by Ner Tamid | Sep 14, 2026 | Sermons
Who here has FOMO for Israel?
I regularly experience a deep Fear Of Missing Out as it relates to Israel.
When I get ready for Shabbos here in Baltimore, I feel like I am missing out on Friday afternoons in Jerusalem, where not only the smell of fresh challah fills the air but you could feel Shabbos itself slowly descending onto the streets.
When I am travelling in some American city not known for its Jewish population and get so excited when I see one Jew, I feel like I am missing out, not only on bumping into old friends everywhere I go in Israel, but being part of the greatest ingathering of all stripes of Jews to have ever taken place in history.
When I see police cars driving through our streets, I feel like I am missing out, not only on feeling secure with fellow Jews ensuring my safety, but of that sense of deep pride and strength that swells up inside me every time I see a young man or woman in green fatigues.
When I read news items that question the ethics of a Jewish state, I feel like I am missing out on living among people, where even the most peace-leaning citizens understand that the question of a Jewish state is not an academic question, it’s existential.
FOMO for Israel.
Before I go on, allow me to dispel any rumors. No, I am not making Aliyah anytime soon.
Also, I am not applying to become the rabbi of Suburban Orthodox…
So now that we cleared the air…
I could retire to Israel and eventually take part in the magic of Shabbosos in Jerusalem and the experience of being a part of history. I could put some of these feelings on hold. I know many of you plan on doing exactly that. But there is something that has no replacement, something that by living here, right now, I, and my children, will miss out on indefinitely –
Living as a part of the Jewish nation. Existing, not as Yisrael, the individual, but as a small part of Am Yisrael.
Let me share with you an example that will illustrate what I am talking about:
How many of you have ever heard of Shannon Lee Potter? How about Telethia Good? No, you did not. These two Baltimore girls have been missing since 1982. Allegedly, every once in a while, a police officer is expected to reopen their file and do a little digging. I’d be shocked if our ever-strapped police force has done so in the past two decades.
Contrast that with the story of Yehuda Katz. I never met him, but I, like many others, know his story well. Yehuda Katz studied in my alma mater, Kerem B’Yavneh, a yeshiva near Ashdod. He was a diligent student, beloved by those who knew him. Being a member of a tank crew, he was sent to fight in Lebanon. The day before his troop was sent into battle, he noticed that his fellow soldiers were scared. He gathered them around him, studied some sections from the Rambam’s Laws of Battle and then led them in song, singing “Gam ki eilech b’gei tzalmovet, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, lo ira ra ki ata imadi, I will not fear evil because you are with me.” The soldiers relaxed.
The next day, his tank was attacked, and he went missing.
Every day after, in our Yeshiva, a prayer was said for his safe return. Every few months, the Yeshiva would host a class in his merit. His picture was put up on a wall so all could see him every time they stepped into the Yeshiva’s library. It was not only in his yeshiva. The same picture hung in the office of Israel’s President, Isaac Herzog.
Yehuda Katz went missing in 1982. Nobody forgot him for 44 years.
Just under a month ago, Yehuda’s body was found. The Mossad and special forces from the IDF, after decades of painstaking research, during one of the most precarious times in Israeli history, tracked him down and in a secret mission, brought him home.
His funeral procession, which started at the yeshiva near Ashdod, concluded on Har Zeisim in Jerusalem. All along the road, men, women, and children, stood in respect for their brother they never gave up on.
That’s what it means to be part of Am Yisrael; you are not an individual, you are part of one big family. And that is something that really only exists in Israel.
In 2000, Robert Putnam wrote the classic book, Bowling Alone, describing the aloneness that is the new norm in America in the year 2000. In 2023, the Surgeon General declared loneliness a national epidemic.
But in Israel, no one bowls alone. Israelis don’t just live on top of one another, they live for one another. Israel is the land in which young men and women, before going into battle, leave notes behind stating how proud they are to have given their life for their nation.
In America, we dream and worry of our family’s future; Israelis dream and worry of the future of their nation.
The reason Israeli boys and girls can go into battle with such confidence, the reason parents are willing to sadly but proudly accept those sleepless nights is because they believe they are part of something bigger than themselves.
Ram Dass shares a beautiful parable about two waves making their way toward the shore. One wave is terrified. It sees the beach ahead and knows that within moments it will crash into the sand and cease to exist. The other wave is smiling, humming a tune as it travels through the ocean. “How can you be so calm?” the first wave asks.
The second wave replies, “You’re frightened because you think you are a wave, and in a few moments your short life will come to an end. I am calm because I know that I am part of the ocean. And the ocean lives on.”
Moving to Israel in retirement, never having served, never having spent sleepless nights not knowing which enemy my son or daughter might be facing, never huddling in a safe room in the basement of my apartment building with my neighbors, means that I would come to Israel as an individual, not as a part of the nation. And that’s something I fear I am missing out on.
One solution, of course, is to make Aliyah.
