Rabbi Landau Lounge Dedication

by Ner Tamid | May 25, 2025 | Sermons

There is an excavation site a few minute walk from the old city of Jerusalem, known as Ir David, the city of David. It’s viewed as one of the most important archeological digs in a country filled with important archeological digs. Next time you’re in Israel, it’s worth the time to stop by and take a tour.

There is an archeological term known as a tell. It’s when you uncover one layer dating to a certain period of history and then you keep digging and find another layer underneath from an earlier period. And then you dig deeper and find yet another layer from an even earlier period. Ir David is a perfect example of this form of typography.

There is a new section of Ir David that is opening soon that goes back to the Roman Era, about a thousand years ago. This past week, Ir David was in the news as archeologists found a golden ring dating back 2000 years. When I took my family there over Pesach, the tour guide described stamps or seals that were found there, with names of government officials mentioned by Yirmiyahu, the prophet Jeremiah; he lived over 2500 years ago. And there are tunnels you could walk through that date back to the Bronze Age.

To some degree this is true throughout Jerusalem. Whenever I walk its streets, I wonder to myself who laid down the ground beneath me. Which battles took place on this road, which sages of the Mishan walked through these streets debating the fine points of Halacha, and which Judean kings were paraded down this boulevard.

This idea of a tell, of layered history, is true not only in space, it’s true in time. My wife and I sometimes play a little game where we trace our children’s attributes to each family. This child’s math brain is from this family (not mine), this child’s smile is from this family (that’s mine), and this child’s loud voice is from… well, both families.

Sometimes I wonder how much deeper we could go. Where did those analytical skills come from?  They didn’t just come from this child’s grandmother, they go back and back, to ancestor to ancestor to ancestor, to thousands of years of nature and nurture.

What about all the prayers and tears shed for me to even exist? By my mother? By my grandparents? And by all those who came before them?

We are all archeological tells. Our entire identity is made up of layer after layer after layer, even though when we see a person all we see is what stands before us. We cannot see all the layers that are animating every thought and action.

What is true for an individual is certainly true for a community.

Today, we are officially inaugurating the Rabbi Chaim Landau Lounge. It is a beautiful, airy, light-filled space, with a gorgeous portrait of Rabbi Landau, that was made possible by your generosity. It’s part of our front lobby which was made possible, also by your generosity and the generous volunteerism of many of you here.

I’ve been wondering about the young boy or girl who walks through this lobby in thirty years. They’ll see the picture of Rabbi Landau, but they never would have met him. They’ll see the names Herbert Bearman, Rebbetzin Leibowitz, Lynora and Harold Berman, the Reitberger’s, the many names on the plaques, and they will have no idea who most of these people were.

But that’s also not entirely true. Because while they may never have met those people, the impact they made is layered into this institution. The volunteers who put in hours and hours of blood, sweat, and tears, the donors who gave so generously, all of that is layered into the present.

One of the greatest Chassidic Rebbes, Rabbi Yehuda Leib Alter, otherwise known as the Sefas Emes used to share a story justifying how he was able to take over the Gerrer Chassidus at such a young age; he was 22. He spoke of a mountain climber who after years and years of training, climbed one of the highest mountains. After weeks of climbing through difficult terrain and climates, he reaches the summit. And when he gets there he sees a young scrawny boy on top of the mountain. “How in the world did you climb this mountain?!” he asks. And the young boy shrugs his shoulders and says, “I didn’t climb the mountain; I was born here.” We are all indebted to all those who came before us, all those who climbed before us, and allowed us to start our journey on top of a mountain.

What that means practically for us in this room is this: The fact that people in this shul associate the period of time between Pesach and Shavuos as a time of growth is because for two decades Rabbi Landau hosted Omer Lectures in our shul. The fact that this is such a warm shul is in part due to the fact that Rabbi Landau would spot a stranger walking into shul and run off this pulpit to greet them or the fact that he would visit new members in their home for a cup of tea. The fact that this shul is so staunchly Zionist and eager to discuss complicated topics that many other shuls would shy away from is a credit to the decades during which Rabbi Landau established those values. Selfishly, the fact that children in this shul are comfortable talking to rabbis is probably in part due to the many chocolate bars that Rabbi Landau distributed.

If you walk from my home to the shul, you could see the different stages of this building. The main building in red brick, the original front façade in browns and greys, the chapel addition in beige, and now the front lobby in white. Some have commented that it looks a little silly. We should just paint it all so it looks uniform. But it’s actually perfectly emblematic of the reality. This community is an archeological tell; our present is the sum total of all the many people and generations who came before us.

So yes, the boy or girl who walks through those halls in thirty years from now and thinks that they do not know who Rabbi Landau is, is mistaken. Rabbi Landau is coursing through the bloodstream of this shul. His values are animating our every decision. His persona is lifting up our shul culture. That boy or girl may look at that portrait of Rabbi Landau and think they’re looking at a relic of the past. What they don’t realize is that they are looking at a mirror, they are looking into a window of their own soul.

