by Ner Tamid | Nov 8, 2026 | Sermons
A local educator asked me the other day what to tell her students after the election of Abdul El-Sayed, after the Vice President blamed the Jews, I mean, Israel, for of all of America’s problems, and after Trump announced he was cutting all aid to Israel. Her students were petrified; what does the future have in store? Where is this country heading?
She was asking for her students, but she was likely also asking for herself; she was scared. Understandably so.
“The world is like a narrow bridge,” Rav Nachman of Breslov famously wrote, “and the main thing is not to be afraid.”
I was thinking about the famous tune, composed by Rabbi Boruch Chait, that we use to sing this song. It starts off slow, kol ha’olam kulo… – that first part depicts our fear and anxiety – the problem. And then the song goes into overdrive for the chorus, v’ha’ikar, v’haikar… the solution – do not be afraid.
But the question is how?
How do we overcome our anxieties? Not just reading the news and wondering if this is the beginning of the end. How do we face our personal anxieties; what will be with my children? Will I ever find a spouse? How will I pay my bills? How will I ever feel fulfilled?
Telling me not to be afraid is not a solution.
I believe Rav Nachman does provide an answer, it’s just that we have been singing his message backward. We think the narrow bridge is the problem and not being afraid is the solution. But perhaps the narrow bridge itself is the solution.
You see, Rav Nachman is suggesting a paradigm shift on how we think of life itself. Life is not a box of chocolates, with wonderful surprises at every turn. No. That’s Hollywood.
Life is a long, continuous bridge of endless non-resolutions – we are suspended between an exciting beginning and a grand finale. The sooner we accept this reality, the more fulfillment we experience in the smallest of accomplishments.
And it’s narrow – meaning, all you have control over is the small space around you. That is not meant to scare you. On the contrary, it’s an exceptionally healthy perspective on life.
When you read the rest of the piece (Likutei Moharan Tinyana, Torah 48) this becomes abundantly clear. A few lines earlier, Rav Nachman writes that all the small and tiny accomplishments add up. He writes how every small step forward is infinitely valuable to G-d. And he teaches us that the only mistake we can make in life is when we retreat; when we see the seemingly endless bridge before us and think that we haven’t made any progress.
Though we believe that world history has a happy, Messianic ending, in our individual lives, the objective is to take one small step after another on our own very narrow bridge. Those steps, as small as they may be, as objectiveless as they may seem, that is life, that is kol ha’olam kulo.
I spoke this past week at a conference for Executive Directors. I was asked to lead a session on difficult congregants. We don’t have any, so I asked a colleague to catch me up to speed.
The main message I shared with them was that they so often think their job is to make sure the event in shul is awesome, that Rosh Hashana-Yom Kippur goes without a hitch. But so much of that is out of their hands.
You know what the congregants will remember? How you spoke to them on the phone when they booked their kiddush, how you compassionately listened when someone complained about a seating issue.
Sometimes we get distracted by the big things and forget to focus on the narrow bridge – the areas we can control – that stand before us.
I was speaking to a couple going through challenging times the other day and all they were focusing on were the big fights, the irreconcilable points of contention. When we spoke of solutions all they could come up with were marriage retreats or intensive therapy.
Even the happiest couples have disagreements that never fully disappear. The secret to their happiness is not that they have resolved every difference. It is that they have learned to build a loving marriage through thousands of small interactions, gestures, and choices. They focus on their narrow bridge and make small adjustments.
Rav Nachman is pushing us to ask ourselves, what is our narrow bridge?
That is where we need to place our efforts. That’s where the magic happens. That is what is truly important in life.
How will my child end up in life? I have no idea and extremely limited control. But I can choose how I interact with him or her in this moment.
Will I ever get married? I’m not sure. But I will date this next person like they are the only person in the world.
How will I overcome my financial woes? Not clear, but I can take one concrete step toward getting my finances under control.
