by Ner Tamid | Nov 24, 2024 | Sermons
Ladies and gentlemen, I have solved our fundraising challenges once and for all. I came up with an idea so good that we will never ask you for money again.
I present to you- 
A strikingly similar piece of art was sold by Sotheby’s this past week for 6.2 million dollars.
Do we have an opening bid??
Maurizio Cattelan is the creator of this piece. Apparently, it took him years to come up with this. It took Hindy five minutes to put it together.
Maurizio, in one interview, explained that the meaning behind this masterpiece was to highlight the absurdity of our subjective likes and dislikes. In other words, why does one piece of clothing sell for hundreds and a similar piece of clothing, made of the same material, sell for less? Why were pleated pants and shoulder pads seen as out of style a few years ago and now are the height of fashion? It’s absurd.
As an annoying father, I sometimes challenge my daughters to explain why they think this or that skirt or dress looks cool, or “preppy” in their parlance, or why they would not be caught dead wearing browns two years ago, but now browns are in.
Our taste is more than subjective; it’s fickle. It’s easily manipulated by a myriad of psychological and social forces.
His observation, in my opinion, is not worth 6.2 million, it’s priceless.
Let me explain:
There is a major debate among the medieval commentators about the existence of a bashert, what some would translate as a soulmate. A Gemara in Sotah teaches us that 40 days before a person is born, a voice rings out from the heavens stating, “This boy will marry that girl,” – they are meant to be. According to this approach, dating is about finding your destiny. If you find him or her, you will live the most blissful life. If you don’t, good luck. Being single just got a whole lot more stressful.
Then there are others, like the Rambam (Shmoneh Perakim) and Meiri (Sotah), who, based on other Talmudic passages, rejects this out of hand. There is no one person you are destined to marry. There is no such thing as a bashert.
Now it’s not my place to weigh in on a debate between Torah luminaries. But if I was forced to choose, I would tell you that the opinion of the Rambam, that we do not have a bashert, is far healthier to live by. And that’s because those who subscribe to the bashert view will invariably wake up one day, maybe after a week-long fight, and say, my wife or my husband is not feeling very bashert-like right now. I think I chose the wrong person.
But if you subscribe to the I-could-have-married-almost-anyone-in-the-world view, this was never THE ONE. It was simply the person you committed to come what may.
Our feelings are fickle; they come and go. If this piece of garbage could sell for 6.2 million dollars, what does that tell you about our feelings of love and attraction towards a significant other? Bashert today; bozo tomorrow.
But maybe marriage is more than a feeling? Maybe marriage is not about two people falling in love – or about finding their other half? It’s about two people committing to stay and stand in love.
Tish Harrison Warren, an Anglican priest and a very thoughtful writer, once wrote about the challenges she and her husband faced in their marriage. She then went on to describe how society’s view of divorce has changed over time:
“There was a time, not long ago, when getting a divorce in America was prohibitively difficult. That left individuals — usually women — stuck with philandering husbands and in abusive and dangerous marriages. Divorce is at times a tragic necessity. I’m very glad it is available.”
So am I.
“But,” she continues, “now the pendulum has swung so far that surrendering personal happiness to remain in an unfulfilling marriage seems somehow shameful or cowardly, perhaps even wrong.
We hear stories of people leaving a marriage as an act of self-love, to embark on a personal, spiritual … journey of self-discovery. … In contrast, the story of someone staying in a disappointing marriage for the kids or because of a religious commitment or for some other similarly pedestrian reason is, at best, boring. Worse, it seems inauthentic and uncreative, lacking in boldness and a zest for life.”
For Warren, this commitment to staying married even when it seemed to make no sense, eventually bore fruit as he and her husband now share an imperfect but beautiful relationship.