The Disabled Kohein and Dealing with Life’s Challenges – Parshas Emor

by Ner Tamid | May 18, 2025 | Sermons

Ner Tamid is a mysterious place. There are a whole bunch of things that no one has good answers to. For example, why is it, that despite our shul being in the least public place in Baltimore has a door code that to use one needs to have a PhD in Jewish numerology? Or what exactly is on our roof that when it rains it sounds like we are davening outdoors in a rainforest? How does the kugel get finished so soon after I finish making kiddush? Who managed to get random toys stuck in the light fixtures in the social hall?

These are questions that should keep any self-respecting member of our shul up at night.

However, the mystery I’d like to address today is a personal one – what’s with the rabbi and his cup of water? I’ve never been to a shul where every single Shabbos, the rabbi fills up a cup and takes a sip before he begins talking. What’s the deal? (Also, why does the rabbi speak about himself in the third person…)

Before we solve the great Ner Tamid mystery, let’s take a look at our parsha. Our parsha begins in a rather politically incorrect fashion. It teaches us how Kohanim who have blemishes of different sorts, handicaps, some visible and some not visible at all, are invalidated from working in the Temple. אִ֣ישׁ מִֽזַּרְעֲךָ֞ לְדֹרֹתָ֗ם אֲשֶׁ֨ר יִהְיֶ֥ה בוֹ֙ מ֔וּם לֹ֣א יִקְרַ֔ב לְהַקְרִ֖יב לֶ֥חֶם אֱלֹהָֽיו׃ In other words, not only was the Bais Hamikdash not ADA compliant, it was anti-ADA. Handicapped individuals cannot work here.¹

Before I share with you an approach to how we should think about handicaps and disabilities from a Jewish perspective, allow me to share with you an approach to how we should not think about handicaps and disabilities:

Yitzchak Perlman contracted polio at the age of 4. Ever since, he has had to wear metal braces on his legs and often he has to walk with crutches. He also happens to be one of the greatest violinists of our time. There is an apocryphal story told about a particular concert. He came out onto the stage, walking slowly and laboriously util he got to his seat. He gently lay down his crutches, placed the violin under his chin, and right before he began, he tuned one of his strings, when all of a sudden, with an audible snap, one of the strings broke. The audience was expecting him to send for another string, but instead he signaled for the conductor to begin, and he proceeded to play the concerto on only three strings. At the end of the performance the audience gave him a standing ovation; they never saw anything like it. Perlman asked for a mike, and what he said summarized his entire life. “Our task is to make music with what we have.”

Here was a man who was given a form of a death sentence, the inability to walk, the inability to function like a regular person, and yet, he managed to navigate the hurdles sent his way, he overcame them and became a world-famous violinist.

It’s a beautiful and inspiring idea, but it’s missing a critical component that one can only appreciate with a deep faith in G-d. Let’s talk about the Torah’s perspective on disabilities. Inasmuch as the Torah prohibits a Kohein with a disability to serve in the Mishkan, the most consequential Jew to have ever lived had a disability – Moshe. Moshe was born or developed a significant speech impediment. When G-d appeared to him and demanded that Moshe stand before Pharaoh, Moshe pushed back. “Thank you, G-d, I’m flattered. I’m not sure if You noticed, but I can’t speak properly. How in the world do You expect me to be the spokesperson for the Jewish People?!”

G-d does not tell him, “Our task is to make music with what we have,” or, your task is to speak despite your limitations. No. G-d says, “Mi sam peh l’ileim, who gave speech to the mute?”

It’s a very cryptic response, but it’s explained beautifully by Rabeinu Nissim of Gerona. Says Rabbeinu Nissim, G-d was saying as follows: “Moshe, you think I don’t recognize that you have a speech impediment? Who do you think gave you that mouth, who created you with that deficiency? I did, said G-d. And I did so for a very significant reason.”

You see, the Jewish People, after leaving Egypt, were going to be given the Torah. The Torah, as we know, has many laws and many restrictions. G-d was concerned that the Jewish People would years later claim that they were duped, they were talked into it. They would say that they had this leader, a fantastic orator, who sweet-talked them into accepting the Torah. We’ve all experienced that. You ever walk into a store planning on buying one piece of furniture that’s on sale, and then find out that the one you plan on buying is made of terrible quality, and what you really need to buy is the newest brand, and that you really must buy insurance to protect your furniture against a nuclear war, all because some smooth-talking sale-person talked you into it? The Jewish People would say the same thing. Imagine if Moshe Rabbeinu spoke as well as Rabbi Jontahan Sacks. We got duped! We never really wanted the Torah! Rabbi Sacks could have persuaded us to do anything!