When we recognize that the only thing we control is the small and narrow here and now, life becomes a lot less scary. When we recognize that the here and now is not a means to an end, but an end unto itself, life is not only not scary, it’s exciting.
The greatest exemplar of this lifestyle? Yitzchak. His father was the revolutionary, his son the man who overcame the darkest of times, but Yitzchak? He barely did anything. But that’s exactly the point; in doing so, he acted as a bridge between the past and the future.
There are periods of history that are Avraham-like; the establishment of a state, the beginning of a community.
There are periods of history that are Yaakov-like; a Holocaust, exile.
Then there are periods like this one – these are not great times, but they are not terrible times either. What will happen in five years from now? I don’t know. But I can tell you what we can do tomorrow morning.
We can take another step. We can make another phone call to a politician. We can show another person that we care. We can teach another child, strengthen another relationship, learn a little more Torah.
Our job, in this era, is to not lose steam, our job is to appreciate the incredible value of perseverance and the superhuman strength it takes to do so, our job is to walk in the footsteps of Yitzchak on this very narrow bridge.
We do not need to see the other side to know that our steps matter. Because when we know that we are acting as that bridge, when we focus only on that narrow space before us that we can change, then, teaches us Rav Nachman, there is nothing to fear, nothing to fear at all.
by Ner Tamid | Nov 1, 2026 | Sermons
Back when every preteen couldn’t stop saying, 6-7, I told myself I would never give a drasha on that topic. No drasha on sus, aura, cooked, crash-out. None of that. It would be way too cringe.
But today I’m going to break that commitment and discuss one such term and that is – salty.
For those who don’t know what the term means to teenagers, here’s a sentence: Simcha, our Bar Mitzvah boy this Shabbos, has probably never been salty his whole life.
Salty, in 2026, means someone who is bitter, resentful, upset.
Simcha Lopin, true to his name, Simcha, is always with a smile and always positive. Simcha is low-key the least salty person I know.
In Judaism, salt has a very different connotation. So much so, that I would say that Simcha is actually the saltiest person I know.
So let’s take a little journey through the Torah on the topic of salt and I think you’ll see what I mean.
Where does salt play a role in the Torah?
- In the parsha that Simcha just read so beautifully, it discusses the destruction of Sedom. The Torah describes the land being destroyed with sulfur and salt. Why salt?
- Most famously, Lot and his wife are told to not turn around. And yet, Lot’s wife does exactly that. The Torah tells us that she was transformed into a pillar of salt.
There are tour guide in the Dead Sea region today, who will point to different salt pillars, each one claiming that that one is Lot’s wife. Again, why salt?
- Dipping Challah into salt. Why?
- Every Korban, every animal sacrifice is brought with salt. Why salt?
- Washing your hands after a meal – mayim achronim. The Gemara says this is done because of the ‘salt of Sedom.’
That’s a lot of salt. No wonder Jews have such high blood pressure.
Is there any common thread that brings all these salty Mitzvos and stories together? I believe there is.
Salt is a preservative – this is why when Hashem makes a promise, it is sometimes described as a ‘covenant of salt.’ Salt preserves items by drawing out its moisture.
That is also how salt makes food more flavorful. The drawn-out moisture spreads the flavor that is sometimes locked inside a food item.
We dip challah into salt because back in the day, bread tasted lousy. Bread was most often used as a type of spoon to scoop up the meat sauce you were eating. If you just made a bracha on bread it would be inappropriate to eat something that didn’t have so much flavor. So to make sure the bread was worthy of a bracha, it was dipped into salt to bring out more flavor.
Which is why, by the way, there are Halachic authorities, who say that nowadays there is no obligation to dip your bread into salt. Our bread already has salt. Our bread tastes amazing on its own.
Rav Mordechai Gifter suggests that this is why our sacrifices in the Bais Hamikdash were always brought with salt, and conversely, we were not allowed to put honey on a Korban. That’s because even in our religious life it is so easy to get caught up in externalities. How beautiful is your Esrog? How many hours do you learn? Which boards do you sit on? All those things, as beautiful as they are, are honey, they are superficial.
