by Ner Tamid | Mar 18, 2025 | Sermons
Have you started planning for Pesach yet? Are you cleaning? Cooking? Making a menu? Pulling your hair out?
If we were living in ancient Egypt at the time of Yetzias Mitzrayim, the Exodus, we would be chilling right now. Really. We weren’t working for the Egyptians – they had given up on us a few months prior. We did not yet know if and when we were leaving. I honestly don’t know what they were doing. Maybe they were getting camel rides or tours of the pyramids.
We read this morning (from the second Torah) that the Jewish People were introduced to the holiday of Pesach only fourteen days before it took place. That means that Pesach preparation would not start until this upcoming Thursday, Rosh Chodesh Nissan. You probably think that those two weeks were crazy; frenetic activity, getting ready for the very first Pesach seder, and even more so, getting ready to leave Egypt. But I don’t think it was as busy as you imagine.
Were the Jewish People spending their time cleaning their homes from chameitz?
No. The average size of an Egyptian home in 2000 BCE was about the size of a two-car garage. They were far more economical with their food. Hardly anything went to waste. How long would it take you to clean an already fairly clean two-car garage? An hour? Maybe.
Were they cooking?
No. They were only eating one meal at home and the main course, the lamb, was prepared on the eve of Pesach.
Were they packing?
Not really. Most Egyptians in that era, even wealthy ones, had almost no furniture. Poor Egyptians did not use dishes. Eating utensils did not exist. (That’s what we have fingers for.) They typically had a mortar, a pestle, a pot, a pan, and a bowl for storing things.
In terms of clothing, kids under six, did not wear any clothing… The adults had one pair of clothing – which they were wearing. So, when the Jewish People left Egypt there were no U-hauls. It probably took them fifteen minutes to pack.
For those keeping track, we are up to hour and fifteen minutes of prep time.
Perhaps they were borrowing objects from their neighbors, as they were instructed to do. Let’s give them a day to do that.
The men were getting circumcised. I assume they needed a few days to recover.
So, if we were being generous with their time, they needed at most a week to prepare for Pesach. And if that’s so, if my math and history are correct, the Jewish People really had oodles of time at their disposal, so why did G-d inform them about Pesach two weeks before it started? What were the Jewish People supposed to be doing during that time? Was He trying to just get us anxious?! What was that time for?
Clearly, no one was listening to the Torah reading today. Because the answer is right there. G-d says, “Hachodesh hazeh lachem, this month is the first month of the Jewish year.” And then, “On the tenth of the month, you should go a get a lamb to slaughter.” It’s quite clear that the reason G-d tells the Jewish People about Pesach fourteen days before it happens is for one reason and one reason only – to give them a heads up about the Pascal Lamb.
Now of course, this doesn’t fully answer our question. If they were not going to take the lamb until the tenth of the month, and not going to roast the lamb until the 14th of the month, why do they need to know about this Mitzvah two weeks in advance?
So, if you were listening to the Torah reading… you would know that there is a law about the Korban Pesach – lo sosiru mimenu ad boker, there were to be no leftovers. The entire lamb had to be eaten on the night of Pesach.
How many people could a lamb feed?
According to our good friends at bigroast.com, a regular sized lamb can feed… 45 people!
So, if you needed to make sure that there were no leftovers, and assuming your family size was let’s just say, 8 people, you needed to invite guests. A lot of guests.
I believe the extra week was given to the Jewish People for this reason alone; to invite guests for Pesach.
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch suggests that this is precisely why we were instructed to make sure there were no leftovers; to ensure that the Pesach Seder would not be experienced alone. The true sign of freedom is a person or a family who are not simply focused on their own survival and wellbeing. The true sign of freedom is a person or a family who care about others.
This is why we begin the Seder with an invitation to guests. How do we begin the section of Maggid? “Ha lachma anya, this is the bread of affliction, kol dichfin, yeisi v’yechol, whoever is hungry, come and eat.”
It’s a bizarre passage. Who exactly are we inviting when we say those words? Our friends and family are already at the table with us when it’s said.
The Avudraham, a 14th century Spanish Torah scholar, relates that it was a genuine invitation. In his time, people would actually open their doors at the beginning of the seder and call out those words – “If you’re hungry, come and join me.” People in need would be waiting in the streets for these invitations. This practice was a perpetuation of the very first Pesach seder, in which no one ate alone, every person was accounted for. Though we no longer do this, by saying those words at the beginning of the seder, we remind ourselves of this beautiful custom. It’s so central to the night, that it is the opening passage in the section of Maggid. It’s to remind us that sharing, caring, ensuring that we are not just focused on ourselves is the primary feature of a free and dignified person.
The most shocking and devastating section in the book, Night, by Elie Wiesel, describes a German throwing a scrap of bread to a group of starving Jews. Wiesel relates how the Jews, who haven’t eaten for days start fighting viciously over the tiny piece of food. One man is victorious; he proudly holds up the crust of bread after wrestling it away from everyone else. And then he’s pounced upon by another starving man, who beats him, and ultimately beats him to death. Wiesel drily comments that it was a son who killed his own father for a piece of bread.
That’s what starvation does to a person. It turns them into an animal. That’s what a slavery does to a person. They become entirely focused on survival and self-preservation.
And so, on the weeks leading up to Pesach, the Jewish People were told, you are no longer slaves; you are free. You are no longer focused only on survival; you are dignified. You are no longer subject to the rules of our base inclinations; you are a master of your own destiny. You are no longer a taker; you are a giver.
