by Ner Tamid | Dec 30, 2023 | Sermons
With all due respect to Forrest Gump, life is like a… football game; a Ravens game to be exact.
Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler was one of the leading Jewish thinkers of the 20th century. His lectures were transcribed and translated in a collection of books known as Strive for Truth. In the first volume of this wonderful collection of deep thought, he coins a term called, Nekudas Habechira, the point of free will. The analogy he uses to explain Nekudas Habechira is trench warfare, but had he lived in Baltimore in 2023 (24?), I have no doubt he would have used a Ravens game as an even better analogy.*
Imagine for a moment you were playing quarterback in the NFL. You see these huge 325-pound defensive linemen getting into position. They are ready to pounce on you. They snap the ball, you catch it. What do you do next?
I know what I would do. I would kneel. I would kneel on every play. G-d knows, I will break all my bones and likely die under a single tackle.
If there were fans at the game, they would be pretty annoyed. Annoyed that I was playing quarterback, but also annoyed that I wasn’t even trying to move the ball forward. I would try to explain to the fans that it is so much easier to just stay put and not move forward. And they would kindly and politely tell me to go, fill in the blank, because that is not the point of the game. The point of the game is to move forward, not stay still.
In life, explains Rabbi Dessler, it is a lot easier to stand still, to coast on the accomplishments of our past, our upbringing, or our nature. But that is the equivalent of kneeling on every single play. The goal of life is to face the defensive line, a scary defensive line, and then move forward.
But it’s deeper than that, and here is where he introduces the Nekudas Habechira, the point of free-will:
We are all born at some point on the field of life. Some of us are born at the 5 yard-line and some of us are born 5 yards from the end zone. Some of us are born with great spiritual, material, and physical advantages. These advantages are given to a person based on genetics, who they were born to, luck. And some of us are born with great disadvantages. Superficially, the man or woman born 5 yards from the end zone is doing an amazing person. This person is smart, disciplined, and accomplished. They grew up to bright parents, in a loving home, and went to the best schools. This person is great. But in truth, they’re not great. Coasting on your natural gifts is meaningless. The objective of the game is not to celebrate where you are born, the objective of the game is to move forward from where you started. If someone was born 5 yards from the end zone and moved two yards and someone else was born on the 5-yard line and moved forward 60 yards, who is the more accomplished of the two?
For example, I was born into a family in which keeping Shabbos, keeping Kosher, those things were a given. When I refrain from eating non-Kosher that’s not a challenge for me. I’ve never tried non-Kosher and I have no interest in eating non-kosher. So every time I go to a store and only buy kosher items, I am not making a conscious choice to not buy that food, it’s second nature, and so I am not moving the line of scrimmage an iota. For others, that is a tremendous challenge. Every time they choose to buy Kosher, they are exercising free will and in doing so they move their line forward. Another example, I grew up in a home where daily Torah learning is a given; to learn a little every day is not an accomplishment. The fact that some of you are dedicating 30-45 minutes a day to learn is incredible. It’s the same learning, but for one person, it’s standing still, and for another, it’s moving forward. The same is true for character traits. Some of you may be naturally inclined to being polite or patient (otherwise known as Canadian); when you keep it together, that’s nice, but you didn’t move the line forward. Whereas some of you grew up in a volatile home and struggle with anger. When you stop yourself in mid-scream, you just scored a touchdown.
We could all just stand still, and people will applaud us for all those things we are naturally good at. But as long as I am not exercising my free-will, as long as I am just coasting on my upbringing or even choices I made decades ago, I am not living. Life is like a football game; if you’re not struggling to move your line forward, wherever that line is for you, spiritually speaking, you are not alive.
This week’s parsha begins with the words, Vayechi Yaakov b’eretz Mitzrayim shva esrei shana, and Yaakov lived for 17 years in the land of Egypt. The Medrashim tell us that those 17 final years of his life, lived in Egypt, were the best years of his life. And yet, the same Medrashim observe that our forefather is referred to as Yaakov in this verse, a name that connotes subjugation, and not Yisrael, the name that connotes triumph. Why? Because the subjugation to the Egyptians began during those 17 years. So which one is it? Are these the best years of his life? Are these the years that Yaakov is alive or are these years of intense struggle?
