Yeshaya: 2024 Shabbos Chazon

by Ner Tamid | Aug 11, 2024 | Sermons

Like many of you, I got a call on Thursday from Baltimore City, begging me to stay indoors due to Tropical Storm Debby. My children’s outdoor camp activities were cancelled due to the possibility of dangerous winds and fallen trees. There was a run on toilet paper at the local supermarket. And a whole bunch of you forgot to turn your notifications off, so we would all get to hear that high-pitched screeching sound letting us know that there was a Tornado watch.

I’m actually kind of happy we had this experience. It gave us a tiny, microscopic, window into what our brothers and sisters in Israel have experienced this past week as they wait to see how Iran and their proxies will act.

But ‘tiny’ and ‘microscopic’ does not do justice to the shared experience. In Israel, they are not worried about a tree falling and taking out the power; they are worried about hundreds of missiles falling from the sky causing devastation.

They are not worried about the thunder that might wake the children who will then come and snuggle in their parents’ warm bed; they are worried about the air raid sirens and how quickly they can get their children to the safe room.  

They are not worried about winds; they are worried about all-out war.

And whereas you and I could track Debby as she makes her way up the coast, all of Israel is waiting with bated breath for what Hezbollah and Iran will do without any warning at all.

That was uncomfortable, wasn’t it? That was only five seconds.

There is nothing more unsettling than waiting for the unknown.  

To me, one of the most disturbing elements of the past ten months has been the disconnect between us in America and our brothers and sisters in Israel. They are sending their boys off to the front line and we’re sending our boys off to sleepaway camp. They are reliving the destruction of the Temple and the fall of Jerusalem, and we’re watching cute and inspiring videos about their heroes while we go about our day. They are counting bodies, and we’re counting homeruns.  

And yes, I know we care, but the gap – the gap between us and them is vast. It’s like we’re two nations, with two entirely different realities.

I’d like to share with you a biographical sketch of a man who lived during a time when we were also two nations experiencing radically different realities; as always, we have a lot to learn from our past.

About 2500 years ago, there lived a man by the name Yeshaya, Isaiah. Yeshaya was born to the aristocracy, a close relative of the king. He was powerful, intelligent, and a brilliant orator – and he was a prophet. He began his prophetic career during one of the high points of the Judean monarchy. At that time, the Jewish People were split into two kingdoms, North and South, Israel and Judah. King Achaz, the Judean King had a mighty army, they had expanded their border all the way down to Eilat. The Temple was flourishing, people were knowledgeable in Torah, all seemed good.

But Yeshaya was a prophet. A prophet’s greatest skillset is to see what no one else sees. Or perhaps more accurately, to see what everyone else is ignoring and to say what no one wants to hear. At this particular time, he did not even need a prophetic vision, he turned to his fellow Jews of the Southern Kingdom and asked them to just look over the border. “Do you not see how the Northern kingdom is falling apart? Do you not see how Assyria is getting stronger each day, and will someday very soon wipe out your brothers and sisters on the other side of the border?”

“Fine,” they said, “we’ll say some Tehillim.”  

“And look, Yeshaya, we get it. Bad things may happen, but they’ll survive. We’ll survive. Hakol yihyeh b’seder. Ten chiyuch, hakol l’tovah.” “You think Israel is going to collapse? We’ve never been so powerful! Look at our army! Look at our intelligence!” and the people went on with their lives. Little did they know that there is no guarantee that Israel will not be overtaken by foreign entities. There was no guarantee then, nor is there a guarantee now. They would find out the hard way.

In the meantime, Yeshaya tried again. He pointed to the disparities in society between the haves and the have-nots. He reminded them of the many members of society who are being ignored and not taken care of. And I could just hear the people of Juda responding to him, “Yeshaya, Yeshaya, you’re getting political. You’re a prophet. Stay in your lane.”

He tried one more time – “You guys are doing so many Mitzvos, you’re learning so much Torah. It’s beautiful. But do you ever think about G-d? Do you think He just wants your mechanical actions?! He wants your heart! Do you think He wants offerings? Do you think He wants you to just mumble the words of your prayers?! He wants your emotions! He wants a genuine relationship with you!” But this too fell on deaf ears.  

