Some Jewish festivals are more Jewish than others

There are Jewish festivals. And then there are Jewish Jewish festivals. And even at the risk of angering global-warming enthusiasts everywhere, I remain of the firm belief that Tu B’Shvat is the least Jewish of all our festivals. I would even go further and say that it’s about as Jewish as Greta Thunberg isn’t. 

This isn’t a theological statement. It’s a sociological one. Because while the calendar insists that everything from Tu B’Shvat to Tzom Gedalia counts equally, lived Jewish experience tells a very different story. 

Some festivals are Jewish by definition. The food, the memories, the arguments, and the guilt leave little doubt as to their nature. Others are suspiciously polite, even requiring WhatsApp reminders on family and shul groups. 

Take Tu B’Shvat. 

I know. Technically, it’s a Jewish festival. The New Year for trees. Important. Symbolic. Deeply meaningful if you are a tree. Or a forestry official. Possibly even a dried date farmer. 

But culturally? Tu B’Shvat is botanical. 

Tu B’Shvat exists almost entirely in theory, school assemblies, and bowls of slightly tired dried fruit that no-one actually wants. No-one, apart from maybe the Jewish National Fund, has ever said, “We’re going big for Tu B’Shvat this year,” and meant it. 

Contrast that with Shavuot. 

Shavuot doesn’t try to impress. Lacking a strong public relations department, it simply assumes its place in the calendar quietly and confidently. And because of that, it may be the most Jewish festival of the lot. 

It’s about study. Staying up too late. Cheesecake-related reminders that Jewish stomachs were not built for lactose. And it carries the smug satisfaction of knowing what it is: revelation; text; argument; dairy intolerance. All very on brand. 

Chanukah, meanwhile, is a fascinating case study. 

Once upon a time, Chanukah was minor. Candles, yes. But modest. Almost shy. Then something happened. Possibly Chabad. Possibly Bondi. Possibly Los Angeles and Hollywood. 

After spending a few centuries as the step-sibling or “Jewish Christmas”, Chanukah now delivers shiurim from the pulpit as though its grandfather was a “gadol”. 

Yom Kippur, oddly, has a distinctly non-Jewish vibe. 

Don’t misunderstand me: it’s central, sacred, and profoundly important. But it’s also universal. Everyone fasts. Everyone reflects. Everyone suddenly becomes very serious. There’s very little food, very little talking, and almost no complaining. 

Suspiciously gentile. 

Rosh Hashanah, on the other hand, is Judaism in its purest form. Apples. Honey. Long services. Louder opinions. Food that carries meaning and argument in equal measure. The shofar is blown repeatedly, as if to say, “Pay attention. This matters.” 

And then there are fast days. 

Tisha B’Av is unquestionably the most Jewish fast. It’s heavy with history, layered with catastrophe, and observed with a sense that even sitting comfortably feels vaguely inappropriate. 

Tzom Gedalia, by contrast, feels like an administrative error. 

None of this is criticism. 

Jewish life has always operated on two tracks: what the calendar says, and what the community feels. Some days carry memory, weight, food, noise, and argument. Others exist politely, waiting to be acknowledged. 

And if you’re reading this thinking, “He’s wrong about Tu B’Shvat,” I apologise. 

But the fact that you feel compelled to argue about it makes this discussion far more Jewish than a bowl of dried figs will ever be.