For two weeks the Jewish People went around, checking in on their neighbors, especially those who didn’t have a family of their own, or those who didn’t have an intact family, or those who had less than the other Jews, and invited them to the Pesach seder.
Maybe they were turned down. But I hope that didn’t dissuade them. Perhaps they offered to walk near them as they travelled into the frightening desert to provide some moral support. Perhaps they made a mental note to check in with them at some later time in the year knowing that it wasn’t only Pesach that these people struggled. Perhaps they invited them to a different meal at a different time or take them out for the Egyptian equivalent of a coffee. There are many ways to make sure that those who are lonely feel a little less alone.
I imagine that stuffing 45 people into a home the size of a two-car garage was not so comfortable. Maybe some of the guests made them a little uncomfortable. But freedom is not always comfortable. Doing the right thing is not always comfortable.
We have two weeks and five days to prepare for Pesach – that’s five more days than our ancestors. Cleaning our homes from chameitz is important. Having a delicious Pesach menu is great. But real freedom, the freedom that our ancestors tasted in the days leading up to Pesach, is the freedom to share. Not everyone can have 45 people at their seder. But every single one of us can and must make sure that no one, no one at all, is left feeling alone.
by Ner Tamid | Mar 9, 2025 | Sermons
As many of you know I spent the past week in Israel participating in Voice of the People, an initiative by President Herzog to tackle the biggest issues facing the Jewish People. My team was tasked with combatting antisemitism. At one point in our discussions I shared that it would be ridiculous to conceptualize antisemitism only through a modern lens. We have been grappling and overcoming antisemitism since before we were a nation, and it would be critical to spend some time thinking about how our tradition dealt with this ancient hate.
The most basic text, of course, is what we read this morning, a section known as Parshas Zachor. It is the story of an evil nation that attacked us for no reason. We read how we are commanded to remember to fight them in every generation.
However, already in the times of the Talmud, this Mitzvah was reinterpreted to be understood metaphorically. The battle against Amaleik was seen not as an evil antisemitic nation bent on our destruction but as an idea; to fight the evil within ourselves, or to overcome doubt, or to live a life of religious fervor, and numerous other interpretations.
This shift to metaphor is easy to understand. For starters, we had no power; no army, no strength, and no voice to fight back against those who tried to kill us. But it wasn’t just a practical reason we shifted to metaphor, it was philosophical. Our prophets, most specifically Isaiah, taught us a concept called peace. As historian Paul Johnson noted, the Jewish People introduced to the world the notion that peace is not a last resort, but rather, the highest ideal, and that it should be pursued from a place of strength.
And so, whenever we could, we tried seeing the possibility of peace in everyone around us. Whether it was King Shaul who chose to let some of the Amaleikim live, whether it was Western Jews who felt uncomfortable with the notion of an evil nation that needed to be destroyed – something that sounded awfully genocidal, whether it was my great-grandparents hoping that Hitler was exaggerating, or whether it was the Israeli government who allowed themselves to believe that Hamas was not interested in our destruction. Amaleik, in this naïve mindset, came to symbolize a spiritual fight for perhaps more Torah or greater unity, but as best as possible, we shifted away from thinking of Amaleik as a real enemy that needed to be destroyed.
Things are starting to change. We’ve started to shift away from metaphor. In Israel, even the most left-leaning (mainstream) politicians have given up, for now, on a two-state solution; they will not tolerate a Hamas-led government in the east and no longer have any faith in those in charge to our west. When we’ve witnessed how a nation is willing to give up their relative comfort for the sake of destroying our people, when we’ve witnessed a nation that does not fight against soldiers, but fights against infants, then the Purim mask is removed and Amaleik is no longer seen as a metaphor.
And yet, some habits die hard. In some ways, even the State of Israel is still living in metaphor la-la land. One of the people we had an opportunity to speak with this past week was Michal Cotler-Wunsh, Israel’s Special Envoy to combat antisemitism. She lamented the fact that the State of Israel has invested almost nothing to combat international antisemitism. While they are sinking billions of dollars to fight enemies in the region, they have barely spent a penny fighting global antisemitism. She asked the government to dedicate the equivalent of one fighter jet to fighting antisemitism and they laughed at her. In doing so, they are ignoring the dangers of the college students and professors, the Hollywood actors and journalists, the podcasters and influencers, who are bashing Israel at every turn. To ignore them by dismissing their rhetoric as just words, is just as naïve as dismissing the buildup of Hamas over the past decade.
As we know from our tradition, words lead to actions. “Vayo’rei’u osanu haMitzrim,” a line from the Haggadah, is loosely translated as they did evil to us. But Rav Soloveitchik observes that a more accurate translation is that they made us out to be evil. Once you demonize, once you paint the Jewish People as being worthy of destruction, then the jump to concentration camps and death camps, to mass rape and kidnapping children, is quite small. As Michal put it: “We are inching closer and closer to a time in which if Iran were to annihilate the Jewish People, the international community would say, todah, thank you.”
I am by nature a peace-loving person who naturally sees good in others, and it’s to people like me that the Torah demands of us to stop allowing evil to hide behind metaphors. But rather, to see the evil around us and acknowledge it for what it is. Those who do not believe Israel should exist are not just misguided, it is not just a different opinion, the antisemitism we are seeing around us is evil and it is lethal. Milchama laShem ba’Amaleik midor dor. There is “a war against Amaleik in every generation.”
