I could hear better (without putting my ear against the mehitzah), and I finally could hear what the women were singing.

So, with only two other men on my side (kinda literally), I sang as loudly and clearly as I could (well… as loudly and clearly as I can when running on fewer than 5 hours of sleep).

Singing with them was fun. It was spiritually uplifting, and I felt like I was doing the right thing. In a court of men largely apathetic or aggressively opposed to these women’s modes of religious expression, I could sing in the Presence of God, before the remains of the ancient Temple.

Earlier in history, the grounds around this very Wall housed priestly servants conscientious of maintaining tohorah in the Temple; it was all part of the grand plan to ensure the Temple’s kedushah. No impure vessels in this sacred structure. Only the best.

So, I have to wonder about Jewish men who throw rocks at women in prayer, sons of Israel who toss chairs at daughters of Israel, hypocrites who declare that the pious are “pigs.” Are they actually maintaining kedushah by violently guaranteeing some sense of tohorah here? How can they keep things sacred when sin’at chinnam (baseless hatred) in such a hillul hashem (a desecration of God’s name)? Strict Jewish law is one thing, but the finest of Jewish living cannot be expressed through misogyny, hasty judgment, inflexibility, and so much more that only brings pain to God’s universe. Such actions transmit no tohorah. Sin’at chinnam stains every Jewish body with nasty, gross tume’ah. When the feet of those engaging in sin’at chinnam stand on the grounds of the Temple, I lament the foolishness of false pietists who think their tume’ah is tohorah.

This morning, I had no interest in touching the Wall. What was there for me to touch? A brick? Desecrated by the hands of those who did not want me there? I believe that God is everywhere, and I know that God is in the Wall, I had no interest in seeking God through that Wall at that time.

There are a lot of pure places in the world. There are so many other ways to access kedushah. It was time to move on.

Act Two

After the psalms of Hallel were sung in honor of the new Jewish month, Women of the Wall’s women and men marched to Robinson’s Arch: the partially remaining Southern Wall. At this reserved space, women loudly read Torah, led prayers, guided each other through the service, and opened up their souls.

Robinson’s Arch has no mehitzah. Men and women may stand together in prayer, but I chose to leave these women their space at the Southern Wall. I stood in the back. This was not about me. This was about them. This was about a population muted by their kin, suddenly given the private space to stand at one with their present community, with their sacred history, and with the sweet, eternal quietude of God.

The Southern Wall has nobody shouting about infidels or pigs or violations. This is a structure under which sincere prayer happens: where shalom (peace) is granted in peace to a small, but select few Jews who choose the Western Wall’s modest cousin.

Although the women today chose to pray off to the side and away from the Wall itself at Robinson’s Arch, accessing that Wall is easy for whoever so desires.

Standing even further from the Wall than the central crowd, I witnessed a friend of mine walk over to the Wall. Her head bowed a bit low and her hand held up against the Southern Wall, she stood there humbly: with utter kedushah, with utter tohorah. I had never seen a more beautiful expression of humanity’s capacity to become One with its history.

The faint positioning of herself against the wall–one sole woman leaning against a vast emptiness of a Wall–reminded me that the prophet Elijah did not find the Divine voice in the chaos, but Elijah heard God in a still, small voice. Today, God’s voice was mum at the Kotel. But God’s voice resonated through the whisper of one woman against a wall. She stood there at one with God, with Torah, with Israel, with Jewry, with history, with the Wall, and with herself.

This was the quiet voice of God, and I heard it loud and clear.

Epilogue

Jewish law often worries that women will transmit impurity. The Southern Wall, touched by the hand of a woman who had earlier in the day bravely led dozens in Hallel in the chaos of the Western Wall, was the purest thing I had ever seen. Through the gentle touch of her hand against a rugged wall, one young woman transmitted purity–tohorah far greater than anything I saw at the Kotel.

This morning, my eyes witnessed hundreds of men with hateful tume’ah that polluted the most intact of Jewish history’s most supposedly sacred vessels. Yet, those same frustrated eyes of mine found shalom in discovering that one woman can transmit the greatest of tohorah to one of Jewish history’s most forgotten yet most sacred vessels.

I hope that one day I will live in a Jerusalem where 1,000 men can bestow a kedushah upon the famous Western Wall at least equal to the tohorah a single hopeful hand transmitted today at the forgotten Southern Wall.

May we all use such pure hands to transmit tohorah and kedushah throughout our universe–whether in known places or unknown places. But, if you tell me that those actions will turn me into a pig or an infidel or a violator of Jewish law, then let me tell you something: yes, you will be disturbing me, but I will have no interest in moving away from that fence.

You can’t stop me. I’m trying to pray.

I figured that this must be the end for me: no driver’s license, no medical insurance, no credit cards, no debit cards, none of that $300+ that was in my wallet when you took it.