Salt reminds us to dig deeper. Salt reminds us not to get caught up in external trappings. Salt draws out our inner selves because that’s the only thing that matters.
Sedom was a very superficial place. When the Gemara tells us that we are to wash our hands after a meal because of the salt of Sedom, some understand this to be a reference to some corrosive and dangerous ingredient that was mixed into salt. We are obligated to wash our hands after eating for safety – so that we don’t later rub our eyes with that dangerous slat on our hands. Being that modern salt is not dangerous, there are many who argue that there is no longer a need to wash Mayim Achronim.
Rav Kook understands the ‘Salt of Sedom’ symbolically. When we eat, we inevitably get sucked into externalities; the presentation of the food, the smell, the taste. Like the people of Sedom, we lose sight of what’s important in life. So when we finish eating, as we move on to the rest of our lives, we wash our hands as a way of cleansing ourselves from this superficiality.
Which brings us back to Lot’s wife. Her mistake seems to be that she turned around to look at the city’s destruction. But what’s odd is that in the very next verse, it says that Avraham looked at the city as well. Why is he not punished?
If you read the text closely, you’ll see it wasn’t that she looked, it was how she looked at Sedom.
The Torah says, vatabet, and she gazed. Regarding Avraham, the Torah writes, vayashkeif, which means to look in a penetrating and thoughtful fashion.
Where Lot’s wife saw destroyed pastureland and financial ruin, Avraham saw lost lives and potential.
Where Lot’s wife saw three bothersome guests who would use up their food, Avraham saw an opportunity to bring more goodness into the world.
Vatabet; she may have physically left Sedom, but she was still a superficial Sedomite at heart. Or as Sherlock Holmes once said, “You see, dear Watson, but you do not comprehend.” And so, Lot’s wife becomes a pillar of salt – an eternal reminder to live a saltier, more genuine, deeper life. That’s what salt represents in Judaism; a reminder to go beneath the surface, to live deeply.
Which brings me back to Simcha – You see, Simcha Lopin has mad rizz.
You do. You’re amazing at basketball, you have a ton of friends, you do well in school, and those are all beautiful things.
But you’re also salty – in the most Jewish way possible. You’re incredibly kind and gracious, not only with your friends in school, but with your little brother, even when no one’s looking. When I asked your parents what your qualities are, the first thing they said is that you see the good in others. And when I asked you what you plan on doing with all your talents, you shrugged, you smiled, and then you said, “I want to use my qualities to help others.”
To be salty is a way of life:
It’s about seeing a home, not a house, realizing that all material things are fleeting, but what we build within them can last forever.
It’s about seeing opportunities, not challenges, remembering that we are not only here to enjoy ourselves, but to constantly grow, and that usually comes with growing pains.
It’s about seeing people, not categories. Cool/ uncool. People worth talking to/ people I try to avoid. But recognizing the utterly unique Divine spark within every individual.
In a moment, we’ll be davening mussaf; some will say the words and check an imaginary box in their head – I davened. Others will see beyond the words and recognize how those few moments will be spent in the presence of Hashem.
In a few minutes, we’ll go outside to Kiddush; some will gravitate to their friends and the people they know. Others will look around the room and see a room brimming with holy neshamos.
Many people live an entire life without scratching their own surface. We know how that story ends; Lot’s wife is stuck, she’s frozen in time, looking blankly into the abyss.
Our legacy, the deep and penetrating sight of Avraham, is to spend our lives appreciating and bringing out the goodness in others. It is to never stop pulling flavor from the depths of our own soul, to never stop growing.