I am not suggesting we kill those who deserve to be called Amaleik. I am suggesting we stop dancing around the word evil. The commandment to read Parshas Zachor reminds us that it exists. No metaphors needed.
***
Now I know this may sound shocking but my group and I did not “solve” antisemitism in the few days we spent together. (The purpose of the week was to bond, to scratch the surface of the topic in person, and then we will be meeting regularly online over the next two years to try and tackle at least one facet of antisemitism.) But despite us not solving anything, I did learn something from all of them, which in its own way is the first step to combatting antisemitism, a lesson that takes us back to the very first battle against our eternal enemy.
The Torah tells us that in our fight against Amaleik, Moshe stood atop a mountain and lifted his hands up high. In no other Biblical war, do we find this strange action. It was clearly critical because the Torah elaborates and tells us that when he got tired, he did not stop. No matter what, he held his hands up high.
There are many metaphorical explanations, but we do not need any metaphors. The message is so abundantly clear. Yes, we fought, yes, we prayed, but Moshe needed to teach the Jewish People an eternal answer for times when we cannot and should not kill, for times when we may not have the ability to pray. Amaleik attacked those who were weak. Hanecheshalim b’cha. So Moshe, the 80-year-old leader of the Jewish People lifted his hands for all to see to convey one simple and powerful message – we are not weak. We are proud. That’s how we fight antisemitism. That’s how we win.
I had a conversation at the conference with a woman who described her experiences in high school. She was the only Jew in a school made up of mostly Muslims and they harassed her. Day in and day out, high school for this young woman, was miserable. She lamented the fact that there was no educational program to help teach the students about antisemitism, she was upset that there was no system that punished those who bullied her. It was terribly sad listening to her story.
Speaking to her reminded me of a time that I got bullied in elementary school. As you may have noticed I am not so tall. There was this one boy in my 3rd grade class who made it his business to constantly remind me of how short I was. As you can imagine, I was devastated. I was too embarrassed to tell my parents but my mother noticed that something was wrong and so I told her. Nowadays if a child is being bullied, the parent calls the school, and the school is expected to intervene. Thankfully for me, this was not the case in the early 90’s, and instead I learned one of the most important lessons of my life.
My mother asked me if the bully was right; should I be embarrassed that I am short? Is there something wrong with me that I am short? Of course, the answer was no. Who made you short, my mother asked me. “G-d?” I sheepishly said. My mother nodded. “Yes, exactly, and G-d thinks it’s just fine that you are that size. So next time this guy calls you short, you tell him to complain to the One who made you that way.”
Now you have to understand, in my very yeshivish elementary school this was the ultimate comeback. And so it was. The next time he called me short, I replied, “Go tell that to the One who made me that way.” (Mike drop)
I was never bullied again.
You see, bullying, like antisemitism, is a power dynamic. The bullies put others down to lift themselves up; now they’re in control. But the second the one who is bullied is confident in who they are, the second the one who is bullied is not fazed by any criticism because they know the truth, the power dynamic of the bully and bullied is shattered.
That’s what I meant when I said that my team has already accomplished a lot in the fight against antisemitism, against Amaleik. Whether it’s the student in Harvard who doesn’t shy away from his Israeli identity. Whether it’s the gay CEO who lost his allies but is the proudest of Jews. Whether it’s the woman in middle of no-Jew Florida who is organizing trips of students to learn more about their heritage. Or whether it’s the liberal West Coaster who decided to start wearing a Magen Dovid necklace even though his support of Israel has lost him so many of his friends.
Moshe held his hands up high. We need to do the same. To not be apologetic, but to be proud of our heritage. To not be so enamored by the Western world, but to be deeply, deeply, deeply knowledgeable of the Torah. To not be scared, but to hold our Jewish heads high.
***
I arrived in Newark airport Friday morning. I usually find a quiet corner to put on my talis and tefillin; I daven, when in public, without shuckling, to not draw even more attention to myself. But not yesterday. I davened in a public space, swaying like I sway at Ner Tamid, davening with my head held high. Because we are so done with metaphors.
by Ner Tamid | Feb 16, 2025 | Sermons
Matti Friedman, in his book, Who by Fire, describes a few week period in the life of Lenord Cohen’s life. Leonord Cohen was born to an Orthodox family in Montreal in 1936. He attended a Jewish school and was a member of Shareo Shomayim, and Orthodox shul. However, Leonord did not follow in his parents’ footsteps. He was not observant, nor did he have an especially close relationship to the Jewish People.
Matti’s story focuses on a short period of Leonord Cohen’s life in 1973. Leonord was 39, which at the time, was kind of old for a folk singer. He was an icon, having produced numerous hits that made him wildly popular. He was wealthy; his songs were used for the soundtracks of blockbuster films. Most normal people would be thrilled. He was miserable.
He was vacationing on a Greek island, surrounded by opulence, by women, drugs, everything that normally made him happy, but he felt empty. He wanted to write more poetry, but he felt like he had nothing left to say. He wanted to compose more music, but he felt like he exhausted his capabilities.
Instead of kicking back and enjoying his life, he jumped on a plane and flew to Israel. He arrived in Israel in the middle of the Yom Kippur war. He had intended to do what so many of us have done this past year; he had hoped to volunteer on a Kibbutz. But he was spotted by some Israeli musicians who begged him to come along with them to visits soldiers on the front line. He acquiesced. Leonord Cohen and this improvised band of Israelis traveled from army base to army base with no fanfare. They’d show up at a base, sometimes a small outpost, and just start playing music. The soldiers would grab some flashlights and shine them on Leonord Cohen and his band, they’d play for a few hours, often without an amp, and then they’d leave.
