by Motzen | May 27, 2020 | Sermons
“No honey, the birds are not louder than before.”
My daughter, like many others, was wondering why the chirping of the birds seemed so loud these days. I explained to her how the birds were not getting any louder, it was the world that was getting quieter. Fewer cars on the streets, fewer planes overhead, creating a quieter soundscape in which the otherwise subtle chirping of the birds can be heard quite distinctly.
It is not only the birds that we hear more clearly these days. Many of us are experiencing our thoughts and feelings far more intensely than usual. The New York Times had an article on the topic of world leaders crying in public, a common occurrence these past two months. Of course, a global pandemic is a good reason to be more scared, anxious, and even more angry than usual. But it is not only the negative emotions that have been intensified. Feelings of hope, love, and inspiration have been amplified as well.
The novelist and poet, Jason Reynolds, once quipped that ‘People always love people more when they’re dead.’ It is a cynical statement with a kernel of truth. The emotions we feel towards our loved ones when they are no longer living is far more powerful than when they are. It could be because our minds play tricks on us and we only remember the positive memories. But I would like to suggest another reason that I will call raw ratzon.
Ratzon is Hebrew for desire or will. The mystics see our desires as the highest part of our existence; what we want to do or who we want to be is who we really are. But we Jews are a practical people and we are asked to constantly express our will into action. It is not enough to respect our parents; we are asked to feed and clothe them. It is not enough to love our fellow Jew; we are asked to lend him money and return his lost object. It is not enough to love God; we are asked to do the Mitzvot to express that love. The purpose of these actions is to make our feelings more concrete by expressing them in the physical world. However, something gets lost in the process. Like when you try to share a powerful feeling or experience to a friend and the friend cannot fully grasp the depth of what you are trying to convey, so too your actions are never full expressions of your thoughts. They always fall short. And so, paradoxically, actions are needed to make our feelings more real and yet, in transforming our feelings into action they are diminished.
There are times when we cannot transform our feelings into actions, such as expressing our love to one who is no longer with the living. We wish we could hug them, kiss them, and spend time together, but we cannot. In such a case all we have is the powerful feelings that well up inside, their intensity intact, undiminished by our feeble actions. The reason we seem to love even more in death is because our desire to love, our ratzon, like a pressure cooker is building up inside.
Perhaps this is why we are all experiencing life in such high intensity right now. There is so much we want to do – so much ratzon – but it cannot be expressed. We want to hug our friends and loved ones, we want to go to our houses of worship; we desire to do so much, but it is just building up inside without being transformed into deeds. We are all experiencing the intensity of unbridled raw desire.
We are living through challenging times, but it is also an opportunity to understand ourselves and grow like never before. Who we are, our wishes and desires, are more accessible to us than ever. Like the chirping of the birds in a world with less noise, our identity, not drowned out by our actions, is bare before us.
Shavuos is a holiday that celebrates the Jewish People proclaiming, na’aseh v’nishmah, we will do and we will listen. It was only a wish, a desire, but it was enough. Because it was at that moment of clarity when our ancestors said with deep conviction that all they desired was to live a better life, a Godly life, a life of Torah, that we became a people.
Many of us will be at home for Shavuos unable to say Yizkor like it is normally said. Take a moment to touch and feel the intensity of feelings towards your loved one. Many of us will be eating alone unable to celebrate the holiday with friends and family. Take a moment to appreciate how deeply you feel for your family. Many of us will be praying or studying alone. Take a moment to appreciate what community means to you. Relish this unique experience and feel the intensity of your unbridled and raw ratzon.
May we experience very soon the opportunity to express the many deep feelings welling up inside. In the meantime, may we use the quiet to better understand ourselves, to change ourselves, and to grow.
by Motzen | May 22, 2020 | Sermons
Bamidbar, literally, the wilderness. Bamidbar is the fourth book of the Torah and describes the Jewish People’s journey through the barren wilderness. It’s mostly a tragic tale. The Jewish People complain a lot, they die a lot through Divinely ordained plagues and punishments, they rebel against Moshe’s leadership and against G-d, and almost all of them die in this wilderness.