Simcha, that’s what you do. So keep being you. And whatever you end up doing with all your many talents, don’t forget to stay salty.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 25, 2026 | Sermons
I’d like to read to you two sentences from a letter written by Rabbi Yechiel Yaakov Weinberg. Rabbi Weinberg, sometimes known by the name of his book, the Seridei Aish, was a leading Torah scholar, educated in a German university, survivor of the Holocaust, who lived a fascinating life. Despite experiencing the cruelty and hatred of the Germans and then the Russians first-hand, in a rather candid letter he sent to a friend, he wrote as follows:
“The entire world hates us. We assume that this hatred is due to the wickedness of the nations, and no one stops to think that perhaps we also bear some guilt.”
Perhaps we also bear some guilt.
In Israel last week there was significant controversy about the status of Arab-owned olives in Yehuda and Shomron. Without getting into the technicalities, one prominent rabbi ruled that these Arab-owned olives should be treated as ownerless and he encouraged Jews to take them. Many others disagreed.
I never studied the intricacies of these laws so I will not weigh in on the Halacha. But what I can confidently say is this: Even if it is technically okay to take those olives, even if it is not in violation of Jewish Law, is it the right thing to do? Are there no considerations of how it comes across for a group of Jews to take what, by civil law, is owned by Arabs? Have we lost sight entirely of the spirit of Jewish law, a spirit that is exceptionally sensitive to how we portray ourselves and to caring for the nations of the world?
Roughly four thousand years ago, a very similar episode unfolded. Avraham Avinu was promised the land of Israel, he was living in the land of Israel, and he had many sheep. With him, was his nephew, Lot. For all intents and purposes, the heir to the at-the-time-childless Avraham was likely going to be Lot. Lot also has many sheep.
Our Sages in Bereishis Rabbah tell us that there was a dispute between Lot and Avraham about the permissibility of having their sheep graze on other people’s property. Lot argued that G-d had promised the land to Avraham and therefore it was theirs for the taking. Avraham replied that the promise was for the future and they did not yet have permission to take the land.
So far, we have a Halachic dispute. One view says it is allowed and one view says it is not.
However, Rashi, when he quotes this Medrash slips in a word. He describes Lot and his shepherds as reshaim, evil people. Seems a little extreme, don’t you think? They each had a Halachic position; one could argue that G-d had already allowed Avraham and his family to take part in the land. Was Lot really evil?
It would seem that Rashi is telling us that you could follow Jewish Law, you could do everything according to Halacha, and still be called a Rasha.
If you aren’t considering the bigger picture, the implications of your actions, if you are searching for loopholes and not seeking a more elevated and refined life, that too is evil.
Or as Rabbi Weinberg said, perhaps we also bear some guilt.
And it’s not only in Israel.
Should I share some headlines from Baltimore about our fellow Orthodox Jews?
“Maryland Insurance Company Sues for Breathtaking Fraud Scheme.” This news item is about two Orthodox Jews, who wanted to help Israelis who did not have health insurance, gave them fictitious addresses so that they could qualify for benefits. So well-meaning. But it’s totally wrong.
Or how about this one?
“Fake Deeds, Real Money.” Allegedly, two Orthodox Jews created fraudulent deeds, inflated property valuations, causing mortgage defaults and widespread foreclosures.
The list goes on but I have no stomach for it.
Like Rabbi Weinberg, I am no fool. Antisemitism did not emerge in response to our misdeeds, but perhaps we also bear some guilt.
And it’s not just the headlines, the million-dollar scandals. Do we not bear some guilt when we cut corners, when we find every possible loophole, when cash doesn’t get reported, when we use company time for personal use – because everyone does it, when we share Netflix memberships that are not meant to be shared, when we treat financial scandals like no big deal?
Perhaps we also bear some guilt.
I get a lot of calls from Trader Joe’s; they seem to bring in new products with unique hechshers every week. If I tell someone it may be kosher but I can’t recommend, they usually put it down. As Aaron Polun pointed out to me the other day, why don’t we have the same level of care when it comes to financial dealings?
It’s not a new problem. Rav Moshe Feinstein, the preeminent Halachic authority of America once lamented how few questions he receives about monetary law.
I hesitated sharing this message with you.