He was there for only a few weeks, but it literally changed his life. In Israel, he found his missing inspiration. Shortly after his trip, he put out a new album, which included the classic “Who by Fire” a nod to the Yom Kippur davening. The album was titled, New Skin for the Old Ceremony, an allusion to a circumcision, a reference to his own spiritual rebirth. Instead of retiring at 39, he continued composing music until his 80’s.
Leonord Cohen was a complicated man, and I would not describe him as a role model. But that experience of being on top of the world, yet feeling broken, and then reinventing himself into something even greater, speaks to an important ideal – the importance of imperfection and brokenness in the process of personal growth.
Yosef, your parents describe you as a renaissance man. You are an exceptional runner on the Beth Tfiloh track team, you play trumpet – not an easy instrument, you just came in first place in BT’s Chidon Hatanach, you learn the daf!!, you are a leader, you cook, you are polite and kind and thoughtful. You have it all. And that’s amazing. But there is also a danger in having so many talents.
Rav Menachem Mendel of Kotzk used to say, “There is nothing as whole as a broken heart.” I think an even more accurate statement would be, “There is nothing as broken as a whole heart.” Meaning, the individual who thinks they are perfect, who thinks they have it made, who thinks they have no room for improvement, that is not perfection, that is brokenness. The individual who realizes that there is so much more to do, that there is so much room for growth, that there is so much that is incomplete, that is whole.
When G-d gave us the Torah, it was the greatest moment in human history; G-d communicated with 2 million Jews! G-d came down to earth! The Talmud describes the zuhama, the spiritual filth that entered the world through the snake in the garden of Eden, as being banished from the world in that moment. We were at the top.
But being at the top creates an illusion of perfection, thinking that we have it made is the worst possible mindset. And so, those original holy tablets had to be broken. And only then, with those shattered tablets in hand, could the Jewish People start again, and this time succeed.
The recognition that something is incomplete, that we are lacking, that we are in need, is the essence of our relationship with Hashem. There is a famous question that many ask – how can it be that the peak of Jewish prayer is so self-serving, it’s filled with personal requests? The Shemoneh Esrei is a laundry list of the things we need. Yes, we say thank you, we say, G-d, You’re great, but the climax of the Amidah, is, “Please, G-d, I need something from You.” Health, wealth, whatever. That’s prayer?! That’s the meeting point between man and his Creator? When we ask for things?!
Rav Yitzchak Hutner, one of the great Jewish philosophers of the 20th century, responds, yes, that is precisely how we meet G-d. He writes as follows: “Af al gav d’b’chol ha’inyanim yecholto shel adam nimneit al tzad shleimuto, even though with all other matters, a person’s ability is defined by their perfection… Mikol makom, b’inyan hat’filah, when it comes to prayer, y’cholet ha’amidah lifnei hamelech nizonet davka mei’chesrono, our ability to stand before the King is nourished specifically from our deficiencies. V’lu yetzuyar adam she’eino chaser lo klum, and if, in theory, there were a person who was not lacking whatsoever, harei shleimut zu shel amidah lifeni hamelech neu’lah l’fanav, the ability and the perfection of standing before the King would be locked before him.”
Meaning, Shemoneh Esrei is not about asking for our needs. It is an exercise in acknowledging that we have needs. And that takes an incredible amount of emotional and spiritual maturity. Spiritual greatness, Rav Hutner is explaining, is defined not by what we have, but by the recognition of how much more we need.
That’s what Leonord Cohen realized on that Greek island. There is no such thing as being whole, there is no such thing as being complete, there is no such thing as having made it. There is nothing more broken than a whole heart. It was only when he saw his brothers in distress, fighting for their lives, fighting for the Jewish future, it was only when he realized that he was so small, so insignificant, so incomplete, it was only then that he was able to continue to build and to grow. Because there is nothing as whole as a broken heart.
Had Leonord Cohen not traveled to Israel he would never have composed the song that I imagine we all know, Hallelujah. In that song, which he wrote after his trip to Israel, he echoes the sentiment of the Kotzker Rebbe and he sings, “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
The other week, the lights above my head were not working. Some people were embarrassed, why are things never running smoothly around here?
But that’s my favorite part of our shul – we don’t sugarcoat the fact that things are not always perfect. And that’s what allows this shul to be one of the most authentic places on earth. That’s what allows us to be a growth-oriented community. Because growth can only take place by acknowledging the cracks, by acknowledging the brokenness. Those moments of darkness can propel us to blinding heights.
It is normal to feel lacking from time to time, to feel hungry for more. Most often we try to silence that hunger. With food, with movies, with a bunch of other stuff I won’t mention – whatever it takes to silence that uncomfortable gnawing feeling. What a tragic mistake.
Because that feeling is the greatest gift of all. When we feel unsettled, when our soul is rumbling, when we feel lost and yearning for something else, that is the crack we need to let the light in, those moments of existential crisis, if we acknowledge them, can propel us to the greatest of spiritual heights.