But for those of us who are here, at least for the time being, I have a different solution. It’s not perfect, it’s not complete, but I believe it could still be a very meaningful way to connect ourselves deeply to Am Yisrael, to transcend our Western identity of ‘me’ to a Jewish identity of ‘we.’ I’d like to make a book recommendation. You may have heard of it, it’s called, Nach. The Prophets and the Writings, Neviim and Kesuvim, some people call it the Bible. This book is the key to bringing us and holding us together.
With the establishment of the State of Israel, Ben Gurion faced many challenges. Security was, of course, the prime concern. The economy followed closely. But he also understood that the Jews streaming into this new country had little in common. How do you create a nation out of Sefardim and Ashkenazim? Chassidim and secularists? German Jews and Polish Jews? It was not an easy task. His solution? Neviim and Kesuvim, the Bible.
Historian, Anita Shapira, describes Ben Gurion’s conception of Jewish identity consisting of The People, the Land, and the Book. In 1953, Ben Gurion wrote: “Only with the renewal of the homeland and Hebrew independence have we been able to reassess the Bible in its true, full light.” He saw these holy books, which for so many years, collected dust on the shelves of our homes and shuls, as finally coming back to life.
He established, on the tenth anniversary of the State of Israel, the Chidon HaTanach, a national and eventually international Tanach competition for youth. Two of this year’s US finalists are members of our shul – Moshe Lewin and Tamar Levy. The Chidon wasn’t just a cute gimmick; he was trying to build a nation, and for all its shortcomings, he was wildly successful.
Ben-Gurion himself would gather Bible scholars and intellectuals for regular Tanach study in the prime minister’s residence, it was known as the חוג התנ״ך בבית ראש הממשלה. The subjects weren’t abstract. They discussed questions of conquest and settlement, the kingdoms of David and Shlomo, and the return to Zion under Cyrus and Darius – biblical episodes that resonated with the astonishing national events they were themselves living through. He sought out military strategies from the book of Joshua that were then implemented in the IDF.
Ben-Gurion was hardly an Orthodox Jew. Yet he understood something that many observant Jews too often forget: Tanach isn’t simply another area of Torah knowledge. It is our national memory. Avraham, Moshe, Yehoshua, Devorah, David, Eliyahu, Yeshayahu, Yirmiyahu, these aren’t disconnected personalities whose stories appear in different books. Together, they tell our story.
Yes, we are undoubtedly missing out by not living in Israel; there is no way around it. But it’s not an all-or-nothing. There is a recipe for success that helped reconstitute Am Yisrael, and we have an opportunity, even here in Baltimore, to become true members of our beloved nation.
I usually like to speak about a particular value and then suggest a number of practical applications of the value. Especially on Rosh Hashana when so many different types of people crowd into our shul, I try to be sensitive to the fact that we all have different backgrounds and capabilities. But I am not going to do that today. I am going to make one suggestion – learn Tanach. I believe that the study of Tanach is something that every single one of us has the ability to engage in. It’s your story; every single one of you. You don’t have to miss out on it.
Over the past years, many Jews have adopted a daily study regimen of one chapter of Nach a day. There is an official schedule that they follow. Following that schedule, today, the book of Jeremiah begins.
Jeremiah, Yirmiyahu, lived through a time that has haunting resonance today. It was a time of over-confidence in military might; he warned what would happen but no one listened, leading to disaster. It was a time of extreme internal division; where the greatest threat to the Jewish People most often lived next door. He lambasted the fake news that spread through the country at lightning speed. He also spoke to the many Jews who lived in the diaspora; letting them know that there was still great value in their Jewish existence. Most importantly, despite all the Jeremiad gloom and doom, he painted a picture of hope. עוֹד יִשָּׁמַע בַּמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה… קוֹל שָׂשׂוֹן וְקוֹל שִׂמְחָה קוֹל חָתָן וְקוֹל כַּלָּה. There will be a time, he promised, of great joy. If we live our lives the way we should, our story can change for the good.
I will be recording a daily five-minute-class on each chapter. There are also tens of wonderful classes on the daily chapter of Tanach that you can found online. We’ll be handing out bookmarks in a few minutes with all this information. I invite you to learn your story and become a part of our nation.
In a moment, we will hear the Shofar. Rav Yehuda Leib Alter, otherwise known as the Sefas Emes, a man who lived at the height of the Golden Age of Polish Jewry, a time in which communities outside of Israel were thriving, recognized something was amiss. Our daily prayers, our yearnings, they were all personal; they reflected the needs and wants of our family and maybe our immediate community. As heartfelt as those prayers may be, they are fractured, divided into millions of individual parts.
The Shofar, he writes, is a moment of unity. The shofar is a prayer, but it is a collective prayer, the ultimate collective prayer, when all our deepest yearnings meld into one powerful and singular cry. We all hear the same sound, an expression of our collective soul, of Am Yisrael. There is nothing more precious to our Father in heaven then the Jewish People uniting as one.
After those 100 sounds go silent, we don’t have to go back to living lives as individual Jews.
We can take that collective voice with us.
Tomorrow morning, we can open the first chapter of Yirmiyahu and begin learning our story. Not his story. Not ancient history. Our story.