I was at my apartment when I noticed the absence of that which you snatched from me.

The first thing I did was give up my dinner plans. I was supposed to bring some wine. Not tonight.

I retraced my steps to see if maybe I dropped it. Still, no wallet.

I called some friends I had spoken to earlier in the day. They offered me food for the night.

After we ate, I prayed a messianic hope: that all people in need of food will get the food they require. I didn’t pray that because I believed it is possible. I prayed that because I wished it were possible.

My friends asked how they could help me. Could they lend me money? Could they give me food?

My family called from overseas. They canceled my cards and ordered new ones. Those are gradually on their way over here.

I have enough food for the next few days, and, though I have no money, I have a roof over my head.

But most importantly, I have loving and caring family and friends.

Honestly, aside from you, all of the strangers I’ve met here have been very friendly. But, that’s not fair for me to say.

I didn’t meet you.

Maybe you are homeless. With $300 you can probably buy 100 decent sandwiches. Maybe you’ll give one good meal to 100 starving children here.

But, then again, what can you do with my driver’s license and my health insurance card? I mean, really.

It’s tough for me to judge anyone, and perhaps this too is a messianic prayer: I pray that whatever you’re doing with my wallet is far greater than anything I could have done with it. I hope that you are feeding the hungry, paying an expensive yet necessary medical bill, rescuing animals, or doing some other fantastic thing. But, for this, I pray because I believe it is possible.

You can take my cards, you can take my license, and you can take my cash. But you’re not much of a thief.

You can take all of those things away from me, but you can never take away optimism, you can never take away prayer, and you can never take away the love and care of friends and family.

Maybe you made me broke. But you did not break me.

I still stand with the strong support of countless people in my life whose concern for me remind me on a daily basis how very rich I am just to be alive.

With much love for good people in a wonderful universe,

Jonah Rank

P.S. My name is my Gmail address. Let me know if you want to return my wallet yet.

You are my favorite not-quite-a-rabbi-rabbi, and I need an opinion.

Is there any justification for not observing second day chag that can be based in anything substantial, other than, “I don’t want to”?

It is putting me in a very difficult position, school-wise, and my instinct is to suck it up and deal with it, but I wanted to check just in case there is some way to create some wiggle room. (Really, I just need to write/use my computer that day. It wouldn’t involve working at an occupation or doing anything with money…)

So, there are two questions here:

1) May one write and/or use a computer on the second day of Yom Tov?
2) May one observe only one day of Yom Tov?

My short answers are: Yes, and Yes.

Let’s deal with that second question, the more complicated one. You’ll see we don’t need to talk too much about the first one after the second question’s been answered. (But I’m happy to talk about the first one separately!)

Short Answer about One-Day Tov:

There is a lot of justification for observing only one day of chag:

1) The original law in the written Torah calls for only one day;
2) Certain exilic Jewish communities in the Talmudic era observed only one day;
3) Modern technology and mathematics know how to calculate what day is the singular “right” day of chag now;
4) Conservative rabbis approved of there being only one day of Yom Tov observed out of Israel several decades ago; and
5) It is easily arguable that it is counter to Jewish living when our spiritual observances in fact burden our spirits rather than elevate them.

For all of these reasons, it is permissible for a Jew to observe only day of Yom Tov.

Long Answer about One-Day Yom Tov:

So, just to expand on these thoughts:

1) The original law in the written Torah calls for only one day.

From the Torah alone, there is no reason to celebrate two days of Yom Tov.

The primary reason for observing two days of Yom Tov outside the Land of Israel is as follows: the beginning and end of Yom Tov used to be “announced” by messengers. The stories say: people used to light flames at mountain tops to inform the next community over that Yom Tov was coming. Once you leave the Land of Israel, it takes a while for news like this to travel. By the time you’d find out about Yom Tov in Babylonia, perhaps the Land of Israel had already begun Yom Tov the previous day?

This was a relatively slow process for spreading news. So, in the Talmudic era, it became the norm that Yom Tov would be observed for two days rather than waiting for the exact calendrical calculations and announcements from the Land of Israel. If you observed two days, you’re bound to get it right!

(We’ll come back soon to the problem modernity has with this.)

2) Certain exilic Jewish communities in the Talmudic era observed only one day.

Yes! The Talmud records such stories, and, according to Rashi, this whole second-day business only happened when there actually were problems with the messengers (mentioned above). As slow as they were, they were relatively on time. (We’re not going to talk here about Jewish Standard Time, which runs a lot later than all local time zones.) The second day of Yom Tov in the Talmudic era, according to Rashi, was in fact, the exception to the rule.

3) Modern technology and mathematics know how to calculate what day is the singular “right” day of chag now.

Do you know what’s a faster way of spreading news than old Jewish guys starting fires on mountains? Pretty much anything Steve Jobs was ever behind. Or Bill Gates. Or even Al Gore.