And that is my hope and blessing for you, Yosef. Because Yosef, you have it all; brains, skills, heart. You can coast to an amazing life. But I hope and pray that you do not coast. I hope and pray that you do not forget the lesson of your parsha, how the Torah given on a mountain is not half as potent as the Torah rebuilt out of shards, how we need to climb and climb and climb. And then, when we reach the top, we need to start all over again. How we need to constantly ask ourselves, in what way am I broken, in what way am I missing, in what way am I dependent on others. And then in those cracks, I am confident, you will let in the most brilliant light.
by Ner Tamid | Feb 2, 2025 | Sermons
Every once in a while, my wife goes away for a few days and leaves me with the kids. Before she leaves, she sits me down to review all the things I need to do to cover for her – which is a LOT. But after reviewing the telephone-book-sized instruction manual she left me with, things go smoothly. Meals, snacks, friends, homework, everyone’s smiling. Next morning, outfits, breakfast, super smooth. And then, inevitably, one child looks up, with those eyes, and asks, “Aba, who’s going to make my double French braid?”
“No problem. I’ll do your hair.”
And that’s when everything goes out the window.
“MOOOOOMMMMY! I MISS MY MOMMY!!!”
I try to reason with them to calm them down – which by the way is a terrible strategy, never works, and I tell them, “Girls, it’s just your hair, it’s just a braid. Who cares?”
“JUST MY HAIR?!?!?! IT’S NOT JUST A BRAID!!!!
All of us who have been glued to our screens these past weeks, watching the hostages get freed, know that my children are right, that it is not just a braid.
For those who do not know what I am referring to – About a week ago some social media accounts started discussing the ‘Mystery Braider.’ They were referring to the fact that many of the female hostages who were released, both in November of 2023 and those released last week, had their hair done in braids.
Apparently, a young woman who was with them in captivity, made sure to take care of these women’s hair before they were released. The Mystery Braider was Agam Berger, a 21-year-old, who was captured from the Nachal Oz army base. One hostage who was released before her, shared something about her even more remarkable than her hair braiding. While in captivity, Agam decided she would start keeping Shabbos and Kosher. When her captors demanded that she cook on Shabbos, she refused. When they offered her bread on Pesach, she did not eat it. When meat was served to them in the few meals they had each week, she ate nothing.
But it was the braids that caught everyone’s attention. It was understood that these braids were meant to be an act of defiance – to demonstrate to Hamas that they cannot break us. So much so, that the family urgently pleaded for people to remove all posts about Agam from social media, as they were concerned that Hamas may see her as a symbol of resistance and not release her.
It was more than an act of defiance. Those braids stood for something so much greater.
In my mind, I have these two images side by side. The young women, with smiles, and braided hair, embraced by their families; tears and kisses and laughter. And next to that image is an image of the chaotic and horrific scene that took place a short while earlier as hostages were paraded through a bloodthirsty crowd, shoving and chanting Allah Akhbar. That chanting crowd symbolized the depth of depravity that humans can stoop, and those braids symbolized the ability to retain a sense of dignity in the darkest of places.
There is a long tradition of braids in Jewish culture and history.
Every Shabbos, the loaves of bread that we eat are braided. According to some sources, the reason we braid our Challah takes us all the way back to the first moments of human history.
The Talmud in Meseches Eruvin quotes Rav Shimon ben Menasya who says that right after Chava, was created, before being introduced to Adam, G-d Himself braided her hair to make her look more attractive to Adam. Braiding hair is clearly a divine act.
But our Sages take this even further.
The Talmud in Meseches Shabbos teaches us that braiding hair on Shabbos is forbidden. What melacha, what prohibited activity can possibly be involved in weaving hair?
The Gemara explains that the textual source for G-d braiding Chava’s hair is the word vayiven, which literally means that G-d built. Building is forbidden on Shabbos, and braiding is a form of building.
Sounds like a stretch, right?
Listen to what Rav Kook has to say about this (Ayn Ayah, 10:17). When we think of the act of building, we think of bricks and mortar, we think of metal supports and stone floors. We think of a structure that protects us from the elements. But that is a primitive perspective. Building, the Talmud is teaching us, involves aesthetics. It involves beauty. The emotional inspiration, the colors, the fabric, the design, all of those are integral to the act of building.
In this opening moment of history, G-d conveyed to Adam and Chava what it means to be a human. We are not animals, we do not live by the survival of the fittest, we do not view the world through utilitarian glasses alone. As humans, we need to elevate ourselves, we need to observe the Divine beauty that exists around us, and we need to create beauty. We need to broaden ourselves through all the emotions and Divine beauty that the world has to offer. So yes, braiding is building, because a world void of beauty is a body void of its soul.
In the deep dark cellars of Gaza, Agam Berger stumbled upon this reality. She found G-d, and she found G-dliness in everything and everyone around her. Braided hair was Agam’s way of saying, you may have taken my body, you may have beaten me, you may have abused me, but you cannot take my Divine spark. You cannot take away the beauty of my soul.
***
Today, we are welcoming a young woman into our faith, we are celebrating the Bat Mitzvah of Liora Sipple. Liora, you remind me of the Mystery Braider. Liora is an exceptionally talented artist. She has won awards and accolades for her sewing and weaving. She works with clay, with yarn, with paint. Liora knows the secret of the braids – how art, how beauty, expresses our Divine spark. But like Agam, she not only sees it in herself, she sees Divinity in others. Liora is extraordinarily thoughtful. She creates art not for herself but mostly for others.