I hesitated because I am sure there are some of you who never heard about these scandals. I hesitated because I’d like to believe that we have an exceptionally ethical group of people in this room.
But I also hesitated because of what normally happens when we read and share such stories. What usually happens and is totally normal is that we feel superior. Those Jews over there are a bunch of crooks; me and my friends, we don’t cheat, we are honest, we’re the good guys.
It’s okay to feel good about yourself.
For ten seconds.
And then you have to ask yourself what are you doing about this situation?
In the past few years, Agudath Israel, to their credit, have run seminars led by leading rabbis and businessmen to encourage people to be more ethical in their business dealings.
But I believe there is something that we need to do. And it is not just being smug.
I’ll tell you a little secret: As you know I keep my tzitzis strings out. You don’t have to do so according to Jewish Law. There are times, when I am about to walk in to a secular or non-Orthodox setting and I think to myself, it looks weird, I may as well stick them in my pocket or tuck them into my pants.
Then I remember, I am possibly the only Orthodox Jew they will meet. They may have read all those headlines. And then they meet me. And I say hello. And I hold the door. And I act like a normal, ethical, trying-to-do-my-best-even-though-I-fail human being. Those tzitzis have the ability to completely change someone’s perception.
I am not suggesting that you all start wearing Tzitzis and keep your strings out. I am suggesting that if you consider yourself to be an ethical and good person – kol hakavod. Now let the world know that you’re Jewish.
Maybe that means wearing a kippah at work.
Maybe that means using your Jewish name.
Maybe that means – as Stanley Hellman recently told me he started doing – being more open about the holidays you celebrate and the rituals you engage in, so they know that you, their ethical, kind, upstanding friend or colleague is influenced by the Torah and they will come to appreciate that the Torah is so good and so precious and so sweet. And because of those few remarks and interactions, they’ll have a correct understanding of what it means to be a Jew.
Perhaps we bear some guilt and perhaps we don’t. But we all bear responsibility.
Responsibility to make a Kiddush Hashem, to show the world, especially in this day and age, especially because of all the terrible things being done by our co-religionists, what it means to be driven by a set of laws that hold us to the highest of ethical standards, what it means to be a Jew.
We can’t afford to feel smug about how much better we are than others. The world needs us, G-d needs us, to lead the way.
At the end of the parsha, Avram is told that he is going to be an ‘av hamon goyim, the father of many nations.’ When you think about it, his name should have been changed to AvHam – av hamon, father of many. And yet, his name is Avraham. Why did G-d keep the Reish in his name?
Suggests Rav Hirsch, Avraham was not only the father of nations, he is the EVER – the wing of all nations. Avraham’s role and by extension our role is to lift the nations of the world higher and higher. EVER, the wing, HAM, of all the nations.
Like Avraham who proudly embraced his monotheism and introduced radical kindness and exquisite ethics to the world, let’s follow in his footsteps and be the moral ethical wings that the Jewish world and the world-at-large need so desperately.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 18, 2026 | Sermons
Imagine for a moment that instead of sending a dove, Noach sent an oriole out of the Teivah. The oriole would have started out, full of promise and hope, “this is the year I will be successful,” and then halfway through its journey, it would basically shut down.
It would come back to Noach who would ask what happened, and the oriole would explain that yes, it had Henderson, Holliday, Alonso, but what could you expect? The oriole had no pitching.
Noach would wait patiently until the oriole farm team would be ready, but unfortunately, Noach and his family would all die waiting.
It is playoff season and to the surprise of no one, the Orioles are nowhere to be seen. But today, I’d like to focus on another team – the Milwaukee Brewers.
The Brewers have a total of zero star players, they have no heavy hitters, their players make contact with the ball the least in the league, and yet, they are the favorites in the upcoming World Series. How is that?
What the Brewers do have is a team. A group of people who, IF they hit the ball, get single after single. They are so focused on the team over the individual that they have a little game called the Check Game; if a player boasts about his accomplishments, his name gets placed on a board with a check near his name. If the player defends his actions, he gets another check.