We can hear the debates that once divided our people and recognize the debates dividing us today. We can listen to the warnings that our ancestors ignored and ask whether we are making the same mistakes. We can hear Yirmiyahu speak to Jews living outside of Israel and discover that he is speaking to us. And we can read his promises of return and redemption and realize, astonishingly, that we are watching some of those words come to life before our very eyes.
I still have FOMO for Israel.
I imagine I always will.
But perhaps the greatest fear should not be that we are missing out on Friday afternoon in Jerusalem, or on bumping into old friends at the Shuk, or even on the extraordinary experience of living in a Jewish state.
The greatest fear should be that the most remarkable story in human history is unfolding before our eyes – and we don’t realize that it is our story.
So this year, starting tomorrow, let’s stop living in fear of missing out.
Open a Nach. Five minutes a day. One chapter at a time.
Learn where we came from. Learn who we are. Learn what our people have dreamed about, fought about, cried about and prayed about for thousands of years.
And then perhaps, when the shofar sounds and millions of individual Jewish voices merge once again into one great cry, we will hear something more than the sound of a shofar.
We will hear the sound of Am Yisrael.
And we will know that we are part of it.
by Ner Tamid | Sep 6, 2026 | Sermons
People like to say that being a rabbi is not a job for a good Jewish boy. It’s obviously a joke, but the underlying message is that there is something horrible about being a rabbi. I could not disagree more.
I get to teach Torah every day. I get to try to help people navigate the highs and lows of life. I get to be involved in projects that have the potential of impacting hundreds of people.
But perhaps the greatest perk is that I’m expected to be a role model – which forces me to try to become a better person myself.
If I am driving a little too quickly, there is this little rabbi voice in my head that says, “Nu, vat vould the congregants say?” and I slow down. (Naturally, it has a thick Eastern European accent.) Or if I am thinking of getting upset at one of my children, the rabbi voice says, “Dis is how a rabbi speaks to his children?
Also, von of your congregants is at the door. Don’t yell so loudly.”
It’s a really great job. I love it. And I love it here.
As our shul grows, a number of people have brought up the idea of getting an assistant rabbi. I am a big fan of hiring from within, so would anyone here like to be my assistant rabbi?
Here are some of the perks of being an assistant rabbi:
- You get a parking spot, though it’s usually taken by a Montessori mom.
- You are close enough to all the action to know what’s going on, but if anything goes wrong, just far enough to plausibly deny involvement.
- We’d get to hang out a lot. It would be great.
Who’s in?
The truth is, I already have an assistant rabbi. Not one, not two, but tens and tens of assistant rabbis. They may call themselves volunteers. I think a more accurate term is assistant rabbi. And there are many.
I was once out for a coffee with a rabbi from a different denomination. She told me how few volunteers she had in her shul. And I told her, I hardly know anyone in our shul who is not a volunteer in some fashion. The amount of people who assist me in one way or another is too long to list.
If my job is to make sure people feel connected, I have dozens of assistant rabbis inviting people for Shabbos and Yom Tov.
If my job is to make sure Torah is being learned, I have assistant rabbis who cover my classes and women who gather every week to teach one another.
If my job is to create uplifting davening, I have musical assistant rabbis who lead the davening – and many more who sing loudly enough to help fill this room with the sounds of tefilah.
And if my job is to keep this place running, I have a president, chair, board, CSS members, gabbaim, Kiddush crews, people fixing chairs and cleaning the shul – a whole fleet of assistant rabbis.
Thank you, all of you, for being my assistants!
Though I should probably clarify, this position does not come with health insurance.
What goes on in this shul really speaks to one of the core ideas of Judaism – Judaism does not believe that religion is a spectator sport, that one person gets up to speak and everyone listens, or that only the elite are meant to be educated or teachers, or that only one person is responsible. Not at all.
When Moshe addresses the people in this week’s parsha, he gathers them all, the men, the women, the children. Many ancient tribes had mass gatherings made up of men, but Judaism was the first to introduce the notion that all members of society play an integral role and therefore they all needed to be present.
When Moshe, in the last days of his life, gives a Torah scroll to the tribe of Levi, telling them that since they are the teachers of the Jewish People, they should hold onto it, the people protest; What about us? Are we not part of the Jewish People?!
Moshe is thrilled. According to the Medrash, he writes 12 additional Torah scrolls, one for each tribe, and then he proclaims, “Today, you have become a nation.”
To be part of the Jewish nation means you are responsible, not to be a recipient, but to be a giver. Not to be a consumer, but a creator.
If you are not yet an assistant rabbi, now’s a really good time to sign up.
Years ago, I was working for an organization in Washington DC, and I had to speak a couple of times over Yom Kippur. I was quite annoyed. I loved sitting in the back of shul on Yom Kippur, covered in a talis, not talking to anyone all day except G-d. And I was going to be in DC, with the expectation of shmoozing with people, many of them who didn’t take Yom Kippur very seriously, perhaps being distracted by the speeches I had to give. I was really not looking forward to it.