The answer is that it is both. Yaakov was 130 when he came to Egypt. If there was anyone who could have sat back and said, I have done it all. I stood up to Eisav, to Lavan, to Shechem, I am finally reunited with my family. I just want to have some nachas. But he did not do that. He rolled up his sleeves and faced the challenge of bringing his family together Egypt, of leading a family in a society that stood diametrically opposite everything he stood for. Yaakov did not kneel; he struggled, he made gains, I am sure he had losses, but he pushed forward, and that, that is life. Vayechi Yaakov b’eretz Mitzrayim shva esrei shana.
Let’s go a little further in this football analogy. Contrary to popular belief, despite growing up in Canada, as a little kid, I played sports other than hockey. Now we were not very sophisticated football players, so on any given play, as soon as the ball was hiked, I would run to the end zone, hoping the quarterback would chuck the ball up, giving me a touchdown. I would often drop the ball and that’s when I started playing hockey.
But that’s not really how the game of football works. One of the first things I noticed when I started watching a little bit of pro football is how many short passes there are. Short pass to OBJ. Short pass to Flowers. A few yard run by Lamar Jackson. 2 yards here, three yards there. And eventually, if you keep it up, you find yourself in the end zone with a touchdown.
Most of life is about small steps. Small gains. And here is where Rabbi Dessler’s original analogy of trench warfare falls short. Because in trench warfare, when you gain two yards, what do you do? Nothing. You get back to fighting. But when the Ravens gain two yards, when they get a first down, you know what they do?
They celebrate! They dance! They sometimes even do the Park Heights Strut…
There was a magnificent Talmid Chochom and educator by the name of Rabbi Shlomo Freifeld. He led a yeshiva called Sh’or Yashuv; at the time a place for students with limited backgrounds. There was one student who joined the Yeshiva and a few days in, confided with Rabbi Freifeld that he felt overwhelmed by the volume of learning. “There is no way,” he said, “that I will be able to keep up with the other students.”
The next day, Rabbi Freifeld walked into the Yeshiva with a leather bound Gemara for this student. The student opened the gemara and found in it a single Daf, one page. “This,” said Rabbi Freifeld, “is your Gemara. When you finish it, we will make a siyum, we will celebrate.”
Life is like a football game. It’s about knowing where you started, what you have already accomplished, and what your line of scrimmage is TODAY. It’s about making small steps forward, in the way we act with our family, in the way we think and speak, in the way we interact with G-d. And it’s about celebrating those small steps. Sometimes we act too tough to celebrate small wins but if the Ravens can, you can too.
This past Rosh Hashana, I pitched a learning program called 6/13, a daily 5-minute class I give on the parsha. Many of you have participated, some every day, some on some days. Today, we finished the book of Bereishis and so my wife and I are hosting a siyum, a celebration for all those who participated for the past 3 months. Some of you questioned the value of a celebration. “It’s just five minutes? Is this really such a big deal?” And the answer is yes. Because life is like a football game. And when you gain two yards, or when you fight back against the opposing team’s offense, you do a little jig; you celebrate.
But there’s one more way that life is like a game of football. As I mentioned, most of life involves small steps and small struggles. But every once in a while, you throw a Hail Mary (Sorry for the term but ‘Tis the season!). A hail Mary is that incredibly long throw from one side of the field to the other. It’s rare, but when it’s successful, it’s the highlight reel of the week.
Today, we are also celebrating a Hail Mary; a momentous decision, one that moves the line of scrimmage not just yards, but miles. 6,744 miles to be exact. We are celebrating the fact that Adriene and Harry Kozlovsky are making Aliyah. You’ve had a couple of Hail Mary’s in your life. You, along with a good number of people here today, started Yeshivat Rambam. It was bold, it was like an 80-yard pass. Despite the physical structure no longer remaining, the impact of that pass lives on. And now, you are going to a war zone, you are travelling away from family, to live your dream, the dream of every Jew, liyot am chofshi b’artzeinu. It is a bold move, a difficult move, and one that is an inspiration to us all. We will miss you and we wish you all the success in the world.
Yard by yard, day by day, may we all move our own lines of scrimmage closer and closer to the end zone.