But while we’re focusing on all these setbacks we miss the most important theme of the book. Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin (1816-1893) in his introduction to Bamidbar describes it as a book of transitions. The most important transition is how this book begins with the Jewish People not that far from Egypt and concludes with them at the banks of the Jordan. While they were complaining, rebelling, and even dying, they were also taking steps forward to their ultimate goal until they got there.
The analogy is straightforward. We are all travelling through an uncharted wilderness with loss and setbacks at every juncture. But we’re also making progress. Not only have we transitioned to Phase 1 in many states around the country, but I’d venture to say that for all the personal setbacks, we’ve also grown tremendously. We didn’t really have a choice, did we? Existential questions that our fear, anxiety, and boredom forced us to grapple with. Multi-tasking as we ran schools, playgroups and our businesses from our living room watching our patience unravel thread by thread. Relationship issues that shelter-in-place prevented us from avoiding.
We so often look for resolution to the spiritual challenges we face thinking that it is only when we ‘pass’ the test that we have accomplished anything. That’s a depressing outlook. Who can honestly say that they have resolved any of their inner conflicts? Perhaps the Book of Bamidbar can remind us that as we struggle, or more accurately because we struggle, we are actually moving forward, closer and closer to our goal.
How have you grown from this pandemic?
I know that for all my personal setbacks – and there were many – I feel like I have taken many steps closer to my Holy Land. I hope you too can look beyond the failures and appreciate the growth that you have certainly made.
A sweet and peaceful Shabbos to you all.
Yisrael Motzen
by Motzen | May 14, 2020 | Sermons
Dear Vayikra,
Let me begin by just putting it all out there. We both know it to be true, but I never had the audacity to say it out loud – I have been ignoring you my whole life. Yes, I’ve given you a nod from time to time, but for the most part, I have never given you the attention that you truly deserve.
Instead of grappling with the applicability of Korbanos in the modern era on Parshas Vayikra, I lazily defaulted to talking about the upcoming Yom Tov of Pesach. On Parshas Tzav and Shmini, I pretended there was no parsha at all! I used Shabbos HaGadol to talk about whatever was on my mind, thinking that no one, myself included, could relate to the inauguration of the Mishkan. In doing so, I failed to mine these texts for their lessons on intentionality and preparedness.
I’m embarrassed to talk about Tazria-Metzora. Of course, Yom Hazikaron and Yom Ha’atzmaut would be so much more relevant than “arcane” laws of a mysterious and highly contagious infection understood by few and that necessitated a two-week quarantine. I get it now. No need to say anything at all.
Acharei Mos and Kedoshim weren’t even that hard to discuss. Family purity and the sanctity of marriage are clearly paramount in Judaism. We even read you on Yom Kippur! As a society, we are clearly falling short of the Torah’s expectations. But you know how long it takes to research the latest on love and relationships? And then, to delicately craft a message on these themes?! It was so much simpler to talk about Rabbi Akiva’s students and the need for greater tolerance and understanding.
Lag B’omer with its bonfires and mystique were far more appealing than Parshas Emor and a strained discussion on why the Torah disqualifies Kohanim with disabilities. The laws of Shmita and Yovel or the drama of the Six-Day War? I’m sorry, Behar-Behcukosai, you didn’t stand a chance. And then, what I was really waiting for, Chazak chazak v’nis’chazeik! Finally!
And now, to say, Chazak?! With no Sefer Torah, all alone, reading mournfully from my Chumash?! Chalash, chalash, would be more fitting! I readily admit, I deserved it. I ignored you and you ignored me back. I’ve learned my lesson and now I miss you dearly.
Please believe me when I say, I have changed! I yearn to better understand you, and to give you the attention you deserve; to kiss your parchment, your letters, and to hold you near to my heart. Vayikra, I beg you, please take me back.
With humility and deep yearning, I remain,
The Rabbi
by Motzen | May 14, 2020 | Sermons
Dear Friends,
I hope this letter finds you and your loved ones doing well.
It hurts to write these words, but it is looking extremely unlikely that our beloved shul will be open for Shavuos. For many of you this means missing Yizkor twice this year and I cannot imagine how much that is weighing on you. There is no replacement for the experience of Yizkor; sitting, for many of you, in a seat that evokes so many warm memories, praying together, being inspired together, and then allowing yourself to recall those powerful memories of your loved ones. It is a most personal experience, and yet there is comfort in doing so in the warm embrace of community.