And it’s no surprise. This past week, I met with a group of communal leaders in another city who were interested in making their communities more welcoming. I shared with them some of the practices we have in our model shul. One of the things I highlighted was how we try to ensure that everyone has meals – whether it’s the monthly shul-wide lunches and dinners, whether it’s the email invitation that goes out weekly to those who live on their own, or whether it’s our WhatsApp chat where people can find a host or guest with the click of a finger. But well before we had all these beautiful systems in place, I had a single tool at my disposal. Whenever someone was visiting our shul for the first time or someone was looking for a meal, I knew I could always call Ian and Naomi Sipple who would, in a heartbeat, agree to host.
***
When Agam was released this past Thursday, she was reunited with her parents and then flown by helicopter to a hospital in Petach Tikvah. They gave her a whiteboard if she wanted to write a message to share with the millions of Jews worldwide who were waiting for her with bated breath. On the whiteboard, she wrote the words, Derech Emunah bacharti, I chose a path of faith, a quote from the book of Tehillim.
Liora, today you are making the choice to walk in the way of faith, following in the footsteps of Agam, following in the footsteps of your parents, following in the footsteps of G-d. To be a Jew means to build, not just a state and not just an army, but to build braids, to build a world of beauty, to find expression for all of our G-d given talents and emotions, that no matter what darkness and challenges we face, to see the Divine within ourselves and within every person around us.
by Ner Tamid | Jan 26, 2025 | Sermons
Chizkiyahu, one of the last kings in ancient Judea, was quoted as saying, אֲפִילּוּ חֶרֶב חַדָּה מוּנַּחַת עַל צַוָּארוֹ שֶׁל אָדָם, אַל יִמְנַע עַצְמוֹ מִן הָרַחֲמִים
“Even with a sharp sword on one’s neck, one should never despair of G-d’s compassion.”
It’s an appropriate sentiment to reflect upon as we await news about the fate of the remaining hostages, and most specifically, the Bibas children. Not that they are more important than anyone else who has been held in captivity, but those two redheaded boys captured the hearts of so many of us. How could you not fall apart when watching the footage of their desperate mother as she tried to shield her children from the barbarians who were kidnapping them?
Though it is not confirmed, and therefore we will not give up hope, but with the release of every hostage that does not include them, it would seem to indicate that these two precious and innocent children are not alive.
As people of faith, as people who believe in a Judge and in justice, it is nearly impossible for us to wrap our heads around this. It’s a question we could ask in so many circumstances, but it’s especially acute when we see children suffer: What did they do wrong? Why did these innocent souls deserve to suffer? Where is G-d?
The Gemara in Sanhedrin describes Moshe grappling with this same question. The horrifically cruel Egyptian taskmasters had a practice. If the Hebrews were unable to supply the correct amount of bricks, the Egyptians would grab an infant and stuff that infant into the walls of the edifices being built. Moshe, upon seeing this, turned an accusatory finger to heaven and cried out, “G-d, how could you?! What did this infant possibly do to deserve such a gruesome death?”
G-d, in this Medrashic telling, picks up His hands and says, “Moshe, if you know better than me, go ahead, do what you think is best.” Moshe rescues one lifeless boy from this wall. This boy, Micha, grows up to be the man behind the golden calf, and an idolatrous cult in the land of Israel.
This Medrash represents the classic answer as to why bad things happen to good people. It does not mean that every child who dies young would have been evil. What it means is that He is G-d, and we are mortal man. Have a little humility; recognize that our little minds – even minds as great as Moshe – cannot begin to understand the complexity of human history; how something that seems so bad is good and vice versa.
And while this answer is undoubtedly the most accurate – who are we to think we could understand G-d’s ways? – it does not always resonate. There are times when we are overcome by the sheer magnitude of evil or by the weight of our pain that simply humbling ourselves is not enough.
In modern history no event reawakened this question more than the Holocaust. The senselessness. The scale. And the sinister nature of unbridled evil on display compelled every believing person to ask, why?
On Monday, the world will observe Holocaust Memorial Day. Perhaps it’s time to move on from the empty slogan of Never Again. Every time I hear those words come out of the mouth of a world leader it sounds more and more like a 4-year-old claiming to never again misbehave. The world has stood by as thousands of innocents were butchered, the world has remained silent as hundreds of women were violated, and the world has been indifferent to the plight of hundreds of hostages. It has happened again.
Perhaps we can gain some solace not from platitudes uttered by politicians, but by the profound philosophy that was developed in the wake of the Holocaust. Today, with the memory of the Holocaust on our minds and the fate of the Bibas children and so many others unknown, I’d like to share with you how two of our Torah leaders addressed the question of ‘why’ in the wake of the tragedies that they experienced.
The first is from Rav Yaakov Moshe Charlap, a student of Rav Kook, who lived in Israel during the Holocaust. Like his teacher, he was a mystic and a dreamer. Just to give you a sense of who he was – As he lay on his deathbed in Jerusalem, there were jackhammers making a lot of noise right outside his window. His family was going to request that they stop, but Rabbi Charlap insisted that the construction workers continue. “My whole life,” he said, “I prayed for the rebuilding of Jerusalem. And now I finally get to hear it happening.”
In Israel, until the Eichman trial, survivors of the Holocaust were looked down upon. They were accused of being weak like sheep. Why couldn’t they stand up to the Nazis? As ludicrous as that sounds today, that was the sentiment of the Israeli street.