*using a football game as an analogy for nekudas habechira was something I heard from Rabbi Moshe Hauer many years ago
by Ner Tamid | Dec 16, 2023 | Sermons
Shlomo had one request from me. “Aba, in your speech, do not do anything different for my Bar Mitzvah. Also, no crying and no embarrassing stories.”
Well, Shlomo, here’s lesson #1 of adulthood – you can’t always get what you want. So with or without your permission, allow me to do something very different and read you a letter that I wrote just for you:
Dear Shlomo,
It’s a strange time to be making a Bar Mitzvah.
As Mommy spent the past two months trying to find our out-of-town family places to stay for Shabbos, there were thousands of families in Israel who were trying to find a home to live in for far longer than a weekend.
As we received RSVPs from your cousins and uncles and aunts and eagerly awaited seeing them, hundreds of Israelis were receiving notices of family members who were killed in battle or captivity, never to be seen again.
As you worked hard practicing your parsha for your big day, boys and girls just a few years older than you practiced for their upcoming military missions in Gaza.
As you stood outside earlier this week having your picture taken and your biggest concern was that your hat would not blow away in the wind, countless children across Israel scanned their neighborhood looking for safe rooms so that they would not be hit by an incoming missile.
Strange time indeed.
And here is where I am supposed to tell you that your Bar Mitzvah is our response to Hamas, that this celebration of your commitment to Judaism counteracts the antisemitism on college campuses, and gathering so many people together who love you is our way of banishing hatred and evil. But I won’t say that. I can’t say that. I don’t believe it. I feel like that is a strained rationalization to make us feel good about going on with our lives.
So, here’s the truth: We are incredibly fortunate and privileged to live this life of ours here in Baltimore. But in all honesty, it is those in Israel who are truly privileged. Greatness – and G-d blessed you with so many natural talents that you have the capacity for greatness – greatness does not develop at celebrations like these. Greatness is not born out of photo shoots and gala kiddushes. Greatness is not born by getting together with friends and family. Greatness is born through difficult times; it is born on the battlefield. Greatness is born when you are asked to risk it all for others; it is born in sacrifice for something or someone greater than yourself. The brutal truth is that us celebrating our simcha this Shabbos is beautiful and special, but the real response to Hamas, to antisemitism, to hate and to evil, that is not found here. It’s found in Israel.
Now Shlomo, before you run off to join the IDF (which I would be more than proud if you did), I want to share with you something that you need to know – there is an alternative path to greatness. Rav Eliyahu Dessler in Michtav Mei’Eliyahu writes that when we, in our daily prayers, invoke zechus avos, the merit of our forefathers, it is not some spiritual bank account in which the good deeds of our ancestors are stored, and when we need it, we take something out of that account. No. Zechus avos is an inheritance; the deeds of those who came before us are not stuck in the past; their deeds course through our veins.
When we study the stories of Bereishis or the tales of the kings and prophets it is not because they’re great stories, which they are. We study these stories because they are our stories. You and I, all of us, are Avraham leaving our comfort behind as we seek out our mission in life. We are Yitzchak ready to give up our lives for G-d. We are Rochel selflessly giving up our dreams for others. We are Tamar boldly changing the course of history. If we learn our history, if we learn the Torah properly, we do not need to experience every challenge in the world to grow from them. Their struggles are our struggles, their accomplishments are ours too.
This is why we have a tradition of giving our children the names of great people in the Torah; to make that bond between our past and present even stronger. Shlomo, you are named after two incredibly accomplished kings. Yosef, who overcomes the fleeting pleasures of this world, who forgives his brothers after they tried to kill him, who leads the way for all future Jews to balance worldliness and a deep care for all people with a deep connection to his faith and an even deeper care for B’nei Yisrael. You are named after Shlomo, a king who is mature beyond his years, who asks for wisdom when he could have asked for anything at all, and who uses his talents to build a house for G-d. Self-control, forgiveness, worldliness, maturity, and a desire to connect to Hashem, those all sound very familiar. Their story, Shlomo, is truly your story.
This notion does make me a little nervous – and here I am going to interrupt for an embarrassing story. Sorry, Shlomo.
10 years ago, Shlomo and I were in the lobby of the shul. Shlomo was three at the time; he looked up and saw the picture of the late Rabbi Leibowitz, the first rabbi of this shul. “Who is that?” he asked me. I explained that he used to be the rabbi. “What happened to him?” I explained that he passed away. I saw the gears inside Shlomo’s head moving. “So he died and now you’re the rabbi?” Sort of. Yes. He shook his head; he understood. “So, Aba, when will you die so I could become rabbi?”