I was speaking to a rabbi of mine, Rabbi Eliezer Breitowitz, and I was complaining, and he said, “Are you out of your mind?!” By the way, until you have a rabbi who can tell you, you’re out of your mind, you don’t have a rabbi…
He explained: It’s the holiest day of the year. It’s the day on which you’re being judged. As long as you sat in the back of the shul with a talis over your head, G-d judged you as a guy in the back of shul with a talis over his head. But this year, this year, G-d says, “Whoa! Look at this! We need to assess this person not only as an individual, but as someone who is helping my children.” That’s a whole new judgement.
For every person you assist, for every person you inspire, for every person you make more comfortable, your spiritual net worth goes up exponentially. As Rav Chaim Volozhin used to remind his son constantly, “You were put into this earth to help others.” Every person you assist, every person you inspire, every person you make feel that they belong does not only change their Yom Tov. It changes your Yom Tov. It changes who you are as you stand before G-d.
As this year comes to an end, I just want to say thank you to every single one of you for making this Ner Tamid community the warm, growth-oriented, community-minded place that it is. We need every single one of you, your insights, your contributions, your participation, to make this community whole.
And especially at this time of year, I really need the assistance of all of my assistants.
If you see a face you don’t recognize, I may not get to him or her. Please say hello on my behalf. And then, say hello on your behalf.
If the person sitting next to you over Yom Tov is flipping helplessly through the machzor, help them find the page.
If you know someone who might appreciate an invitation, there are a lot of meals coming up over the next few weeks. See if you can fit one or two more people around your table. I am confident they will add far more to your meal than they take from it.
And when the chazzan begins a tune, sing. Beautiful davening doesn’t come from one person standing at the amud. It comes from an entire room deciding that this is our tefillah.
So yes, I love being your rabbi. It really is a great job.
But the truth is, the greatest privilege of being the rabbi of Ner Tamid is that I don’t have to do it alone.
I have a shul full of assistant rabbis.
May Hashem bless each of us with a year in which we don’t merely ask what our community can give us, but recognize how much we have to give one another. And in that merit, may Hashem look at all that we do for His children, hear all of our tefillos, and bless us all with a Shanah Tovah, a gut genbetched yur.
by Ner Tamid | Aug 30, 2026 | Sermons
Tucked into a mountainside in the Shomron lives a community of about a thousand Samaritans. Their exact origin is a matter of dispute but we do know that when they were looking for a place to settle, they deliberately chose Har Gerizim for its significance. Though not very well-known to us, it’s a mountain that plays a dramatic role in this week’s parsha.
As soon as the Jews crossed over the Jordan, they were told to divide in two groups, one on Har Gerizim and one on the neighboring Har Eival. Then, in a highly orchestrated fashion, a list of curses were to be uttered, highlighting a number of immoral behaviors that the Jews were warned not to engage in, to which the people would say Amen.
It’s a puzzling ceremony, which is why many of us gloss over it. Did the Jews not already accept all the Mitzvos at Mt. Sinai? What unique lesson is being taught here?
There are many explanations, but I’d like to focus on one. Rav Ovadya Seforno says something that when I read, I had to read twice to make sure I was reading it correctly. He observes that although much of the Torah is written in the plural, the curses are directed to the individual – arur ha’ish, cursed be the man. He suggests that the individuals being cursed in this passage are not the regular Joe’s of the nation. The people being cursed are the leaders of the Jewish People. As made clear by our prophets, the worst offenders during Biblical times were the most powerful men and women of Jewish society. The function of this ceremony is this: Though we have a concept of arvus, of being responsible for one another. There are limits to this responsibility. When powerful people commit crimes, being that they are so powerful, being that they are so well-connected, G-d said, I recognize that you, the masses, may not be able to stop them, and because of that, you are not responsible. Arur ha’ish; I, says G-d, will curse the sinful leader. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.
This commentary by the Seforno is so instructive. Notice how he does not say that leadership is inherently corrupt, and should therefore be abolished (this is not Woke 1.0).
Torah Judaism is built around leaders – kings, Kohanim, prophets, judges, rabbis, parents and teachers. We need people to guide us and inspire us. But needing leaders is not the same thing as believing leaders are infallible. The ceremony at Har Eival and Har Gerizim was to convey to the Jewish People that as integral as leadership is, leaders should never be fully trusted.
About a month ago, a film was screened in California, called The Darkest Light. It tells the tragic story of the legendary musician, Shlomo Carlebach and highlights the many allegations of sexual abuse that were made against him.
I apologize if this comes as a shock to any of you, that this man, whose tunes are embedded in our davening and whose legacy looms large over all of Judaism, is also accused of engaging in horrible behavior. I know I was taken aback when I first learned about these allegations. You may or may not have noticed, our shul has not had a “Carlebach Minyan” for the past decade. Though we still sing his tunes, once I became aware, I refused to call any of our Friday night minyanim in his name.
As you can imagine, this movie has caused quite a stir.
Since 1998, when some of these allegations became public, there has been pushback. Carlebach had died four years earlier, in 1994, and therefore, had no ability to reply to the claims made against him, which is an important point to ponder. It is undoubtedly appropriate and necessary to report on any living person who is abusing others so as to prevent others from being harmed. But it is a fair question if one should be reporting on those who are deceased and can no longer do any harm. People of good faith can debate this point.