With this in mind, Rav Charlap shared the following idea with a group of survivors: You are all aware of the binding of Isaac. That was the turning point of our history, when Avraham demonstrated that there was nothing that stood in the way of his love for Hashem. It was at that moment that G-d promised Avraham that his descendants would become a nation. But Yitzchak was never slaughtered. Despite the devotion, despite the sincerity, despite the intentions of Avraham, G-d forced him to stop. In Yitzchak’s place Avraham offered a lamb.
The Binding of Isaac, Akeidas Yitzchak, suggested Rav Charlap, is an ongoing historical process. It started with the kavannah of Avraham, but it culminates in the death of any Jew who is killed because of their connection to our faith. Yitzchak had to survive for the Jewish People to come into being, but every Jew who died by the hands of the Nazis is part and parcel of the most significant moment in our history. Their death is part of the greatest expression of G-dly love.
Rav Charlap, you may have noticed, was cleverly flipping the sheep narrative on its head – those who died in the Holocaust were not sheep to the slaughter, they were the sheep of the Akeidah. They were not victims, they were heroes. They may have been physically weak, but their spiritual impact was powerful.
He continued: As Jews we believe in a Messianic Era, a time of brilliant spirituality and G-dly light. But the world is not ready for such a powerful expression of G-dliness in the world. And so, as the Talmud tells us, there is something known as Mashiach ben Yosef, a messianic figure who will tragically die. The pain and shock we experience over his death shields us from the brilliant light of Mashiah ben Dovid and creates an entranceway for the Messianic Era. This tragic Messianic figure is not a person, it’s a collective experience of overwhelming pain. Without it we will never get to our final destination. The 6 million Jews who died in the Holocaust did not die for no reason, they died to pave the way for the most brilliant light of Mashiach.
Yes, these ideas are esoteric, but the message is clear. When we look at one child or six million children in a vacuum we cannot begin to understand. But when we see them and we see ourselves in the context of a people and in the context of human history, we can understand that it is all part of a bigger and better picture, that the pain is paving the way for our collective joy.
While Rav Charlap was following the news of the Holocaust in Israel, there was a man by the name of Rav Kloynamous Kalman Shapira who was living it. Rav Shapiro, also known as the Aish Kodesh, was a Polish Chassidic rabbi who spent much of the war in the Warsaw Ghetto. Immediately before the war his wife died, in the opening days of the German attack on Poland, he lost his only son and daughter-in-law, and his mother. He was given many opportunities to flee but he did not want to leave his followers behind.
Every Shabbos, despite it being punishable by death to do so, he had a Shabbos morning minyan. Almost every Shabbos he would deliver a sermon to those who joined him. After Shabbos he would write the sermons down, and thanks to the hand of Divine Providence we have access to his incredibly moving and inspiring sermons.
It is both fascinating and heartbreaking reading these sermons. You could see, as time goes on, how his message changes. At the outbreak of the war, he shares classical messages of inspiration; if bad things are happening to us it is G-d’s way of telling us we need to change. As time goes on and he experiences more and more anguish, as the realities of what is happening become clear to him, he moves away from this classical approach of G-d punishing us for our misdeeds. But with few exceptions he does not deal with theology; he does not attempt to explain why. Instead, he focuses on the what. What can we do in this circumstance? Initially, he tells his followers that they should study more and pray more. With time, that becomes impossible and so he tells them we should be kinder to those around us, to help one another. As there is less and less to give, he instead begs them to think kindly of one another. And finally, he implores them to not give up hope.
This approach is beautifully summed up by Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm who suggests that instead of reading the famous words, Keili, Keili, lamah azavtani, Lord, O Lord, why did you forsake me, they should be read as lemah azavtani, to what end did You forsake me; not why but what can I do.
Why did G-d allow the most sophisticated army to let their guard down on October 7th? Why did G-d allow so many innocents to be butchered? Why did G-d allow so many innocents to not come out of those tunnels of hell? Why does G-d allow so much overwhelming pain exist in this small fragile world?
Ultimately, we do not know, and that is not always satisfactory.
But perhaps those who lived through the Holocaust, perhaps Rav Kloynamous Kalman Shapira and Rav Charlap can provide us with some direction. To humble ourselves and recognize that even Moshe could not understand G-d’s ways. To be motivated by the fact that our suffering is part of a cosmic plan, and somehow the tears we plant will bring forth great joy. And to not ever be debilitated by the pain. These martyrs and survivors, through their words and actions, can teach us that you can be in the depths of hell and still find meaning, and still find purpose, that there is always a what that can be done, even when we don’t know why.
May we merit to see the day when all the hostages are returned, when all the soldiers go home, and the brilliant light of Mashiach will sprout forth from the field of our tears.
by Ner Tamid | Jan 11, 2025 | Sermons
One of the most important works on Jewish sociology of the 20th century was Professor Marshall Sklare’s book, Conservative Judaism. It was published in 1955, the heyday of the Conservative movement, during which many graduates of Orthodox yeshivas were taking pulpits in Conservatives shuls and more and more Orthodox shuls were changing their affiliation and becoming Conservative. Sklare famously declared the history of Orthodoxy in the United States “can be written in terms of a case study of institutional decay.” He concluded his analysis of Jewish Orthodoxy by proclaiming that its future was bleak.
I thought about Marshall Sklare this past week as I read the news from Queens, New York. The board of the very first Solomon Schechter school, named after one of the most influential leaders of the Conservative movement, voted to change its charter from being a Conservative school to an Orthodox one. This school of almost 500 students no longer has an egalitarian minyan and is now called the Hebrew Academy of Queens.