King Shlomo took over his father’s position when he was 13 years old…
Shlomo, you are not only named after the Biblical Yosef and Shlomo. You are also named after your paternal great-grandfather. I’ve told you his stories so many times before because they are your stories. I hope and I pray that you will never have to face even a fraction of what he faced in his life, but that should not stop you from growing from his experiences.
Your great-grandfather, as you know, survived Auschwitz. But he didn’t just survive. Every night, after bone crushing work, he would come back to his barracks and pray. Despite the risk, he helped organize a shofar blowing in Auschwitz. He rescued tens of young girls from being burned in the crematoria. He later sacrificed what could have been a much easier life in America for living in Israel. And despite losing so much in the Holocaust and later a son who was a soldier in the IDF, he remained deeply grateful to G-d. I get the chills whenever I think of the Shehechiyanu he would say on Yom Tov. (No crying, right?)
The very last memory I have of your great-grandfather was when he was quite ill and incapable of doing all that much. He asked me what I was learning in yeshiva – it was Meseches Yevamos. There was a sefer, a book that he thought would be very helpful for my learning. I told him this in the morning. I went out for the entire day. He spent the entire day calling every bookstore in Bnei Brak to find that book so by the time I came home he could give it to me. Shlomo, it is incredible to see, and it gives Mommy and me so much pride to see how you have adopted his qualities; his tenacity, his gratitude, and his love for Torah.
You inherited qualities from every part of your family. You recently wrote essays on your mother’s maternal grandfather and your mother’s father. Their stories are also your story. The same is true for every one of your relatives, your grandmothers and great-grandmothers, everyone. And here’s the point I am trying to make – if you learn from the past, their challenges, their accomplishments, their stories, they are yours.
So, no, you do not need to fight on a battlefield to grow courage, you do not need to experience antisemitism to be a survivor, you do not need to overcome severe challenges to develop grit. You need to learn about your past, absorbing the lessons of those who came before you.
Here’s one final truth, one final lesson – Shlomo, you will face adversity. You will face obstacles in your life that will seem impossible to overcome. You will face challenges that will sap every part of your being. We all do. There is only so much Mommy and I can protect you from.
And while that pains me, I am not worried. Armed with your knowledge of where you came from, empowered by the Torah; both Jewish tradition and Jewish history, fortified with zechus avos, with the fact that their stories are your legacy, you will have what it takes to make your own story. A story that I hope and pray you will one day pass on to the next generation.
Hindy and I are so touched by the attendance of every single one of you who are here. We are so grateful to the leadership of Ner Tamid and the entire congregation for all that you do – but today especially, for making us feel truly as one family. We are grateful to our family for giving us support and legacies that we treasure. And we are most especially grateful to Hashem, she’hechiyanu v’kiyimanu v’higianu lazman hazeh.
by Ner Tamid | Dec 9, 2023 | Sermons
I have an admission to make – For the past eight years, I have given the same exact drasha every Shabbos Chanukah.
Really.
And every year, the same person would come up to me and say, “Wow! That was the most incredible sermon I have ever heard in my life!”
And I’d be like, “Yeah, I know, you told me the same thing – last year…”
The first year the sermon was titled, I am a Jew/ I am a Greek. The next year it was, I am a Jew/ I am Greek Revisited. Then, I am a Jew/ I am a Greek Redux. You get the point. The basic gist of this sermon was that I felt conflicted about Chanukah. Chanukah celebrates the rejection of not just the Greek army, but everything Greece stood for. And Greece, led by Plato and Aristotle were the forefathers of Western culture. So how do I, as someone who is immersed in Western culture, celebrate this holiday?
To quote – myself (sorry, I know that’s weird, but there’s a point I am trying to make). This is how I described the tension I felt every Chanukah:
“There’s a part of me that’s Greek – a part of me that has no tolerance for any divisions made on racial or religious lines. And yet, there’s a part of me that’s Jewish – a part of me that believes that as Jews, we are a special people with a special role to play in this world.