But there are arguments being raised that I believe are not debatable.
There are those who say, “But Carlebach did so much good. Do you know how many people he brought back to Judaism? How many lost souls he gave life to?”
I’d like to remind those people of what was said on Har Eival and Gerizim: “Arur ha’ish,” Great people can do terrible things. As Carlebach’s daughter has written, her father was an incredibly complex man; genuine greatness in one realm does not guarantee goodness in all realms.
There are those who say, “I knew him personally, there is no way he could have done such horrific things.”
I’d like to remind those people of what was said on Har Eival and Har Gerizim: “Arur ha’ish asher yakeh es rei’eihu basaser,” We never know what is in someone’s heart and what someone can do behind closed doors.
There are bad actors who get into jobs of authority that give them access to vulnerable people. There are also good people in such positions who become corrupt over time. There are even good people in positions of power who do not become corrupt, but allow poisonous power to get to their head. I was speaking to a rabbi from a different city this summer who told me he could not go on vacation because his congregants needed him to always be around. That may not be criminal but it is wildly unhealthy. My rebbi used to remind us constantly how the cemetery is filled with indispensable people. Any rabbi that enmeshed in their congregant’s life is not building people; he’s controlling them.
The blessings and curses at Har Eival and Gerizim remind us not to be seduced by charisma, not to be deceived by what may be some truly redeeming qualities, and to recognize that in Judaism we believe that infallibility is reserved for G-d.
How do we do this? How do we balance turning to rabbis for Halachic rulings and advice with the appropriate caution?
Three words – Trust. Your. Gut. #TYG.
This is probably one of the most important messages we need to teach children and remind ourselves, especially as Orthodox Jews.
Because on the one hand, the Torah makes demands on us; though shall, thou shall not. When it comes to Halacha, Jewish practice, our gut doesn’t really matter. I feel bad for you that the laws of Shabbos don’t resonate, I really do, but G-d said so. Our fidelity to the structure of Halacha is an exercise in obedience, submission, humility, all critical qualities in our spiritual development.
But when a rabbi makes a comment that makes us uncomfortable, when a leader does something that doesn’t feel right, or encourages us to do something that doesn’t make sense to us – Trust. Your. Gut.
And I want to be abundantly clear – That doesn’t necessarily mean that our gut is right; but it just might be right for us.
One of the critical elements of sexual abuse prevention is teaching children to trust their instincts. To be able to share with a parent that someone or something makes them uncomfortable. If something feels wrong, children need to know that they could tell someone they trust and they don’t need to prove that their discomfort is justified.
And this is why immediately after crossing the Jordan, the Jewish People gathered at Har Gerizim and Har Eival – to be taught some of the most fundamental lessons of Judaism.
They would need leaders. They would need Kohanim and judges, prophets and teachers. We still do. The Torah asks us to hold our cynicism about leadership at bay and appreciate its value.
But the Torah does not ask us to surrender our judgment to our leaders in the process.
Arur ha’ish. A person can be important and still do something terrible. A person can inspire thousands and still hurt an individual. A person can be a brilliant teacher, a gifted musician, a respected rabbi – or any other admired figure – and still be deeply flawed.
Our children need to know that. And so do we.
Trust your gut does not mean that our gut is always right. It means that when something feels wrong, we don’t silence that feeling simply because the person on the other side is powerful, charismatic, learned, or beloved. We ask. We tell. We take the discomfort seriously.
Judaism demands humility before G-d, submission to His Torah, respect for Torah leaders, but infallibility, that belongs to G-d alone.
by Ner Tamid | Aug 9, 2026 | Sermons
A little over two years ago, I received a call from someone inviting me to come along with him on a trip to Eastern Europe. There is an ancient custom to go to kivrei Tzadikim, the graves of holy people, during the days leading up to Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. This minhag is the basis of the custom that many of you have to visit your parents’ graves during this time.
To be frank, visiting graves of holy people doesn’t appeal to me, but it was a unique experience – and honestly, I needed some content for my High Holiday sermons, so I said yes to this very gracious offer.
It all happened very quickly. I didn’t even have a chance to review the itinerary. After landing in Poland, I found out that one of the places we were visiting, Belarus, has a level four State Department advisory against traveling there – level four being the highest level. In the words of the State Department: “Do not travel to Belarus. The U.S. government has extremely limited ability to help detained U.S. citizens. You may not receive consular access. You could also face arbitrary detention with no contact with the outside world.” Imagine getting arrested in Belarus. That would have been quite the sermon.
I could tell you all about how the Belarus border patrol confiscated my phone and searched my social media accounts another day, what I want to tell you about today is the first stop on this trip, which was in the city of Krakow.
For those who have a very good memory you may recall that that year, two years ago, on the first day of Rosh Hashana, I described the local Krakow population gawking at us identifiable Jews as historical artifacts, and I wondered if one day in the near future that will be the reality in Baltimore, how antisemitism will drive us all away and my great-grandchildren may one day visit the ‘old Baltimore Jewish community.’ So I guess you can say that I found my sermon inspiration. But I realized this past week that there was a far more important message, right in front of me, at the Krakow cemetery, that I completely missed. I’m going to take you on a bit of a journey so please hold on tight.
