The Two Kingdoms and The Parable of The Wall

In Israel, no matter is small. Fresh from electoral victory, right-wing parties swiftly targeted the Supreme Court, branding it too powerful. They argued that the Court, having declared itself the ultimate arbiter of parliamentary law, had usurped the elected and seized the country. The judges disagreed, and their supporters flooded the streets. Dire threats fly from both sides—business as usual in the Land of the Jews. The fierce protests and government’s stubbornness suggest a weighty dispute. Yet when protesters march, foes fire back with year-old clips of opposition leaders mirroring the government’s judicial stance. Why this fury among Israel’s Jews? This clash ignites a deeper question: Who is an Israeli Jew?

The question is vast. Is the Universe a cold machine, or does a Creator guide it, touching humanity through a spiritual veil? The answer marks one religious or secular—or shades between, even both. Was there a revelation from the void?

Jews embody extremes. From Sinai’s divine encounter to the Holocaust’s ashes, they stretch across time and thought—Moses above, idols below; bankers here, Marx there. These waves surge and crash, yet the sea endures. Beneath its surface, Jews abide eternally.

Israel’s Jews split in two: the Jews of the World in Tel Aviv, the Jews of the Wall in Jerusalem. Beyond these kingdoms—Western Tel Aviv, Eastern Jerusalem—other Jews pledge loyalty to one. Jews beyond Israel, the Jews of Gaul, stand apart from the Jewish Story until they return.

The Parable of the Wall

Long ago, all Jews were Jews of the Wall. In that United Kingdom, two friends shared prayers in one synagogue and vowed to study together. At their set time, they pored over thick tomes, debating until, with luck, a passage glowed or past lessons deepened. They felt part of the Creator’s work. The Elder, a professor, and the Younger, a lens-grinder, each sharpened the world’s vision.

The Younger chased his roots, linking his ground lenses to the sand of their glass. He led his family to a distant land—the Kingdom of Sand—where homes rose from sand and crops sprouted from it. Roots gripped hard there. The drip irrigation nourishing that land felt like an infusion into his soul.

A good crop pleased the Creator; a poor one drove him to the synagogue for strength, recalling his study with the Elder. This life forged strong souls, their light radiating from the Kingdom of Sand, drawing visitors to its glow.

So, the Elder’s visit after years apart didn’t shock the Younger. He thought the Elder sought that light. But meeting him, the Younger, steeped in faith, saw the Elder’s had faded.

“One day, at my wall of prayer, I knew in my soul: nothing waited beyond, no one heard.”

Their study-bond held firm across time. Listening, the Younger recalled his own moment at a wall, feeling the opposite—his prayers answered, a crop assured. Their bond revealed a shared moment—distinct yet one—carrying a single Truth, grasped beyond knowing how. The Elder wasn’t fallen, just divergent. This was a holy parting. Their tie would fade, but not forever; one day, they’d need its truth like breath.

That afternoon, dubbed ‘The Day of Disengagement,’ he led the Elder to Dune Mount, the Kingdom’s highest ridge. They sat, silent, watching the Elder’s son nudge sand into tiny avalanches. “See what he sees?” the Elder asked. The Younger saw play. “Look closer,” the Elder urged. “Through his eyes.” Then he saw: granules fanning from one point into shaded trails—a comet in sand, minerals splaying in wondrous hues.

There, on Dune Mount, the Elder unveiled his new tome: the observable Universe, the Creator’s gift. Its pull tugged the Younger, but he stayed his path. He trusted his revelation, passed down through generations, as equal to the Elder’s. In the sand’s comet, they were rays of one tail—distant, yet from a single source.

A fast train now binds Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, a practical fix for clogged roads. Perhaps both kingdoms are striving to connect across a seemingly unbridgeable rift.