The Brewers philosophy of the perils of a star player and the value of teamwork is the overarching theme of our parsha. We’re introduced to Noach, an ish Tzadik, a righteous man, an all-star – but something is lacking. Our Sages famously contrast Noach with Avraham; while Noach minded his own business and stayed away from his evil generation, Avraham prayed for the evil people of Sedom. Noach’s selfishness ends in disgrace, Avraham’s selflessness gives birth to the Jewish nation.
Avi, our Bar Mitzvah boy, is a lot of things; he is popular, beloved by his siblings, artistic, a problem solver, and a really good baseball player. But when speaking to his parents, the one story that really stood out, is something that took place 4 years ago.
In the beginning of his baseball season, he broke his wrist. But here’s what Avi did that puts him in his own league. Avi showed to every single game his team played. He sat on the sidelines, in a cast, cheering his team on. Like your namesake, Avraham, you are a team player. And that is a precious characteristic.
In a generation in which we are hyper-fixated on our selves; self-actualization, self-esteem, self-image, it is refreshing to see a young man who rises above it and understands how we are all parts of a whole.
Nowhere does the value of togetherness come across stronger than the end of our parsha. We are introduced to a group of people who are building a tower “to wage against G-d,” whatever exactly that means, it is not good. And yet, our sages teach us that this generation did not get destroyed because they had achdus, they came together as a team.
I once heard a beautiful d’var Torah from your rebbe, Avi, Rabbi Dani Frank, on this week’s parsha. Rabbeinu Nissim of Geronda, in his Derashos HaRan quotes King Solomon who writes, “Two are better than one because when one falls the other picks him up.” That is the classic, simple understanding of why unity is valuable – we can help each other out. But Shlomo Hamelech continues, there is another, far more profound value in companionship – Gam im yish’k’vu sh’nayim v’cham lahem, “when two lie down together, they are warmed up.” When two people lie under the same blanket, their mere presence warms and supports the other. That is the power of unity. It’s not about what you do. It’s about being there. By sitting on that bench, Avi, you gave warmth to your entire team.
I sometimes think about this when I go to weddings. We have a mitzvah to bring joy to the bride and groom. I used to think this meant that I need to dance in the center of the circle, that’s how I bring joy to the groom. And so I would get in the middle, do a little dance, and then I’d slip away. The chosson does not need me dancing at the edge of the third circle; he doesn’t even see me. But that’s my 21st century mindset speaking; it’s not true. Gam im yish’k’vu sh’nayim v’cham lahem; imagine everyone would leave and you would only have the groom and one friend dancing in the middle. It may not be a homerun, but simply being there, one more body shuffling around the circle is a walk, and enough walks can get you to the World Series.
Rabbi Dovid Bashevkin, in his new book, I Read This Over Shabbos, traces the origins of the modern tragedy of Jews who are anti-Zionists. He tells the story of a reform rabbi by the name of Elmer Berger, who in 1963, sent a forty-three-page letter to the Assistant Secretary of State decrying the dual loyalty of Jewish Zionist Americans. He was arguing against the Law of Return, the right for every Jew to live in the State of Israel. He pleaded with the Assistant Secretary of State to not support the State of Israel. “Judaism,” he argued, “is a religion, not a peoplehood.” That is the root of Jewish anti-Zionism; the belief that we are individuals who identify with the Jewish faith.
But it’s simply not true. Noach was an ish Tzadik, a righteous individual, and that experiment failed miserably. Avraham was the father of a nation, and that is who we are; a people, a team.
There was a young lawyer who responded to Rabbi Berger with an in-depth treatise explaining why the Law of Return was necessary and moral. His name was Abe Foxman, the future national director of the ADL. But I believe Abe Foxman got something wrong. His argument was predicated on the fact that we are a nation in need of protection; we have too many enemies, for so much of history we have been persecuted. The Law of Return provides us with the protection that we deserve.