There’s a part of me that’s Greek – a part of me that believes that every country should be totally democratic and not have any religious flavor. And yet, there’s a part of me that’s Jewish – a part of me that believes that G-d gave the Jewish People the land of Israel and I take great pride in a state that is distinctly Jewish.
There’s a part of me that’s Greek – a part of me that believes that quality of life is paramount, and a person is fully in charge of his or her own body. And there’s a part of me that’s Jewish that believes that our bodies are a gift from G-d and not ours and that every moment of life in this world is priceless.
There is a part of me that is Greek – a part of me that believes in a plurality of ideas, in everyone being entitled to their viewpoint, or as we like to say in our society, to their “truth.” And there’s a part of me that’s Jewish, that believes that Moshe Emes v’soroso emes, that the Torah is true. And while Judaism embraces some level of plurality, it believes in an objective right and wrong.
And lastly, there is a part of me that is Greek – a part of me that if I were to be totally honest, at times is troubled with miracles I did not witness, in authorship I cannot verify, and in a promised future that seems so distant and foreign. And yes, in the darkest of times, even struggles with the existence of a Being I have not heard from. And at the very same time, there is a part of me that is so powerfully Jewish – a part of me that is over-awed by the majesty of the world, the profundity of the Torah, the arc of history, and even if it cannot be articulated, just knows that there must be an Author. A part of me that is awakened during prayer and feels a presence that shatters those doubts into millions and millions of pieces.”
Those are just a few examples of the tension I felt and feel between Jewish values and philosophies and those of our culture. And then, I’d conclude every one of these sermons with the same idea, how I tip over to the side of identifying with Judaism, just barely, like the small Chanukah candle; that small flame that lights up the darkness. The end.
I will not be repeating that sermon this year. And not only because I just blew my cover.
I will not be repeating that sermon this year because I am no longer a Greek. I am no longer conflicted between my admiration of everything the Western world stands for and my love for Judaism.
When the presidents of the most prestigious universities in the world cannot acknowledge that genocide against Jews is hate speech, that is a philosophy I want to have nothing to do with.
When our local council men and women here in Baltimore cannot unanimously agree to condemn Hamas, that is a Western world that is morally bankrupt.
When the UN cannot speak out against rape and has to be forced to host a gathering 57 days after the atrocities, that is thought leadership that has stopped thinking entirely.
I learned these past few weeks, that the philosophy that every person is in charge of their body has a limitation that I was unaware of. You are in charge of your body unless you are a Jewish woman.
I learned these past few weeks that the philosophy of embracing all ideas has a caveat – unless those ideas defend the Jewish state.
I learned that these past few weeks that the philosophy that all people of all faiths and colors should be treated equally is true for every person – except Jewish People.
I learned these past few weeks that the Western culture I so admired has a viciously dark underbelly.
There is a reason Yeshiva University has seen a 65% rise in applications from students who want to transfer from other colleges. It’s not just the students’ lives that are at stake. Critical thinking has gone out the window. “Those who are weak are good, those who are strong are evil,” is the perverted philosophy of the day. It’s a direct outgrowth of the bizarre idea that “everyone’s view is valid.” There is no room for intellectually honest debate. No room for discussion. “This is how I feel.”
For too long I have been seduced by the brilliance and the glamor of the West. But these past two months have reminded me of Jewish history. Not in a dark way; not a reminder of the Holocaust or pogroms. On the contrary, these past two months have awakened within me, and I know so many others, powerful Jewish pride in being on the right side of history. I don’t have answers to all the questions and challenges that I was bothered by a mere two months ago. But I am reminded now, that neither did the Chashmonaim know what to say to the Greeks who called circumcision barbaric. Neither did the Jews in Europe have such great answers to the priests who tried to lure them to the cross. Neither did the rabbis who were overwhelmed by Spinoza’s brilliance who were made to feel stuck in the dark ages have much to say. And neither did our grandparents know how to reply to the incredibly popular communists and nationalists who described us Jews as leeches.
And yet, it was Aristotelean thought that gave birth to one of the most decadent societies in history. It was Christian fundamentalism that led to endless wars. The Enlightenment led to the bloody French Revolution. Communism led to the gulags and nationalism led to the Holocaust.
