The mountain was wide enough for us all
From the very beginning of our tradition, we were woven together by threads of Torah that didn’t match. That’s not a flaw in our story; that’s its brilliance. Midrash teaches that although we stood shoulder to shoulder at Sinai, each of us received something meant just for us. The difference was never a problem to solve. It was the foundation we stood on.
What holds us together is not sameness, it’s Torah. Torah is meant to hold the fullness of our lives: our joy and our grief, our questioning and faith, our stories and our truth. That’s the beauty of it: Torah has never been one-size-fits-all. Instead, it’s a shared framework we each carry in our own way. Each of us, no matter our history or observance, holds a piece of that original moment at Sinai. And each of us was promised that every single piece matters.
And yet, sometimes that promise feels forgotten. The welcome can feel conditional. Certain voices seem to carry more weight. When I stumble over Hebrew, or hold a prayer book and have no idea what page we’re on, or nod along to avoid admitting I don’t know a concept everyone else seems to understand…I wonder: Does my voice count here? Is my Torah still valid?
In too many spaces, I’ve felt the need to shrink, to prove myself, or to hide the parts of me that don’t “fit.” But Shavuot reminds me that we were given a Torah wide enough for all of us. A Torah that values our questions as much as our answers.
After all, Torah was not handed to just the elite or the learned. It wasn’t received in a study hall or behind closed doors. It was given in the open air, on a mountain, to a mixed multitude, to anyone willing to receive it. No applications. No prerequisites. No passing Hebrew 101. Just the radical truth that everyone has a place in this tradition.
But too often, that promise feels distant. What if our community asked different questions? What if, instead of asking “What have you studied?” we ask, “What are you holding?” Or, instead of “Where have you learned?” we asked, “What truth are you ready to share with me?”
We all grow as individuals when we don’t measure belonging, but instead open the door wide and say:
Come with your questions.
Come with your doubts.
Come with your Catholic aunt who cooks the best matzo balls.
Come with your non-Jewish partner.
Come with your disability — visible or invisible, or your service dog that howls along with the shofar.
Come with your gender that doesn’t fit neat boxes.
Come with your long skirts and your covered hair.
Come with your grief, your anger, your pockets full of hidden candy on fasting holidays.
Come with your tattoos and your multicolored hair.
Come with your flag of Israel.
Come with your heartbreak for a world filled with violence.
Come with your rage and your empathy.
Come with your yearning for peace.
Come even if you’ve never been before.
Come even if you’ve been here every day.
Come if you’ve been told you don’t belong.
Come especially if you’ve been told you don’t belong.
Come with your sacred worth.
Come with your whole self.
A Jewish world that welcomes complexity is a stronger world; it is one that remembers the mountain made room for all of us. We said: “Na’aseh v’nishma,” “We will do and we will listen,” each of us responding to the Torah we were uniquely given. And, each of us has something to offer.
Shavuot’s radically inclusive promise is this: Torah is not complete without you. We receive Torah every time we say, “Come teach me.” Every time we pause and realize, “I never thought of it that way.” Every time you walk into a space and choose to share, we receive Torah. Learning someone’s Torah is, like Revelation, transformational.
The mountain is still wide enough, I promise. We just have to make space. So make the circle a little wider. Let someone else’s truth become part of your learning. That is how we receive Torah. That’s how we build a Jewish world where everyone belongs, woven together by the strength of those threads that were never meant to match.