It may not have been his intent, but the influence of the ADL with its emphasis on fighting antisemitism left us with a warped understanding of what it means to be a Jew. Our entire identity revolved around antisemitism, our history consisted of Holocausts and persecution. And that’s a terribly narrow understanding of what it means to be a Jew.
There is a Gemara in Zevachim that tells us that not too long after the Jewish People left Egypt, animals started banding together; birds and monkeys, lions and bears. People started getting nervous; what’s going on? The Gemara tells us they went to Bilaam, their prophet, and asked him if another great flood, another Mabul, was on its way. He said, no. The animal kingdom banded together because the Torah was being given at Sinai.
Rav Meir Shapiro shares a beautiful explanation of this strange Gemara. Our sages are teaching us that there are two things that bring people together. Usually what brings us together is a calamity, a common foe, danger that can be better protected against with a group. That is the animal kingdom coming together during the flood. But that is a shallow unity. Real unity is Matan Torah, at Sinai, when the Jewish People came together for a shared cause. That is the unity of the Jewish People.
What brings us together as a people is not the fact that everyone is trying to kill us. What brings us together as a people is that we share a common dream.
Max and Sara Shapiro exemplify this definition of community. They are team players – Sara served for years on the youth committee, was a member of our hospitality committee. Max serves on CSS and is the vice president of our shul. But it’s much more than yelling Kiddush every Shabbos.
The Shapiro’s are driven by a sense of purpose; meaningful programming for the future of our shul, Torah study – Max is somehow learning the daf, the amud, and nach every day. They are the first to welcome a new person to our shul. Their Judaism is not one of fear; it’s motivated by growth, by goodness, and by G-d.
Avi, you’re becoming a Bar Mitzvah at a complicated time. There are people who look at the world around us and see a Mabul approaching. Their response is to build themselves a Teivah, to protect themselves and their families, and to close the door.
But our parsha challenges us to aspire to something greater. Noach built an ark to save his family. The Dor Haflagah came together and demonstrated the power of unity. But Avraham and Har Sinai taught us what that unity is supposed to accomplish – a nation united by a shared mission.
What does that look like?
Sometimes that means saying hello to a stranger at Kiddush. Sometimes it means finding time in a hectic schedule to help shape the future of your shul. Sometimes it means learning a little more Torah, or taking responsibility for someone who might otherwise be overlooked. And sometimes it means just showing up, and being part of the crowd.
None of these things will make headlines. None will earn you an MVP award. But they are how a community is built. They are how a nation is built.
Avi, as you become a Bar Mitzvah, may you continue to develop all your remarkable talents. I am sure you will hit many home runs, on and off the field. But above all, may you always remember what you already knew at nine years old: being part of a team isn’t about how much attention you receive. It’s about how much stronger the team becomes because you’re there.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 5, 2026 | Sermons
30 seconds.
That is the amount of time it would have taken for our national consciousness to have been plunged into the deepest state of mourning.
Flight 1073 was 14,000 feet from the ground, dropping at 33,000 feet a minute. Thirty more seconds is all it would have taken.
Can you imagine?
174 individuals. 174 funerals. Over a hundred shiva houses.
Can you imagine the headlines? Just under three years from October 7th, another calamity of epic proportions.
Thank G-d, the headlines we woke up to were exactly the opposite.
174 lives saved.
An endless stream of memes highlighting the heroism of a bunch of balding Israelis. I have been bursting with pride.
The videos of a plane full of Jews singing to G-d, v’ha’ikar lo l’fached, Am Yisrael chai – it gives me the chills.
Our enemies tried to destroy and demoralize us, and G-d came through with more drama than bunker bombers and exploding beepers.
My Hallel was different Wednesday morning.
Hodu LaShem – give thanks to Hashem. Yes! I will!
Zeh hayom asah Hashem, nagilah v’nism’cha bo – this is the day Hashem created; let us rejoice! Absolutely!