The Book of Isaiah is one of the most popular books in the Jewish canon. But at the time, Isaiah was one of the least popular people in Israel. No one likes to be made uncomfortable. He was blocked by some. Reported on by others. His posts got one or two likes, usually it was that angry face emoji. There was no shortage of eloquent people who were reassuring the Jews of Judea that all would be well. Who would you listen to? Mr. Doomsday or Mr. Inspiration?

Yehsaya did have a short stint of popularity. During one of the darkest times, after the Ten Tribes had been taken away, after Sancheriv the Assyrian general had besieged Jerusalem, Yeshaya returns to the scene. This time he shares a message of hope, reassuring them, letting them know that it may look bleak, but it will all be good. And he was right; Sancheriv ran off and Jerusalem was saved. He shared during those dark days famous visions of lions and lambs, and broken swords.

You see, prophets were contrarians. Their job was to remind us to always feel a little bit uncomfortable. To never feel like we’ve made to the top of the mountain of success. To second-guess our most precious and dear beliefs.  When they were too comfortable, he made them uncomfortable, and when they were scared, he reassured them.  

I wonder what Yeshaya would tell us today.

I imagine he would turn to the mothers in Israel, preparing their “go-bags” and training their children to run to the maamad, and he would tell them “Don’t worry. V’ashiva shoftayich k’varishona, I will bring justice back to this holy city.” He would tell the sleepless spouses that their husbands will come home; that war will one day be a thing of the past. He would walk through the army barracks giving hugs to the teenagers who are trying to hold it together and remind them how beloved they are to Hashem. The people of Israel need chizuk, they need strength, and that’s what the prophet would give them.

But then he would turn to us, as we plan our summers ahead, as we flip through inspirational video after inspirational video, and he would thunder: “Do you really think you’re doing enough?! How can you sleep when your cousins are in Gaza? How can you eat comfortably when their mothers and fathers haven’t eaten in ten months?”

 “I hear you talking about how scared you are in this country, but then you treat American politicians like heroes, and then you go and build houses that scream ‘I am not going anywhere’? Are you really in exile or is this your home?!”

“And yes, your mitzvah observance and Torah learning has never been greater. But G-d does not want actions. Rachman liba ba’i. Hashem wants you. To show up honestly, authentically. No games. No gimmicks. An open and honest and growth-filled relationship.”

“You may not be able to help the fallen and broken in Israel, but is there a shortage of fallen and broken around you? Open your eyes!”

We don’t have prophets nowadays. But we do. Not only because the words we read this morning from Yeshaya so clearly reverberate in our times. But even more deeply, the Talmud says that prophecy lives on through children. Inside each and every one of us there is a child, a voice of idealism, of unbridled self-criticism, and of unself-conscious yearnings. We’ve all heard that voice before. Sometimes we listen to it. More often, like they did to the prophets of old, we ignore it.

This Shabbos is the only Shabbos dedicated to words of prophecy – Shabbos Chazon, the week we listen to Yeshaya of old, but also to the internal Yeshaya, the child inside. After three weeks of mourning, after three weeks of reminding ourselves that things are not where they need to be, the hope is that we are little less guarded, a little more vulnerable, a little more open to hear that inner prophetic voice. And for each us, that voice is saying something else. Each of us are comfortable in our own way. And each of us need to listen to that voice to figure out what we really need to do. Can you hear it? What’s that voice saying? To you.

***

For a while it seemed like the tide had turned, the people embraced Yeshaya and his messages. His daughter married the king of Israel, Chizkiyahu, and Yeshaya was now an official member of the royal family.

But it could not be maintained. Chizkiyahu died. His son Menashe took over. And Yeshaya’s criticisms started grating on too many people and getting in their way of their lives. Our sages teach us that after attempting to sideline Yeshaya was unsuccessful, he was executed by Menashe, his very own grandson.

As I said, those times are not so different than now. Do we listen to the words of the inner prophet and allow him to guide us to personal and collective redemption, or do we kill him with apathy and comfort?

Eulogy for Rabbi Emeritus, Rabbi Chaim Landau

by Ner Tamid | Aug 5, 2024 | Sermons

I sat down this morning and tried to write a eulogy for our teacher, our mentor, our rabbi, and our friend, Rabbi Chaim Landau. While I struggled to find the words to properly encapsulate the impact this one man had on so many, I realized where I was – the chair I was sitting in, the desk I was working on, the walls I was surrounded by – Rabbi Landau’s old office, and I noticed it was filled with ghosts.