When you enter the Krakow cemetery, you first encounter the grave of Rav Moshe Isserlis, the Rema, probably the most influential Halachic authority of Ashkenazi Jews. You then see the grave of the Bach, Rav Yoel Sirkis, another exceptionally influential authority, and many other great Torah scholars and Tzadikim. We stood at the graves of these tzadikim, we prayed, we heard some history about these Torah giants. And then our tour guide told us: “By the way, there is another Tzadik buried here, by the name of Rav Yom Tov Lippman Heller. If you want to visit his grave, you have to walk all the way to the other side of the cemetery.” Obviously, it is a little strange that he was buried so far from these other rabbis, but we’ll come back to that soon. Who was Rav Heller?
Yom Tov Lippman Heller was born in 1579, his father died before he was born, he was raised by his grandfather, became a student of the great Maharal of Prague, appointed as a judge, a dayan, of the Prague Rabbinical court at the incredibly young age of 18, and wrote tens of books on all sorts of Jewish topics. Most famously, he wrote a commentary on the Mishna known as the Tosafos Yom Tov. Due to the prominence of this book, many refer to Rav Heller simply as the Tosafos Tom Tov.
In 1629, Rav Heller faced the most traumatic experience of his life. By this point he had been the chief rabbi of Prague for about twenty years and was well-respected, comfortable, and at the height of his career. After the 30-Year War, the government imposed a tremendously large tax on the Jewish population of Prague. Rav Heller led a commission to address the question of how they would raise the funds from the Jewish community, and they decided that they would tax people commensurate to their wealth. The richer the family the more they would pay.
Obviously, the wealthy merchants did not appreciate this. Some went ahead and did the unthinkable. They claimed to the Christian government that Rav Heller was writing anti-Christian literature. These scoundrels even found some equally evil rabbis who they bribed to substantiate their claim. Rav Heller was immediately thrown into jail and sentenced to death.
After a lengthy court case, and a lot of intervention, the judge decided Rav Heller would not be executed but would be fined a ridiculous amount of money and would never be employed as a rabbi again. He spent two years paying off this debt and then left the country for Eastern Europe, where he eventually received a role as the chief rabbi of Krakow.
It’s in Krakow where the most famous Rav Heller story took place. There was a man in Krakow known as Yossele the miser: fabulously wealthy but never gave a penny to anyone in need. The story goes that when he died, as an expression of the community’s distaste for this miser, they buried him at the far end of the cemetery.
Shortly after his shiva, people started lining up outside Rav Heller’s office all needing financial assistance. Every day, the line got longer. Rav Heller started asking these people why they all of a sudden needed his help. One after the other, they explained to him that every single week they would receive a small bundle of money outside their door. They had no idea where it came from, but a week ago, the bundles of money stopped coming.
Rav Heller immediately realized that Yossele the Miser was not a miser. He was a hidden tzaddik. He was supporting all these poor people quietly and now that he had died, there was no one to support them. Realizing how holy this Yossele really was, the Tosafos Yom Tov requested that he be buried at the far end of the Crackow cemetery, right next to Yossele the Miser.
And this is why I found myself trekking across the cemetery to its farthest edge to pray at the grave of the Tosafos Yom Tov, Rav Yom Tov Lippman Heller.
Only that I never got to his grave.
As I got closer, I noticed a huge mass of chassidim surrounding his grave. It turns out that the day we were there, the 6th day of Elul, is his Yahrtzeit. They had set up a tent over his grave; they must have had hundreds of Chassidim there, and one of them, some Rebbe, was giving a talk. I didn’t want to disturb so I walked away.
This past week, I learned that my mother’s mother is a direct descendant of Rav Yom Tov Lippman Heller. Which means that I went all the way to Europe, including risking my life to travel through Belarus, traveled to the cemetery in which my great-great-great-great-grandfather was buried – on his yahrtzeit – In Elul, and I did not even pray at his grave. Ouch.
It seemed so bizarre. I was so close and yet I missed this incredibly special opportunity. Why would this happen? I wonder if maybe I wasn’t worthy of visiting his grave.
You see, the Tosafos Yom Tov was the leading Polish rabbi during the rebellion of the Cossacks led by Bogdan Chmielnicki. During his reign of terror, tens of thousands of Jewish girls were sold as slaves, entire communities were uprooted, and over 300,000 Jews were massacred. Rav Heller led the efforts to provide care for the needy, homes for the homeless, ransom as many young women as they could, and deal with many cases of agunot. It left a deep impression on him.
He decided that one of the reasons that G-d brought this terrible calamity upon them was because the Jews in Poland did not treat shul with the proper decorum. He urged people to not talk at all in shul. He even composed a prayer that was recited every Shabbos, and is still said in many shuls, heaping blessings on those who choose not to talk in shul.
Ironically, that year, on the second day of Rosh Hashana, I spoke about the importance of prayer. I actually began my drasha by lightly mocking those who think the way to a better davening experience is just by getting people to stop talking. I argued that we need more engagement; we need to get more enthused about davening, we need to get people to sing more, to connect more. I tried a daily tefilah email. It fizzled. The whole initiative to elevate the davening in our shul just didn’t work.