It was still different this morning. How could it not be? How could we not be bursting with pride, gratitude, and joy?
But lingering in the back of my mind is another question:
How long will this feeling last? How long will I hold onto this beautiful rush of emotions?
If the past is any indicator, not very long.
A year ago, we also had a euphoric Hallel. The last of the hostages were released. After two years of marching, wearing pins, praying endlessly—they were finally home. Remember that feeling?
It also dissipated.
On a smaller scale, I experience this every holiday season, and I imagine many of you do as well. The majesty of Rosh Hashanah. The purity of Yom Kippur. The joy of Sukkos. It feels so powerful, so real.
And then a week goes by. Maybe a month.
And somehow, we are back to normal.
I wonder if this is particularly difficult for our generation. Thanks to our phones and thanks to social media, we have become dopamine junkies. We are constantly looking for the next notification, the next video, the next headline, the next experience that will make us feel something. In 2004, the average American would look a screen for 2 and a half minutes. Today, the average is 40 seconds. We are dopamine junkies, always on the prowl for the next hit.
And then we bring that same expectation into our religious lives.
We want the inspiring Neilah. The incredible Hallel. The powerful sermon. The emotional song. We want a moment that gives us chills.
But a relationship, a real relationship, cannot survive on chills.
If you don’t believe me, ask the many people in this room who will be saying Yizkor.
A father could take his child to Disney World once a year, but if he ignores that child the other 364 days, there is no real relationship.
A wife could make an enormous fuss over every graduation, birthday and milestone, but if there is no conversation, no interest, no connection in between, something essential is missing.
Real relationships are built in the boring moments.
The phone call.
The ride to school.
Dinner together.
The little joke that nobody else understands.
Showing up again and again and again.
Ultimately, relationships are not sustained by their highs. They are sustained by a solid rhythm.
Perhaps when we are young and immature, we want an Instagram-worthy relationship full of sizzle and pop. But as we mature, we hopefully realize that the best and deepest relationships are formed out of consistency, out the routine of a regular, boring life.
Our relationship with G-d is no different.
Chazal tell us that at the end of Sukkos, G-d says, kasheh alai p’reidas’chem – your departure is difficult for Me. So Hashem gives us one more day: Atzeres, which means, stop. Atzor! Don’t leave yet. Stay with Me one more day.
Rav Hutner asks an obvious question. What does that accomplish? Instead of saying goodbye today, we say goodbye tomorrow. We have postponed the problem by twenty-four hours. Shkoyach. Seems fairly shortsighted for G-d, don’t you think?
Rav Hutner explains that this is where Simchas Torah comes in.
When the holiday season ends, we will not have a shofar. We will not have Neilah. We will not have a sukkah or a lulav and esrog.
But we will have the Torah.
Because Torah does not depend upon a spiritual high.
Torah and its Mitzvos create the rhythm of an ordinary Tuesday morning.
Simchas Torah is the counter-cultural holiday we desperately need. It comes at the end of this season to remind us to stop looking for the next spiritual hit. It reminds us that real, genuine spirituality, like real, genuine relationships, does not give us a high.
G-d is not asking us to somehow preserve the emotional intensity of this month forever. That would be impossible. It’s foolish!
On Simchas Torah, He is asking us to take our relationship home.
Don’t try to bottle Neilah.
Don’t try to recreate Wednesday morning’s Hallel.
Choose something that will not give you the chills in six months from now.
Five minutes of Torah every morning. One chapter of Nach. One halacha at dinner. One extra minyan a week. One Mitzvah we’ve been ignoring. One weekly phone call to someone who needs it. Incorporating a new behavior into home, into work. Even when it’s boring. Especially when it’s boring.
As we say our goodbyes to this beautiful season, let’s make sure we don’t leave until we have found that one thing, that one behavior, that one commitment, that one small rhythmic change.
Great lives and great relationships are rarely built in great moments. They are built through small things, done faithfully, again and again and again.