While there is no replicating this experience, perhaps we can still feel connected to one another this Shavuos as we say Yizkor in our homes in the following fashion: We will be publishing a special Yizkor book for these unique times which we will deliver to your homes. In addition to the regular Yizkor prayers, this booklet will be filled with memories of your loved ones. This way we can connect to those we miss most and do so together as a community.
To do this, we need your help. Please take a moment to share a response to one of the three questions. For each person you will be remembering this Yizkor: 1) What is the value they lived their life by and how did you see this exemplified? 2) What is your fondest memory of your loved one? 3) If they were here today, what wisdom do you think they would share regarding the pandemic we are living through?
In addition, please write out the full name of your loved one, as well as their date of birth and passing. If you have a picture you can upload, please share as well. Please email your response/s to nertamid613@comcast.net no later than Thursday, May 21.
May God bless us all with much strength and comfort.
Looking forward to seeing you all as soon as possible,
Yisrael Motzen
Rabbi, Ner Tamid Greenspring Valley Synagogue
by Motzen | May 6, 2020 | Sermons
As you read your newsfeed, and start to plan ahead,
For phases and stages, with safety and health,
I have one request before the buildings are full,
Please don’t go back to your old seat in shul.
I closed My shul doors, because I felt too confined,
I hoped that you’d look up and find Me outside.
Living room prayers, with children, and wives,
Singing and dancing, now tefila’s alive.
I had you reach out to the old and the ill,
You ensured they had food, prescriptions you filled.
But My goal was far deeper, I was breaking the chains,
Of constricted social circles to those of your age.
I made you say no to those needing a meal.
A seder alone was truly surreal.
But it’s not just on Pesach they’re feeling this way,
Invisible and miserable is so often their fate.
“V’shinantam l’vanecha” for too long you outsourced.
So I brought the kids home, and to teach you were forced.
Conjugation, formulation, you’re missing the point,
What they need from you is unconditional, love and support.
I’m excited as you are for Shabbos tables with friends,
Of bustling stores, of jobs, and good health,
But please don’t forget the lessons you’ve learned,
And don’t just go back – to your old seat in shul.
by Motzen | Apr 17, 2020 | Sermons
Ishay Ribo, the Israeli musical superstar, in his song Halev Sheli, describes the Yam Suf/ the Red Sea as a reflection of the inner state of the Jewish People. The throbbing sea, the throbbing hearts. The crashing waves, the clashing thoughts. Like a body of water in a storm, the inner state of the Jewish People is a chaotic mix of conflicting and confusing emotions. As they attempt to cross the Yam Suf, they are also attempting to navigate the raging waters inside their mind and soul.
In Ribo’s depiction of the splitting of the sea, the drama of Kriyas Yam Suf is both timeless and universal. We are constantly faced with the challenge of navigating difficult times and attempting “to walk on the dry land in the midst of the sea.” And even as we do so, even when we forge forward, the waters of the sea tower over us “to their right and to their left,” leaving us both exhilarated and full of fear as we rush to our destination.
As we commemorate the anniversary of the splitting of the sea on these last days of Pesach, this imagery could not be more relevant. Who is not filled with raging and conflicting emotions at this time? Fear of an impending illness that we cannot see, countered by gratitude for our good health, and then feelings of guilt for feeling well when others are no longer living. Despair over joblessness and retirement funds that have dried up, and hope that the economy will rebound before it’s too late. Overwhelming loneliness, exasperation at being unable to care for young and bored children, and feelings of inadequacy and dependency that are anything but natural to us. At times appreciating the change of pace, and at others, missing the structure and rhythm of our not so distant past. We are heartened by the uplifting stories of medical professionals whose self-sacrifice is heroic and we are crushed by the growing death toll. And all of these thoughts and feelings are compounded by the incessant news-cycle that we know we shouldn’t pay constant attention to, but we cannot pull ourselves away from.