But what if the salesperson couldn’t finish their sentences? What if he stammered? What if you had to wait patiently until he finished his sentence? Could the Jewish People make such a claim? Absolutely not.

That’s what G-d was telling Moshe: “Yes I know you have a speech impediment; I was the One who gave it to you. I gave you that speech impediment so that you could fulfill your mission in life! You wouldn’t be fit to give the Jewish People the Torah if you didn’t have a speech impediment! Mi sam peh l’ileim, who created and gave you that disability? I did.”

We all have our own unique mission in life. There is a reason we are placed on this earth. But sometimes we think we’re not fit for the job. We have too many ‘disabilities’. I don’t have patience; how can I deal with my family or co-workers. I don’t have a good head; how could I study Torah?! What G-d was telling Moshe with those words of mi sam peh was that there are no mistakes. That speech impediment, or lack of memory, IQ, family trauma, mental health challenges, whatever deficiency it may – it’s all there for a reason! It’s part of the package! Our disabilities, our “weaknesses,” they aren’t an oversight, they are part of who we are, and what we are expected to do.

The Tzemach Tzedek, the third Lubavitcher Rebbe, suggests that this is why Kohanim who have a disability do not work in the Bais Hamikdash. Not because they’re not wanted there. It’s because they are wanted somewhere else; they have a different mission to fulfill. The role of the Kohanim is to connect people to G-d. Some people come to the Bais Hamikdash to find Him and there are Kohanim there to help. But there are other people, usually people who are hurting in one way or another, who do not have the inner strength to come to the Bais Hamikdash, or perhaps in modern times, can’t bring themselves to come to shul or engage in Judaism in any fashion. They may have had a difficult childhood, they may be experiencing some distress, and they remain at home. Who is able to reach them? Who is able to empathize with them and make them feel seen and heard? The Kohein who is dressed in regal clothing, the Kohein who is tall and fit, the Kohein who was respected from the day he was born, that Kohein can’t necessarily understand the man or woman who is stuck at home; he doesn’t have the life experience to give him that type of insight.

But the Kohein who was always chosen last for the baseball team, the Kohein who people looked at and quickly looked away, the Kohein who had his own fair share of pain, that Kohein can put his arm around that person in pain, look them in the eye, and say, “I get it.”

As people who believe in G-d, who believe in a G-d that is intimately involved in our lives, we do not ask how we can get around our disabilities, how our disabilities can be overcome. No. Instead we ask, in what way can I use this experience to fulfill my personal mission here on earth?

Which brings me back to my cup of water.

About three years ago, I fainted up here on the pulpit. I was probably sick and dehydrated. Whatever it was. As I shared with the congregation on the following Rosh Hashana, what followed was five months of intense panic attacks every time I got up to speak. It was hell. Sometimes I couldn’t speak at all. Sometimes I spoke while sitting down. And other times, I spoke, and it may have looked just fine, but in my head, I was using every technique in the book and barely got through it. Since that Rosh Hashana, I have not missed a sermon due to any panic attacks, but I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t still deal with them.

And it’s bizarre! Before that Pesach, I had no anxiety about getting up here; this was my happy place. When you’re 5’5 and you get a chance to stand up high on this pulpit and see the top of people’s heads, I loved it! But since that time, and yes, even since that Rosh Hashana three years ago, I have grappled with getting up here.

Sometimes I wouldn’t feel anything at all until the last moment. Sometimes I’d be sitting in my seat doing deep breathing during leining. Sometimes I would get hit with a wave as I stood up here. One of the techniques that I developed for myself was this – the cup of water. Knowing that I could pause and take a sip at any point, knowing that I could take a break in middle of a drasha, grounded me.

I don’t need your sympathy, and frankly, I don’t want your sympathy. Baruch Hashem, as time goes on it has gotten easier and easier. And I am also open to the fact that I may one day faint again at this pulpit, you’ll all freak out, and then I’ll make a drasha about it the next week. It’s all good.

More importantly, a panic attack is nothing compared to what so many people in this room deal with every single day. Statistically speaking, there are a good number of people in this room who have extreme anxiety and depression and other mental health challenges. Statistically speaking, there are a significant number of people who have familial distress and so many other challenges they deal with daily. We all have something, a ‘disability’ we are dealing with, and I am no exception.

Yitzchak Perlman would tell me that I must figure out how to overcome this challenge. But Rabbeinu Nissim and the Tzemech Tzedek would encourage me to ask myself what I can learn from it and how it can help me in my life mission. Perhaps like the Kohein who was disqualified from the Avoda, perhaps G-d wanted me to open my eyes a little wider to all the pain in this world, not only the visible pain, but the invisible pain which is so often so much worse.

Mi sam peh l’ilem? Who gave me this challenge? Who gave you your challenge? G-d did. And He did so for a reason.