This is not a criticism of any of you. Honestly, I see it as a personal failure. Our shul has grown so much, in the number of people in attendance on Shabbos, in the number of people studying Torah daily, in the chesed that is regularly performed. But when it comes to prayer, it’s still a little weak.
And maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I was wrong for arguing against quiet. Maybe we need to start where my great-great-great-grandfather thought we should start – with silence. Maybe the reason I never made it to his grave was because I was not worthy of praying there because I wasn’t willing to take his approach. And maybe just maybe it’s time that I reconsider and appreciate the spiritual power of silence.
Though we Jews like to talk a lot, we are a faith that places a premium on listening. Our parsha begins by describing the fulfilment of the Torah as ‘listening to G-d.’ Twice a day we remind ourselves to listen – Shema Yisrael. Every page of the Talmud invites us to ‘come and listen,’ – ta shma. Instead of learning more about tefilah, instead of singing more, or clapping more, maybe what we really need is to engage in listening, to sit silently in shul, to listen to the words of prayer and to listen to our soul.
There is a Medrash that describes the world going silent when the Ten Commandments were uttered at Har Sinai. The implication is that when G-d spoke the world listened. But Rav Shimshon Pincus says, no. What the Medrash means is that G-d silenced the world. And when there is silence, you could hear the voice of Hashem.
Last week, a number of people forwarded me an ad from a foundation associated with the Tosafos Yom Tov. They are encouraging people to accept upon themselves to choose a particular part of davening – whether it is kaddish, or the Torah reading, or the Chazzan’s repetition – and to commit to not talking for either 40 days or for a year. They have a website where you can fill out what your commitment is. Every commitment is a ticket put into a raffle to win a 1-million-dollar upgrade to your shul. If one of you win, we could skip our next capital campaign!
On Friday, I went on this website and committed to not talking during kaddish for 40 days. I urge you to join me. Yes, it would be wonderful to win that money for our shul. But more importantly, I invite you to join me in making our shul a holier place, a place where we can hear the voice of G-d, a place where we can be proud of our Torah learning, proud of our chesed, and proud of our prayer.
I have no plans on returning to Krakow – I certainly have no plans on returning to Belarus. But I don’t need to go back there. Rav Heller’s powerful advice is right here. We know what he thinks we should do. I hope I don’t miss him a second time.
Sign up here: https://ktyt.org/
by Ner Tamid | Aug 2, 2026 | Sermons
Every year, on Simchas Torah, our shul auctions off the opportunity to choose my sermon topic for one Shabbos. It has an expiry date and honestly, most people forget. We appreciate your donation! This year it was purchased by Boaz and Sarah Edinger, and they did not forget. Boaz reached out to me and asked if this current Shabbos works. ‘No problem. What topic would you like me to discuss?’
Usually when people buy the drasha topic they choose something really out there or a really difficult topic. For example, I once had to give a sermon on superheroes and I spoke about the difference between Marvel and DC; which, by the way, is far more controversial than I imagined. Instead, Boaz asked me to do as follows 1) talk about parenting 2) using a classic question-and-answer dvar Torah style 3) incorporate the concept of nature – that was a nod to his father-in-law, and 4) incorporate a gematria – a nod to his father.
I cannot think of a more difficult ask. I really can’t.
- I’m always happy to discuss parenting one-on-one, but to make grand, sweeping statements, I’d feel a lot more comfortable discussing this topic publicly when my children are all out of the house, assuming they do not have criminal records. But now?
- I have not given a classic question and answer Dvar Torah since my Bar Mitzvah.
- I could talk about nature; that’s fine.
- As I shared with all of you a few months ago, I have a really hard time with gematriyas. I shared with you then that the gematriya, the numerical value, of Ner Tamid is L’doroseichem, which means ‘generations,’ which is so touching and appropriate. But the numerical value of Ner Tamid is also Shaar Gehenom, the gates of hell, and appropriately, Anthony Fauci.
But a deal is a deal so here we go.
By far, the most influential person in history is Avraham Avinu. It’s worth studying the way his parents influenced him to better understand how parents can and cannot affect their children. The Rambam writes that from a very young age, Avraham Avinu started contemplating the existence of G-d. Everyone around him served idols, but he was troubled. It didn’t add up. Something was amiss. He looked out at the sun, the moon, the stars, the weather patterns, he was overwhelmed by the beauty and the clear design in NATURE (!!!!), and could not believe that it just came about on its own.
(Parenthetically, according to the Abarbanel, the intent of the people who built the tower of Bavel was to prevent this from happening. In other words, where do you feel more connected to G-d? In New York City, surrounded by skyscrapers, or in Wyoming, surrounded by mountains?
When you walk through New York City, you see the greatness of man, when you walk through Wyoming, or any other beautiful natural space, you see the greatness of G-d. The evil intention of the people building the tower was to create a human-made edifice to eclipse G-d.)
Avraham, seeing the incredible world that we too often ignore, realized there must be a Creator.