In short, modern technology can tell us the exact instant (okay, plus loading time) what time Yom Tov begins in Israel.

And, taking a step back: that’s not how we calculate today, is it? Every Jewish community on Earth today calculates the beginning of Shabbat and the beginning of Yom Tov by what we can see in our local skies. We have no need to rely on the time in Israel when it comes to our own Yom Tov, so let’s just rely on our own calculations and celebrate!

4) Conservative rabbis approved of there being only one day of Yom Tov observed out of Israel several decades ago.

They surely did!

Why don’t Conservative synagogues today observe only one day of Yom Tov then? The answer is: some actually do. To give an example that was local to me when growing up: Temple Beth Sholom of Smithtown, NY does. And they’re not alone.

I can say comfortably that I’ve worked in at least one synagogue that has had conversations about whether or not they would benefit from building stronger community if they shifted their communal practice to only one day of Yom Tov. In communities with few Jews, it is hard to gather Jews for two days’ worth of services! If these communities want the full warmth of their devoted shul-goers, they could easily benefit from observing only day of Yom Tov.

Furthermore, in communities with few Jews, it is especially challenging for Jews to say “I can’t go to work for two days” or “I can’t go to school for two days” because this leaves Jews beyond the minority; this leaves Jews extremely disadvantaged: fewer sick days or personal days, behind in work, and–frequently–with nobody else in that same boat. One day is challenging, too, but two days of a lonesome holiday is far worse than one day of a lonesome holiday.

5) It is easily arguable that it is counter to Jewish living when our spiritual observances in fact burden our spirits rather than elevate them.

The word chag is synonymous with the Arabic word haj, which means “pilgrimage.” A chag is not merely a festival or a holiday, it’s a day when–if we are not moving–we are moved. We are elevated. We are removed from our usual state of being and elevated.

Even if we are not singing Shir Hamma’alot, a Song of Going Up to a physical Jerusalem, we, in our hearts, are singing a Shir Hamma’alot of going up to a spiritual Jerusalem on chag.

As far as I can tell, Jerusalem, Yerushalayim, is a contraction of two words: Yerushah, and Shalem. Yerushah, heritage, and Shalem, wholeness. On every chag, we have to be able to elevate ourselves to recognize the wholeness of our Yerushah, or at least to have shalom and to be at peace with our heritage.

So, on a chag, can we allow a churban beit hammikdash–a destruction of the holy Temple? Can we allow a destruction of the physical embodiment of the sacred? That physical Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, and we can’t do anything about that, but, today, we still celebrate chag! Do we go up to physical Jerusalem? No. We also don’t go to a physical Temple.

But, we do go to a spiritual Yerushalayim and we enter a spiritual Beit Hammikdash–a spiritual embodiment of the sacred–when our ritual practices resonate with our spiritual needs.

So, for the lone observant Jew four towns away from Albequerque, New Mexico, two days of chag might be, not only professional suicide, but spiritual suicide. When religion hurts your life, then the religion’s not working. We learn from the story of the Binding of Isaac that our religious fervor should never hurt us.

One day of from work? Sure, it’s not very easy. But it’s a day to take off because you can truly celebrate. You can truly have a Yom Tov. A good day. It’s a day of Chag.

You can take that pilgrimage up to your spiritual Yerushalayim where you are at one with what you have inherited from hundreds of generations of Jews. In that Yerushalayim, in that pure, peaceful, whole heritage, you can meditate in that Beit Mikdash you have built out of the construct of your Jewish life.

THAT’S a Yom Tov. After such a Good Day, who needs to repeat it the next day? The Torah would never have asked us to try to attain such a high level of spiritual consciousness!

For all of these reasons, it is permissible for a Jew to observe only day of Yom Tov.

Perhaps one of the greatest faults of contemporary Jewish lawmaking on this question has been that we have only permitted one day of Yom Tov. But I would like to advise one day of truly intentional Yom Tov. And, if that means only one day of Yom Tov, then I say go for it!

3 final notes:

1) I am not a rabbi (currently), so I am not a posek–an authoritative Jewish lawmaker. All I am is a rabbinic student and, at best, a rabbinic spiritual adviser.

2) This is not the most comprehensive look at the Halakhic/legal sources regarding the question of two days of Yom Tov. For a more comprehensive (but still not entirely comprehensive) look at the legal sources, feel free to look at http://mahrabu.blogspot.com/2008/12/one-day-only-part-2-conservative.html. He refers to many sources that are worthwhile to look at.

3) Who knows if I will agree to this advice years from now? Or even weeks from now? Or days from now? Nonetheless, these words seem fairly compelling to me for the meantime. And I am convinced that Judaism frequently gives us answers that work for the meantime–not always answers that work forever. Otherwise there’d be no reason to re-interpret a text.