And Judaism, not just the Jewish People, but Jewish thought and Jewish practice prevailed. Circumcision is healthy. Unplugging for 24 hours – Shabbos – is the hottest fad. Torah study is hip. And to be clear, there are still Mitzvos and Aveiros that I have no good explanation for. There are Mitzvos and Aveiros that if you were to ask me to explain them, I would struggle to do so, and not that long ago, that would keep me up at night. But not now. I am reminded now, that as Jews, we play the long game. If a law or two or three may seem backward today, give it a few hundred years. As opposed to the world around us, Judaism has yet to disappoint.
Watching the bastions of intellectual excellence show themselves to be bastions of confusion, of stupidity, and of unbridled hatred has reminded me that the litmus test for a meaningful way of life is not if it appeals to me today or if it’s trendy for a decade or even a century. The litmus test is if this way of life can still be meaningful, uplifting, and positive for centuries on end. In that respect, struggles, challenges, questions notwithstanding, I have never been so proud to be a Jew.
***
We are living through a time of incredible upheaval. That Hamas is evil is not unsettling. It’s the rejection of rational thought, it’s the appearance of misguided compassion, it’s the growing awareness that there is something deeply wrong with far too many people in our society. And as lonely and unsettling as it may feel, this gives me hope.
Because you see, in the aftermath of the Greek conflict with the Jews, the Oral Torah took off and flourished. In the aftermath of the expulsion from Spain, Kabbalah experienced a renaissance. In the aftermath of the Holocaust, the State of Israel was born. There is a rhythm to Jewish history of horror followed by an explosion of creativity and rebirth. Rav Tzadok suggests that this rhythm traces its way back to this week’s parsha, in which two sons of Yehuda, Er and Onan, die, but their death is followed by the birth of Peretz, the child ‘who breaks through’ the darkness and is the forbearer of King David and ultimately, Mashiach.
I have never been so excited to celebrate Chanukah. My Menorah, not a small candle, but a brilliant light, reminds me of the rejuvenation of Jewish pride, of Jewish thought, and of Jewish practice that will surely follow this darkness.
I am a Jew. Not a Greek. The Greek inside of me is dead.
I am a Jew; a faith-filled and confident Jew. And I have never been so proud.
by Ner Tamid | Dec 2, 2023 | Sermons
There was a chilling video that was circulating a few days after October 7th. It was a clip of Thomas Hand, a father of a 9-year-old girl who was at a sleepover in Kibbutz Be’eri when Hamas attacked and who he had not seen or heard from since. Thomas described the fear he experienced on that day. And then he was told that his daughter’s body was found – she was dead; murdered by Hamas. ‘Yes!’ he said, ‘Yes!’ and he smiled. And I quote, “That is the best news of the possibilities that I knew … Death was a blessing, an absolute blessing.” He was right. Knowing what we are even starting to know about how the hostages were held, seeing the images of the violations especially against women, death was a blessing.
Only that she wasn’t dead. A few days later, after mourning the loss of his daughter, he got word that she was alive.
This past week, his daughter, Emily, was released. Emily does not look like she did on October 7th. Her once chubby face is now chiseled, her once vibrant eyes are now glassed over. But most jarring is how she speaks. As Thomas described: “The most shocking, disturbing part of meeting her was she was just whispering, you couldn’t hear her. I had to put my ear on her lips,” he said. “She’d been conditioned not to make any noise.”
Thomas Hand’s life has been changed forever.
Emily Hand’s life has been changed forever.
Last week, I met with a fundraiser from Shuvu. Shuvu is a network of schools in Israel that cater to children from secular families who would like a Jewish education. I asked the man if he has seen any differences since October 7th. He told me that they received approximately 750 requests for Tefillin from the fathers of the Shuvu children. There are thousands upon thousands of people making tzitzis for soldiers who otherwise do not wear tzitzis but have chosen to start wearing them now.
These 750 fathers, these thousands of soldiers, they have truly changed.
The world around us has changed; polite and subtle antisemitism has given way for overt and violent Jew hatred.
The State of Israel has changed; the fractured disharmony that permeated every part of Israeli society a few months ago has given way to Messianic fraternity and love.
So much around us has changed. But what about us? Have we changed? Or are we just left watching as all this change unfolds around us?
