My second favorite joke

I may have told some of you this joke already, but this is my second favorite joke of all time. Unfortunately, the first joke (the shiny red lips, shiny red fingers joke) cannot be told over this medium, but alas, the lemon slices joke will have to do. Fun fact: I heard both of these jokes for the first time at summer camp, and both of them were told by the same person (shoutout Jacob Glickman and URJ Camp Kalsman). Anyways, here's the joke (please enjoy, please):

Many years ago, but not that many, a rabbi graduated from rabbinical school. Now, this rabbi had some pretty big aspirations. He didn't want to just go and join an established congregation like any other rabbi. No, he wanted to start his own. This task was difficult enough as it was, but the rabbi took it one step further: he wanted to start a congregation in a town that didn't already have one. Knowing the difficulty of his daunting task, the rabbi set out on a journey across the country to find the perfect place to build his synagogue. For years and years he traveled, hitchhiking and walking from place to place, but it seemed he was always out of luck. Finally, 3 years into his quest, he found a town, quite small in size, but with a sizeable enough Jewish population and no existing synagogue. At last, he had found it. Thrilled, the rabbi worked any job he could in the town until he could buy a piece of land where he would build his temple. In the mean time, he camped out in an RV park and held weekly services around a campfire. The town's Jewish community, and, frankly, the town as a whole, rallied behind the rabbi, and once he had purchased a lot toward the end of the town's main road, they all got started on building their very own synagogue. The rabbi had a little apartment added to the back of the synagogue where he would live, and with the townspeople's help he had moved in and started holding services in the temple in under a year. Now that the synagogue had finally been built, people from the neighboring towns began to come and attend services with the rabbi. The rabbi welcomed these newcomers to his congregation with open arms. One week, after services, a man whom the rabbi had never met approached him. He asked, "Rabbi, I know this is a bit of an odd request, but could I ask of something from you?" 

"Of course, what is it?" the rabbi responded, assuming the man was in need of advice.

"If it's not too much trouble, would you be able to go to your apartment and cut me two lemon slices?" the man asked. 

"Uh, I don't see why not," said the rabbi. He was confused, but the request was not impossible, so he saw no reason not to oblige. He went into his kitchen, cut two lemon slices, put them in a little bag, and returned to give them to the man. The man took them, quickly muttered "Thank you, rabbi," and immediately dashed out of the synagogue, running faster than any man the rabbi had ever seen. The rabbi was a bit puzzled, but carried on with his life and did not think about the encounter for a long while. 

Weeks went by, and the rabbi would occasionally see the man at services, but they would never talk, until one week, when the man approached the rabbi, asking for, yet again, two lemon slices. Once again, the rabbi was confused, but obliged. Again, after the rabbi had given the man his lemon slices, the man bolted off and was out of sight within seconds. Again, the rabbi didn't think much of it, but the image of the man, especially the speed at which he ran out of the temple, was now engrained in the rabbi's memory.

Years passed, and the rabbi grew accustomed to sporadic offerings of two lemon slices to the man. While the man attended services almost every week, his requests were seemingly random, though they grew more frequent as time went on. He would ask once a month for a few months, then twice a month, then three times, then back to once for a month, then up to four times. Eventually, after gifting multiple lemons worth of lemon slices to this man, the rabbi decided to ask what the purpose for these lemon slices could be. After services, the man approached him and asked for two lemon slices. Although he had asked dozens of times before, the man still sounded quite nervous when talking to the rabbi. The rabbi said, "Of course, I can give you your two lemon slices, but I must ask, what do you use my lemon slices for?" At this, the man turned and bolted, as he would have had the rabbi given him the lemon slices. The rabbi stood, quite confused, wondering what secret the man could possibly be keeping. He peeked his head out of the door of the synagogue, and watched the man run down the street and turn toward the forest. "What in the world..." the rabbi said to himself, perplexed at the truly odd nature of the interaction. 

The man did not come to services for the next few weeks, and the rabbi was concerned that he had scared him away, meaning his secrets would never be revealed. To the rabbi's surprise, however, the man returned not too long after, and again requested two lemon slices from the rabbi. The rabbi, not wanting to repeat their last encounter, retrieved the lemon slices, and then, upon returning, made another attempt at gaining insight into the man's motivations. "I have your lemon slices here," the rabbi explained, "but I'm only going to give them to you if you give me the slightest reason for why you need them." Faster that the rabbi could think, the man lunged forward, grabbed the bag with the lemon slices from the rabbi's hand, and darted out the door. The rabbi, who was typically slow to anger, felt a surge of emotion swell within him. The man had seemingly violated his trust, and this sparked a rage that he did not know he possessed. Using this rage, the rabbi dashed out of the synagogue in an attempt to catch the man. However, in his fury the rabbi had forgotten to account for the man's incredible speed. After running a single block, the rabbi was out of breath, and the man was long gone. The rabbi, knowing that it went against his morals, but stubborn to discover the hidden truth, resolved only one way that he could move forward: he must train to be as fast as the man so that he could catch him and question him. 