Now how old was Avraham when he made this discovery?
Says the Gemara in Nedarim, the gematria of Eikev – the name of this week’s parsha and a term used in describing Avraham’s commitment to G-d – the numerical value is… 172. How old was Avraham when he died? 175. So how old was Avraham when he started serving G-d?
Bingo.
Nature. Check.
Gematriyah. Check.
The Rambam’s approach of Avraham being only three years old when he began his spiritual journey would seem to teach us that parents have no role at all, that Avraham figured it all out on his own.
But there’s more to the story.
There is nothing written explicitly in the Torah about Avraham’s childhood. We are introduced to him at the age of 75. But in a passage that most of us gloss over, the Torah tells us all about Avraham’s father, Terach. How he traveled from Ur Kasdim, his hometown, to go to Israel. The Torah actually uses identical language to the language that will be used a few verses later in describing Avraham’s journey to Israel. Why? Why does Terach travel there? The Ramban says this was done to save his son, Avraham, who was being persecuted for his religious beliefs. But the Seforno says, no. If that was the reason then all we need to know is that he left Ur Kasdim. Why do we need to know that he tried to travel to Canaan? The Seforno says something incredible. Terach tried to travel to Israel because he recognized there was something G-dly in the land.
We think of Terach as this bumbling foolish idolator. It’s not true. Avraham’s spiritual greatness didn’t emerge in a vacuum. He had a father who was deeply religious and that rubbed off on him. Terach may have been flawed; he never finished his journey to Israel, he likely taught Avraham to do things which were antithetical to the values that Avraham ultimately adopted. But it was specifically in the home of a genuine spiritual seeker that Avraham, the greatest spiritual seeker of all, begins his own journey. (Quick bonus gematriyah – If you take the numerical value of the letter added to Avraham’s name – the hey/ 5 – and add it to the name of Terach, which has the value of 608, you get 613…)
What the Torah is teaching us by highlighting Terach’s life and journey is that values are not taught; they are caught. It wasn’t the particular messages that Terach shared with Avraham; those were ignored. Terach modeled a life of spiritual pursuits, and that created the setting for Avraham’s greatness.
That is the simple meaning of the passage we read every day, from our parsha, v’limad’tem osem es b’neichem, “teach your children [Torah]” How? This is Sarah and Boaz’s question – V’dibarta bam b’shivtecha b’veisecha uv’lecht’cha badrech… By speaking about Torah when you travel, when you lie down, by immersing yourself in Torah and Judaism.
D’var Torah? Check?
Let me give you a wonderful example. My siblings are all here visiting this Shabbos. When we were growing up, our father begged us, pleaded with us, threatened us: do not go into the rabbinate. Stay away from Jewish-related work. It’s stressful, it doesn’t always pay well, you end up travelling a lot. Well guess what happened? My youngest brother is an educator for a local school here called Toras Simcha, my sister works for a Jewish Chesed organization in Toronto called One Toronto, my next brother works for Nefesh B’nefesh, another brother does not formally work in the not-for-profit sector but engages in enough Jewish-related projects on the side that it’s like he works in the Jewish world, and another brother works for Agudas Yisrael. Then there’s me.
So my parents could yell and scream that working in the Jewish world is a really bad idea. But my father and mother had incredible careers in the Jewish world and impacted thousands of people’s lives and that’s what we saw. So guess what we decided to do? Values are not taught; they are caught.
Of course, this could go in the opposite direction as well. We could tell our children how important it is for them to keep Shabbos, do Mitzvos, be a good person, but if we aren’t modeling exactly what we wnat to see in them, we are wasting our breath.
I read a story years ago which took me many years to understand. It’s a story about a couple who were expecting their first child and visited Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, asking him what they should do to be good parents. He answered, if you’re starting now, you’re too late.
I was very bothered by the story; it sounded very defeatist and uncharacteristic of Rav Shlomo Zalman.
Until I realized that what Rav Shlomo Zalman was trying to tell these parents was that if you want a child who will be kind, you need to work on your own kindness.
If you want a child who will have healthy relationships, you need to work on your relationships, with your spouse, with your parents, with your friends.
If you want a child who will be devoted to Torah and Mitzvos, you need to work on your connection to G-d. You can’t outsource their Jewish connection to sending them to Jewish schools or camps. It starts and ends at home.
Parents complain that their kids spend too much time on their phones… Before we start lecturing them, we need to check how much time we spend on our phones each week.
People wonder why their children are not interested in Judaism… How devoted are we?
Parents are bothered by the way their children are cynical, negative, lazy, loud, rude, fill in the blank. And then look in the mirror.
V’shinantem l’vanecha, the only way to teach our children is v’dibarta bam, if it’s real to us. That’s the lesson I learned from my parents, and that’s the lesson I share with you, Sara and Boaz. Sara and Boaz, whose names have the gematria of banim uvnei vanim oskim baTorah uvamitzvos, ohavei Hashem yirei Elokim…. Okay, not really. But may you and all those who are blessed with children merit to be worthy of emulation, and may we live up to the ideals that we dream of seeing in our children.