Maimonides, the Rambam, describes how a Jew is to respond to tragedy. “When a tragedy befalls the Jewish People, they must cry out and pray.” So far so good; we’ve been doing that. “And,” he writes, “they must acknowledge that it was because of their own misdeeds that the evil has befallen them.”
In other words, the response to tragedy in Judaism is not only praying, is not only watching moving videos, is not only protesting. The response to tragedy in Judaism is making sure that we take these events to heart and that we change.
This past week, I sat with a group of distinguished rabbis from across the country to discuss openly and freely how we are doing and what we need to do next. One rabbi, the oldest rabbi in the group exclaimed: “I feel like a failure! A failure! Was the purpose of G-d sending this terrible catastrophe of October 7th so that we should all become fluent in a new chapter of Tehillim? Hashem sent a tragedy the likes of which most of us have never experienced before, and for the most part, we remain the same! Yes, we have given a lot of tzedakka and performed a lot of chesed…but how have we changed? How are we different?”
We read this morning how our forefather Yaakov received a new name. לֹא יַעֲקֹב יֵאָמֵר עוֹד שִׁמְךָ כִּי אִם־יִשְׂרָאֵל. But it’s more than a name change. The Netziv observes that the Torah initially describes the angel wrestling with Yaakov, but there is no mention of Yaakov fighting back. Vayi’ovek ish imo. It is the angel who is wrestling but Yaakov is passive like he has always been. He ducks away from the punches, he avoids confrontation. But at some point in the battle there is a change of heart, and the Torah then describes Yaakov fighting back – b’hei’ovko imo. Yaakov is no longer avoidant, he is no longer a sneak, he is no longer passive. He is a new man. And for that, he is given a new name – Yisrael – Ki sarisa im Elokim v’im anashim vatuchal – because you have struggled against the Divine and against man, and you have prevailed. Yaakov changed, not superficially, not with external actions, but his entire persona transformed. We are called B’nei Yisrael – our identity is such that we are capable of walking in the footsteps of our father, of becoming someone else entirely. Change is in our blood, it’s in our spiritual DNA. We have been forced to reinvent ourselves at too many junctures in history. But that ability to struggle, to start fresh, and to transform is also a gift. It’s a gift, and at times like this, it’s a responsibility.
There is a story told of a man who is lost in a forest. Suddenly, it starts to rain. But it’s not just a rainfall, it’s a thunderstorm. Before you know it, the trees are shaking due to the booming thunder and the sky is being lit up with brilliant lightning. Now I don’t know about you, but I happen to love watching lightning; how the sky lights up, how the raindrops seem like they are suspended in the air, and watching the zigzag of yellow across the dark canvas of the sky. So this man could do what I do when lightning fills the sky; look up and take in the beauty. Alternatively, if he was wise, he could take advantage of the light and use it to quickly look around and try to find a path out of the forest.
This story is a cautionary tale; how do we respond to moments that move us? Do we sit with our emotions, looking up at the sky, allowing our hearts to tremble and be overawed by the moment? Do we scroll from heartbreaking clip to heartbreaking clip? Or do we remind ourselves that we are lost – spiritually, we are not yet at our destination, and quickly scramble to find our way?
I know what you’re thinking. It’s irresponsible to make tremendous changes; they don’t last. I agree. But it’s even more irresponsible to not make any changes at all. We had a storm not that long ago, it was called Covid. And we all thought the world would change, we would change, everything would be different… We cannot allow yet another tragedy to pass us by and come out on the other side exactly the same as we were before.
The hostages are slowly making their way home. The war, we hope, will be over in the near future. Life is starting to get back to normal. The rain is slowing down, the thunder is getting more and more distant, and the inspirational lightning is starting to fade. Now’s the time to start reflecting on what we learned; about the world around us and about ourselves. Reflecting on the increase in our own spiritual accomplishments, can I carve out a few more minutes for G-d in my day? Can I study more? Can I pray with more kavanah? Seeing families ripped apart, how do I interact with my family? Can I improve? Watching the strength of the families and the soldiers, are there areas in my life where I could exhibit a little more strength? A little more courage? As B’nei Yisrael, as masters of transformation, now is the time to take a small step along the path of greater spiritual heights.
Now, before it’s too late, we need to ask ourselves, when the rain stops, when the intense emotions are no longer, will we have changed, or will we have remained the same?
