The first recorded minyan in Jewish history didn’t happen in a synagogue. It happened in Egypt. When Pharaoh died, the Torah tells us, “the Israelites groaned under the bondage and cried out” (Exodus 2:23). Their collective cry rose up—and God listened.
The Talmud (Berakhot 6a) teaches that wherever ten Jews gather to pray, the Divine Presence dwells among them. This is not a legal technicality—it is theology. Ten voices form a single plea. Ten souls transform private pain into public sacred space.
The number ten doesn’t appear by chance. In Genesis, Abraham pleads for Sodom to be saved if ten righteous people can be found. In Numbers, ten fearful spies demoralize the people. By the time of the Tosefta and the Jerusalem Talmud, ten becomes the halakhic threshold for covenantal presence: the minimum needed for Kaddish, Kedushah, Barchu, and public Torah reading. Without ten, those prayers remain silent.
But minyan is not only legal—it is relational. It is what happens when someone walks into shul the day after a funeral and a hand rests quietly on their shoulder. No words. Just presence. Just weight. Just someone saying, “You are not alone.”
At 7:30 a.m. on a cold weekday morning, when a mourner stands to say Kaddish and ten people whisper “Amen,” it’s not the poetry of the Kaddish that heals. It’s the presence of others. Minyan turns ritual into relationship.
And then came Zoom.
When the pandemic hit, synagogues around the world made impossible decisions. Do we halt all prayer? Do we suspend Kaddish? Or do we stretch halakhah to meet the moment?
For many, Zoom was a lifeline. We counted rectangles instead of faces. We whispered blessings into screens. We said “Amen” on a half-second delay. And it worked—as best it could. It kept people tethered to community in a time of profound disconnection. For that, I am deeply grateful.
But five years later, I find myself holding a tension I can no longer ignore.
What is a minyan?
If halakhah requires ten Jews to be physically present, can six in a sanctuary and four on Zoom fulfill that sacred structure? Are we truly gathering, or preserving the illusion of gathering? And if we keep stretching halakhah to accommodate convenience, at what point does the shape of the thing break?
As the rabbi of this community—your mara d’atra—I wrestle with this every day. I’ve tried to walk gently. I’ve never told someone they can’t say Kaddish on Zoom. I understand grief, and I understand comfort. But I also believe this: if we lose the embodied nature of minyan, we lose something essential to Jewish life.
And here is my honest confession: I haven’t been attending our daily minyan regularly. Not because I don’t believe in it—but because I do. I believe so deeply in what a minyan is supposed to be that I struggle to show up when it no longer feels halakhically or spiritually whole. Six people in the room and four on Zoom may meet a need—but to me, it misses the core. I’m not here to impose that belief on others. I’m just here to name the tension I carry.
This is not about exclusion. This is not about invalidating what Zoom made possible. It’s about asking whether we are still daring to build something real. Something rooted. Something sacred.
Let me speak plainly.
We are a congregation of 450 households. And yet, day after day, we struggle to gather ten Jews in a room. We owe our gratitude to those who’ve kept showing up on Zoom. We are blessed with an incredible shamas who holds our services together. But the synagogue does not belong to the clergy. It belongs to its members. When we couldn’t get a minyan for Ma’ariv or Havdalah—even after going to the board and saying, “Here is the problem”—there was no Zoom. And no one stepped up.
Zoom is meaningful. But it’s also convenient. Our ancestors didn’t have convenience. They had commitment.
And now, I’m asking: How do we return?
It’s not complicated—but it does require effort. Invite a friend. Text someone with a yahrzeit and ask if they’re going. Be the reason someone else doesn’t have to stand alone. Show up once a week. Once a month. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be real.
Every week, we hold ten morning minyanim: one each day from Sunday through Thursday, plus two on Sunday. That’s ten chances to be part of something sacred. Ten opportunities to show up—not just for yourself, but for someone else who needs you there. Imagine what it would mean if each of us chose just one.
Torah is a Tree of Life. But no tree grows without water. Daily minyan is that water—ordinary, steady, essential. To insist on a physical minyan is not to judge—it’s to dream. It’s to believe that presence still matters. That sacred time and shared space are part of what makes Jewish life holy.
And maybe, just maybe, the quietest miracle of all is this: ten Jews showing up—day after day—to pray, to listen, to carry each other.
So I ask—no, I invite—you:
Come back.
Come in.
Bring your body, your breath, your silence.
Be the tenth. Or the third. Or the first.
Because when you show up, something eternal stirs with you.
Because the world still needs a minyan.
And that minyan still needs you.
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