This is part of a national trend; Conservative Judaism is on the decline. Over the last 20 years, one third of Conservative synagogues have closed their doors. Meanwhile, in our little Pikesville, a new Orthodox shul is born every day.
While there are some Orthodox Jews who have been celebrating this shift, I think it’s worth reflecting on two relevant implications.
One – every Conservative school or shul that closes its doors leaves hundreds, maybe thousands of Jews spiritually homeless. While a handful may decide that traditional-Torah Judaism is the only way forward; many will simply lose their connection to our faith. That is a travesty.
There’s an additional point worth considering that directly impacts us. Why are these shuls and why are these schools closing their doors? Conservative Judaism seems to be a perfect blend of structure, but not too much structure. Respect for the past, but modern. Where did they go wrong?
To be clear, I believe their understanding of how Jewish law works is flawed, but that’s not a reason why the movement would not remain as wildly popular as it was in the 50’s and 60’s. Why is their movement no longer as attractive as it once was?
One of the articles that reported on the Solomon Schechter school in Queens noted that the school’s shift to Orthodox was also part of a local trend. Many of the previously Conservative shuls have become Orthodox over the past decades. How did they get the formerly conservative membership to agree to separate seating and all other Orthodox practices?
They left the memorial plaques in place.
They left the memorial plaques in place. That was what it took.
Effectively, they were more focused on the dead than the living, on the past, more so than their future.
And this is something that we are far from perfect with ourselves.
I shared with you all in the past how we love dead Jews.
What’s the one day a year that our shul is packed? Is it Purim with its tangible joy, children in costume, and lively music? No. It’s Yizkor when we pay tribute to the dead.
What’s one historic moment that all Jews rally around? Is it the giving of the Torah, when 3 million Jews heard from G-d Himself? Is it the creation of the State of Israel, celebrating her miraculous success, the revival of our ancient tongue, regaining sovereignty after 2000 years? No. It’s the Holocaust. All Jews can agree that it’s good to talk about 6,000,000 dead Jews.
What is the one ritual that we all hold dearer than any other? Is it Torah study? That opportunity to connect to our ancient wisdom? Is it prayer, that invitation to speak directly to the Creator of the World? No. It’s a yahrzeit when we say Kaddish for the dead.
We love dead Jews.
I have been haunted for a decade by a short conversation I had with a child of this shul. I asked her what shul is. Her reply? “Where my family goes when someone dies.”
Reverence for the past is beautiful, but when we choose the past over the future, when we choose plaques over people, when we choose to memorialize and not internalize, that is a recipe for the end of a movement.
There is only one non-Biblical fast day that overrides Shabbos. According to one opinion, Asarah B’Teves, yesterday’s fast would override Shabbos, but not everyone agrees. The one fast that overrides Shabbos is a fast that one takes upon themselves when they have a bad dream. If you were to wake up on a Shabbos morning after a harrowing dream, you would be allowed to fast if you so choose. Now If Tisha B’av, the day that commemorates the destruction of both Temples and the start of our exile were to fall out on Shabbos, we would push it off to Sunday. Why?
Says Rav Meilech Biederman, Tisha B’av is about the past, it happened already. If you memorialize it a day later, big deal. A dream is about the future, and the future is potent, the future is powerful, the future is the only thing we really need to worry about.
When Yaakov Avinu gathers his family around him at the end of his life, he does not tell them to make sure to not forget him, he does not tell them how good things were in the old country. Instead, הֵאָֽסְפוּ֙ וְאַגִּ֣ידָה לָכֶ֔ם אֵ֛ת אֲשֶׁר־יִקְרָ֥א אֶתְכֶ֖ם בְּאַחֲרִ֥ית הַיָּמִֽים׃
Yaakov is entirely focused on the future, on what comes next. Are you passing our values on to the next generation? Are you ensuring that your children get the best Jewish education possible? Are you describing our rituals as a connection to a quaint past or as the most relevant present and the only way forward to a glorious future? A focus on children and on the future is the only way for a people to thrive.
This week is, I believe, the most significant week in my time at Ner Tamid. When I joined the shul there was a teen minyan, a very nice minyan with no talking, but there were no teens. Over the years, I noticed many shuls had learning programs for young families on Saturday nights, I didn’t think we had the critical mass or the interest to have one at our shul.
Last Saturday night, Ner Tamid hosted its first very own Family Learning. I got emotional looking around the packed room of Ner Tamid boys and girls, mothers and fathers learning together – especially impressive as it overlapped with a Ravens game. Today, right now, I will be exiting out that side door to go join our reinstated teen minyan. Our teens will be meeting weekly for a teen-led Mussaf minyan. We waited and waited until we had a critical mass of teenagers and now, thank G-d, we do.
Even those of you who are not into sociology may be familiar with the last name Sklare. You may not know Professor Marshall Sklare, but you may have heard of Rabbi Yonah Sklare. You see, Marshall Sklare’s son decided to join that movement that his father described as “a case study of institutional decay.” Marshall’s grandson, Rabbi Yonah Sklare, is a noted lecturer and teacher of Torah, who has given numerous talks in our shul.
Plaques are important. The past is important. But you cannot drive a car by only looking at the rearview mirror. A movement obsessed with the past will not survive.
Is the Torah relevant to us today? Can Judaism bring us closer to a better tomorrow? If that’s the message we are living and breathing, then, and only then will our children follow in our footsteps. Then, and only then, will this shul and movement live on.
Now if you could please excuse me as I go shep nachas from our future.