I saw the hundreds, maybe thousands, of Bar and Bat Mitzvah boys and girls nervously shifting in their seats as Rabbi Landau spoke to them about their big day ahead. I saw the countless beaming couples discussing the details of their upcoming wedding. I also saw those same couples as they came back to that office time and time again for advice and guidance as they navigated their married life. I saw the maybe hundreds of people who yearned to join the Jewish faith, who Rabbi Landau guided with kindness and compassion. I saw the countless people who sat in those chairs as they poured their heart out to Rabbi Landau, as they went through losses and setbacks. And I watched Rabbi Landau comfort, lift up, and guide all those people.

I left my office and walked the halls of our school wing, and I saw the ghosts of Yeshivat Rambam and Shlongers Yeshiva, two very different institutions, and yet, both welcomed with open arms by the rabbi of Greenspring Valley Synagogue. Hundreds of students connecting to their heritage thanks to the endorsement and encouragement of Rabbi Landau.

I saw the ghosts of the young children, students of the Montessori school that started as one classroom and grew and grew – a brainchild of Rabbi Landau and part of his brilliant vision. I saw Rabbi Landau stopping to say hello to each child of 3,4, or 5 years old. I saw him playing his keyboard in the classrooms and singing as the boys and girls smiled and clapped along.

I went upstairs to the social hall where I saw the ghosts of the people attending the creative gatherings Rabbi Landau would put together, the Omer Lecture Series, Yom Yerushalayim celebrations, and more. I watched as an exceptionally diverse group of community members learned and grew from these unique events.

And then I went to the sanctuary. I heard Rabbi Landau’s loud, booming, British accent bounce off the walls. And I saw the ghosts of thousands of congregants sitting spellbound listening to his passionate and humorous sermons. I watched the strings of their heart stir, the gears in their head turn, as they made resolutions – to be better spouses, better parents, to be better Jews, to be stauncher Zionists, to be good and decent people.

And it occurs to me as I look around this very full room, I was not looking at ghosts.

Those couples who came to Rabbi Landau for counseling, they went back home, they put his advice to practice, their children watched their parents, and now have beautiful families of their own.

The teensy Bar and Bat Mitzvah students felt heard by a man with a beard, a rabbi! And felt a connection to Judaism they were inspired to explore.

The hundreds of men and women who became members of our faith and now have children and grandchildren who are Jewish too.

The schools that started here had and have thousands of students who went on to live lives infused with Torah and Zionism.

The impact Rabbi Chaim Landau made is not the past; it is the present and the future. It is sitting in these pews, and it is all over the world. It is the immeasurable impact that is coursing through the minds, hearts, and souls, of the tens of thousands of people Rabbi Landau touched in his life.

The impact I must add goes far beyond those who walked through these walls. It is an impact still felt in Charleston, West Virginia, where he started his rabbinate, with a creative bang and flourish. It is an impact still felt by the many students he taught in so many of the local schools. It is an impact felt in the dining rooms of the homes he visited. It is an impact still felt by the patients and staff of the University of Maryland Medical Center where his beautiful piano playing filled the entire hospital giving hope and life to those inside.

There are no ghosts. While Moreinu HaRav Chaim’s soul may have returned to his Creator, he left so much chaim, so much life down here on earth. Chaim shel bracha; A life well-lived, a life that has impacted the trajectory of tens of thousands, a life that is still reverberating ever so loudly in this room, in this hallway, and all over the world.  

So how did it happen? How did a Brit, a man born in a small seaside village of England, a country known for its cold weather and cold demeanor become such a lover, a hugger – not just a hugger, but a bear-hugger? A man who never seemed to not smile? A man who seemed to always have a skip in his walk, as if he was listening to the classical music he loved? Who was always doing “lovely!” How did it happen?

I learned yesterday that coffee may have had something to do with it.

But there is more.

Our Sages instruct us to become students of Aaron the High Priest. Hevei mitalmidav shel Aharon. Not a student of Moshe, not a student of Rabbi Akiva. There is only one Jewish figure whom we are asked to emulate, and that is Aharon. In what way? Ehov et habriyot, love people. That was not only the leadership quality, it was the life quality that Rabbi Landau exemplified, it was the key to his success.