The rabbi trained and trained, running miles and miles every single day, making sure to hold himself to an adequate pace for keeping up with the man. He raced anyone who would agree, and soon enough he was the fastest man in his small town. He was sure that he could keep up with anyone, especially the stranger with the lemon slices. And so, when the man remained behind after services some weeks later to ask, yet again, for two lemon slices, the rabbi gave them to him without any sort of questioning. The man, as always, took the lemon slices and ran off. The rabbi gave him some distance so that he wouldn't know he was being followed, then took off after him. The rabbi's training paid off, and he was keeping pace with man, perhaps even gaining distance on him. The man turned toward the forest, and the rabbi did the same, feeling a rush of excitement believing the moment of truth was soon upon him. However, the rabbi noticed that as the man approached the fence that separated the town from the forest, he did not slow down at all. The rabbi began to slow down, but the man kept going at full speed and leapt over the fence, continuing off into the forest. The rabbi narrowly slowed himself down enough to prevent himself from crashing into the fence, but was forced to watch as the man ran off with his two lemon slices. 

"I must train more," said the rabbi, and so train he did. He jumped over every object he could find, and soon enough he could jump over just about everything in his town. The fence would be no challenge. Again, the rabbi waited until the man returned to ask for two more lemon slices, after which the rabbi again chased the man through the town. When they reached the fence bordering the forest, the rabbi did not slow down this time. He and the man both kept running full pace, and both of them hurdled the fence with ease. The rabbi chased the man through the forest until they reached a clearing, where there lay a crashed airplane. The man approached the airplane and heaved open the door, slamming it shut behind him. The rabbi reached the door and soon realized he was not nearly strong enough to pull it open. Again, he knew he must train more. 

Day in and day out, the rabbi grinded in the gym until every inch of his body was fully shredded. He pushed himself to new limits, knowing that any amount of pain would be worth discovering the truth. He could lift anything in his town, and he was sure that he would be able to open the door to the airplane in the clearing. He waited each week for the man to return and ask for his two lemon slices, and eventually the man did as the rabbi knew he would. Yet again, the man took the lemon slices and sprinted out the door. Yet again, the rabbi followed him, keeping an even distance all the way to the fence at the forest's edge, where he took an incredible jump and landed in the forest in stride, trailing the man all the way to the clearing. The rabbi hovered at the outskirts of the clearing as the man heaved open and slammed shut the airplane door, upon which the rabbi crossed the clearing and did the same. Drool oozed from his mouth as he stuck his head inside the plane, but his excitement was met by a punch to the gut more powerful than could have been delivered by any human: the man had locked himself inside the plane's cockpit. The rabbi banged on the door, but even with all his strength, the lock would not budge. He was so, so close, there was only one thing left to do: he must learn how to pick locks. 

And that's exactly what he did, buying a spy kit and practicing on any lock he could find. He was soon able to open any door in his whole town, and knew for certain that he would be able to open the door to the cockpit and would finally know the unknowable. 

It is worth going on a brief tangent to note that the rabbi's curiosity over the two lemon slices had evolved into something of an obsession. His sermons had all turned into an urging of his congregation to reveal all of their secrets, and attendance at his synagogue had slowly waned. He certainly had lost some of his stature and rapport that he had once held when he moved to the town. The guiding beacon of hope for the town's Jewish community had faded into a crazed man sworn to discovering truths beyond anyone else's comprehension. The rabbi was not immune to this sentiment either. The man he saw when he looked in the mirror was not the man whom he had set out to be after graduating rabbinical school all those years ago. Nevertheless, he had become far too dedicated to uncovering the mystery of the two lemon slices. He knew he could not go back. The only way for him to become the rabbi he hoped to be was to break into the cockpit of the plane in the clearing of the forest bordering the town. He had no other option.

And so it was that the rabbi waited, growing evermore impatient, for the man to again ask for two lemon slices. Week after week he waited, until slowly he started to fear that the man would never return. Then, on the coldest, darkest week of winter, when few dared venture outside their homes, the man appeared, and, after services, asked the rabbi for two lemon slices. Overjoyed, the rabbi sloppily sliced two lemon slices and gave them to the man, who, once more, took them and rushed out of the synagogue. The rabbi followed him, no longer caring if he was noticed. He had come so far, anyone in the world could know: he was going to learn the truth. He followed the man through the town, over the fence, into the forest and all the way to the clearing. He watched the man open and slam the door to the airplane, and was nearly foaming at the mouth by the time he had done the same and approached the cockpit door. Using his expert lockpicking knowledge, he opened the door. At last, the secret would be revealed. "Rabbi, what are you doing here?" the man asked. 

"I'm sorry I followed you here, but I absolutely must know what you have been doing with all the lemon slices," the rabbi responded. 

"You know, rabbi, this is my most well-kept secret. There is not a soul on earth but me who knows what I do out here in this plane, and certainly no one could ever guess why I need all those lemon slices. I swore to myself that I would never tell anyone." The rabbi's face went from giddy, to depleted, to fiery, destructive wrath. "However," the man continued, "I'm aware of how difficult it must have been for you to follow me here, and how much work you must have put in to make that happen. For that, rabbi, though I am a bit hurt that you have invaded my space, I will tell you what I do with the lemon slices. But, you have to promise to never tell another soul."

The moment was finally upon him. Words could hardly find his mouth, but, holding back tears, the rabbi managed to squeak out: "Yes, I promise."

"Alright, then, I will tell you," said the man. And he told the rabbi, and the rabbi never told another soul.