Even as we push forward, like the Jewish People, and attempt to cross over this chaotic mix of feelings, we cannot ignore the towering walls of water on both sides, and we are reminded that we are not where we are supposed to be. We celebrated Pesach without family, without friends, and some celebrated all alone. And today, as we remember our loved ones for Yizkor, a time that we are normally surrounded by the warm embrace of community, we are feeling especially vulnerable and especially lonely. The Jewish People walked on dry land in the heart of a sea and we are celebrating the most communal of holidays in solitude.
Much has been written about the great value of solitude; the deep introspection that the quiet allows for and the independence that solitude can foster within. But solitude can too easily bleed into loneliness, a most debilitating state of being. As the novelist Honoré de Balzac once quipped, “Solitude is fine, but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.”
More than just sharing with others, our need for others comes in the form of validation. When we share our experiences with one another and we feel understood, when we do something and we feel appreciated, that recognition breaks through our sense of loneliness and insignificance. A slightly eccentric teacher of mine would respond to my wishing him a good morning with, “Thank you for acknowledging my existence.” He was right. When we nod at each other, when we smile at a story, when we empathize, and when we share, we feel acknowledged, and thus we feel alive.
There are many people who feel more alive today than ever. These are mostly those on the front lines, the heroic doctors and nurses, and all those ensuring that the rest of us are well. In one of the great ironies of the human experience, in their flirting with danger, they are living the most meaningful life, and when they are not feeling overwhelmed with fear and exhaustion, there is a sense of pride and purpose.
But there are many others who are “inessential.” There are many others who need to justify their every movement and cannot leave their home without an excuse. We all thrive on the approval, explicit or implicit, from others, and our lack of interaction makes us second-guess our worth. After all, I am not essential to the wellbeing of society. And so, when we are not distracting ourselves by the news-cycle, feelings of loneliness and questions of self-worth wave over us and threaten to overwhelm. “Save me, Hashem, for the water has come up to my soul.” (Tehillim, 69:3)
If you read the Torah’s account of the splitting of the sea carefully you will notice a number of seeming redundancies, some of which imply that the sea was split twice. There are numerous theories that explain the repetition away, but the most intriguing of them all is alluded to in the commentary of Yonasan ben Uziel, a first century sage. According to this approach, the sea actually did split twice. Once for all the Jewish People, and the second time for none other than – Dasan and Aviram! The same Dasan and Aviram who left over manna when Moshe told them not to, the same Dasan and Aviram who joined the rebellion of Korach, and the same Dasan and Aviram who told the Egyptian authorities what Moshe had done to the Egyptian taskmaster and almost had Moshe killed.
Dasan and Aviram had actually stayed behind in Egypt, choosing not to go along with the Jewish People. But then, after hearing about the great miracle of the splitting of the sea, had a change of heart. When they arrived at the sea, this theory goes, the sea split a second time, just for them, and them alone.
We are mistaken when we think that the sea split to save all of the Jewish People and it was only in the merit of the entirety of the nation that they were saved. Dasan and Aviram demonstrate that this was not the case. In the words of the Sefas Emes, the sea could have split for each and every individual Jew. Regardless of merit, regardless of popularity, regardless of how important they were in the eyes of society, the sea would have split for them – and for any of us, and for any of us alone. And that’s because we are essential, as essential as can be.
Those who say Yizkor know this lesson all too well. As you cover your faces with your Yizkor book and reflect on the lives of your loved ones, as your eyes give forth their tears at the simplest of memories, you know. You know exactly how essential your loved ones were. They may not have had titles, fame, or fortune, but to you, they were everything.
And so, as we face the raging sea of our times, we too must not forget how essential we are. We are essential to our family, though they may not always express it in a way that we wish. We are essential to out friends and colleagues. And most importantly, we are essential to G-d. He imbued us with a soul and with life and is constantly watching over us.
The sea would have split for me. The sea would have split for you. The great sea would have split for each and everyone of us. Even if we feel all alone and even if we feel insignificant. Because we are not alone, and we are very significant. There is family that feels connected to us. There are friends who appreciate us. And there is G-d who always loves us. They are all standing with us as we face the turbulent sea. As we attempt to cross the Yam Suf of our life. The conflicting emotions are frighetning, the solitude could feel debilitating. But we are not alone. We are all essential. And with G-d’s help we will cross this sea.