It was his love for people that caused him to fall in love with the rabbinate as he watched his father spend his days caring for all who needed him, including inmates at the local prisons.

It was his love for people that allowed him to say “Great game! Better luck next time!” after destroying his opponents in racquetball.

It was his love for people that endeared him to complete strangers, fellow dogwalkers on the street, custodians of the hospitals he would visit. He would greet everyone with the cheeriest hello and smile.

As I read through the outpouring of comments on social media about Rabbi Landau, the words, “mentchlich, smile, kindness, non-judgmental” appeared over and over again. In the words of our Sages, Rabbi Landau was a true student of Aharon HaKohein.

I must mention that this love was not a love of softness; it was a love that was mixed with particular strength. Rabbi Landau had the courage to take a stand on matters that were not always popular in a community in which he would often be in the minority, but that did not stop him.

Rabbi Landau had the strength to take a stand on opinions in these walls that were not always so popular, but that did not stop him either.

Probably the last big decision that he encouraged and saw through at Ner Tamid was the removal of this microphone. It was far from popular, Rabbi Landau had to go head-to-head with some of the most powerful people in the shul, but he prevailed. I think it is fair to say that thanks to his courage, strength, and vision, the shul is where it is today.

If I may speak on behalf of the congregation. I would like to thank the Landau family, Sivan, Talia, Dov, Yaella, for sharing your father with us. Yes, there were some perks – his office was filled with candy your mother did not allow at home, some of you may have thought you owned this place. But I am told it’s not easy to have a father who is a rabbi… we thank you and are deeply indebted to you for sharing him.

Most specifically, I want to thank Rebbetzin Mindy Landau. Not only for sharing your husband with us, but for being such an incredible role model of being a dignified person and of standing by your husband through thick and thin. It has been humbling watching you. Rabbi Landau spent two years trying to persuade you to marry him. It was probably the best investment of time and best decision he could have made.

If I could speak personally. When I first joined the shul, I received a lot of questions that all concluded with the words, “like Rabbi Landau.” For example, “Why don’t you have trivia questions like Rabbi Landau? Why don’t you give out chocolate bars like Rabbi Landau? Why don’t you speak at this point of the services like Rabbi Landau?”  

And I was scared, not only of the congregants, but of Rabbi Landau. In the rabbi world, it is an open secret that having a rabbi emeritus is a disaster waiting to happen. As the incoming rabbi, you have your own vision but you cannot undo anything that was done in the past for fear of insulting your predecessor. The previous rabbi understandably is constantly judging his successor and it often comes through.

But that is everyone else’s experience. My experience was exactly the opposite. Rabbi Landau encouraged me at every turn to do things my way. When I’d ask him what the shul’s minhag was, he would tell me to do whatever I think is best, repeatedly. He was gracious beyond description. It was almost as if he had no ego, no sense of personal pride. His selflessness was superhuman. He would never sit in the front; he would beg me to stop acknowledging him from the pulpit. He would thank me profusely if I ever asked him to speak – as if I was doing him a favor. Thank you, Rabbi Landau. I hope and pray that I can live up to your example.

It is customary to ask forgiveness from a parent at their funeral. Rabbi Landau was a father to us all. And so, on behalf of the congregation, I ask you forgiveness for not always appreciating what we had and for allowing your sweetness to lower our guard and not always treating you with the reverence you deserved.

I do not think it is coincidence that today is Rosh Chodesh Av, the yahrtzeit of Aharon Hakohein. The world has lost a true student of Aharon; a man bursting with genuine love for every human being. At Ner Tamid I know we will forever say, Hevei mitalmidav she HaRav Chaim Landau, Zecher Tzadik livracha. Be a student of Rabbi Landau! He dedicated his life to us and we in turn will dedicate our lives to him, perpetuating his legacy of love – for all people, for Torah, for Israel, a life of joy and of strong conviction. While G-d has taken back this precious neshama, there is still life, there is still Chaim living on in the hearts and souls of the hundreds and thousands of us that he touched. We are forever his students.

T’hei nishmaso tzrura bitzror hachaim. May his precious soul be bound up in the Eternal Bond of Life.