In Between Asleep and Awake: Chol HaMoed Pesach

It is the first day of Chol HaMoed, the in-between days of Pesach. Chol, the ordinary, and Moed, the sacred. These days are weekday and holiday, at the same time. They are the strange, sacred middle: not quite Yom Tov, but not just regular days either. We eat matzah, we say Hallel, and we go to work. We taste freedom, and we carry its weight. A paradox, a complicated truth.

It’s such a Jewish thing, really, to mark what exists between the obvious categories. We even have a word for it: bein ha’shemashot, twilight, that ambiguous moment between day and night. It’s not either, and it’s not neither. It’s both. Like Tinkerbell told Peter Pan, “That place between asleep and awake—that’s where I’ll always be.” Friends, that’s where we are right now.

Pesach itself has always been that. Sweet and bitter. Celebration and heartbreak. We taste charoset and maror together. And for some of us, for the past two years especially, it has all felt like this: an ache beneath the sweetness, and sweetness in the midst of deep ache.

Let me offer a little halachic moment that also captures this liminality. Just before the holiday began, there was some unexpected construction near the UJA building—foundation shaking, unsettling stuff—so our staff stayed home while we ensured the safety of the building (everything is fine). But then came the question: what if someone had chametz in their desk, and they couldn’t come clean it out before Pesach began?

That’s not just logistical—it’s spiritual. You see, we’re commanded not just to avoid eating chametz during Pesach. We’re not even allowed to own it. We’re not allowed to see it. But there’s a beautiful, almost mystical tradition during the bedikat chametz, the search for leaven, where we say a formula in Aramaic: “All chametz in my possession, whether I’ve seen it or not, is nullified. It is like the dust of the earth.”

Think about that: even if it is there, it doesn’t count. I don’t see it. It doesn’t belong to me anymore—not because it disappeared, but because I affirmed its non-existence. That’s radical spiritual agency. That’s what it means to live in the in-between. It’s there—but it’s not mine. I tried. I did my best. And that changed my reality. (And my UJA colleagues are in the spiritual clear.)

These days are filled with these moments. Chol HaMoed says: live in this tension. Be present to it. Don’t rush past it. Hold both truths.

We are celebrating Pesach this year for the second time since October 7th. And we count the days—we count every day. It’s now day 557. We’ve been counting because we’ve been awake. Because we can’t look away. There are children still in tunnels. Families still waiting. Wounds still bleeding.

And so I ask: how can I celebrate freedom when we are not free?

I can’t. And I can.

That’s Chol HaMoed. That’s life itself.

We sat at our table, free to have a seder, while in Israel, our people are not fully free. And still we sang. Still we hoped.

That’s what it means to stand at the edge of the sea, on dry land in the middle of the waters—b’toch ha’yam. That’s what it means to stand in that impossible space and move forward anyway.

We are awake. And we’re not fully awake. We’re free. And we’re not fully free. And we are still responsible. Always responsible.

Many of us placed a lemon on our seder plate this year, following the suggestion of Rachel Goldberg-Polin, whose advocacy for the release of the hostages has continued unabated even after her beloved son Hersh z”l was murdered by terrorists during captivity. A lemon—so beautiful, and so sour. A world so beautiful, and so painful. That’s the symbol of Chol HaMoed this year. That’s where we are. In between.

So, friends: what can we do?

What can we do when we live between categories, in the midst of heartbreak and joy, of sweetness and sorrow?

We can pray more deeply. We can give more generously. We can show up, with fierce presence, for our people and for all people. We can be awake in a world that is still somewhere between asleep and awake. We can demand that the sea part. Again. And again.

So I ask you, as I ask myself: What can you do to make the world more whole? What can you do to wake up a little more? What can you do to help the world awaken with you?

In this sacred in-between, this is our task.

May we be blessed with strength. May we be gifted with clarity. And may our people—and all people—soon know what it means to be truly free.

Moed Tov.