Our parsha highlights a most imperfect union. Yitzchak and Rivkah could not be more poorly matched (see Netziv); he was old, she was young. He was intense, she was meek. She was born to idolators, he was born to the first Monotheist. And yet, “vaye’e’haveha,” he loved her, and she loved him. It was a commitment and a choice that would override all the tension that existed between them and would keep them together through all the challenges they faced. Love is a verb; we don’t passively fall into love – certainly not the lasting type. True love, lasting love, is born out of a commitment to stay committed even when we don’t feel it.
And I must add, what is true for a relationship with a spouse is true for our relationship with Hashem. How often do I hear someone tell me how they are just not feeling it; they are waiting to be lovestruck, they are waiting to be inspired by Judaism, they are waiting until they feel close to G-d. And until that time, they ask me, why should they bother praying? It feels so inauthentic.
Let me share with you something I learned over the past few decades. I grew up in a home in which we did not say, I love you. It wasn’t that we didn’t love each other, we did, it just wasn’t a phrase that we used.
My wife, on the other hand, grew up in a home in which they always said I love you. Like most things in my home, we defer to Hindy. And so, we always say, I love you. Before the kids go to sleep, I love you. When we get off a call, I love you.
Growing up, I remember there being times when I felt like I wanted to convey the fact that I loved my parent or sibling but I just did not have the words; it was incredibly awkward for me to use that phrase.
And now, as someone who says, I love you, to my children, do you think I only say when I mean it? Of course not! Sometimes I mean it, and sometimes what I really mean is, you are being so obnoxious right now, and I need to get off this call, I love you. But I still say it, because I’m committed to them.
Do I feel like praying every day? No. Do I feel connected to Hashem every time I stand before Him? I wish I did. But I’m in a relationship with Him, and so whether I feel it I not, I show up.
And just like a daily I love you, my daily prayer builds and maintains a bridge, so that my love and my relationship has somewhere to live and flourish. (H/T to Dr. Rivka Press Schwartz)
There was a couple I once met with; they were going through a very difficult patch, including infidelity. We fell out of touch and when I saw them again a few years later, the husband told me that their relationship was flourishing.
I remembered being so frustrated talking to them; nothing seemed to get through. The husband had decided that he made a terrible mistake. What happened, I asked him.
He sheepishly smiled: “I made a choice.”
“I chose to be attracted. I chose to see the good. I chose to be more thoughtful and understanding.”
This does not mean that if you are single you should go to kiddush today, find the first person you see, and propose. This most certainly does not mean that if you are in an abusive relationship or even a relationship that you have invested in endlessly with no reciprocity that you should stay put. Divorce exists for a reason.
What it does mean is that all of us who are blessed to be in a relationship should perhaps stop getting so caught up in our feelings; they come and go; this banana will be spoiled by tomorrow. Instead, we can all choose, and we can all commit to working a little harder.
by Ner Tamid | Nov 10, 2024 | Sermons
This past Sunday a letter was circulated in my little rabbi world. The authors of the letter were looking for more rabbis to sign on to their letter titled, Orthodox Rabbis Endorse Kamala Harris. It cited Trump’s values and character as reasons to disqualify him from office. It did not take long for a new letter to start circulating, called, you guessed it, Orthodox Rabbis Endorse Donald Trump. It cited Trump’s impressive track-record supporting Israel as the reason Jews should vote for him.
And then… a third letter circulated! Oh, rabbis…
This message, which was the most popular, suggested that rabbis should not get involved in politics whatsoever.
I signed on to none of them. Not the rabbis against Trump, not the rabbis for Trump, and not the rabbis who said rabbis should not weigh in on politics.
Let’s begin with the group that argues that Rabbis should not get involved in anything partisan. Of course, there are legalities. I am not allowed to tell you who you should vote for from this little perch. But if we met on the street and you asked me who I am voting for, or even who you should vote for, I am allowed to share my views. There is also a question of strategy – is it wise for the Jewish community to publicly endorse one party if the other party will likely be in power in the next few years? But the most fundamental question is this – should we use the Torah to influence our political views, or should Judaism remain apolitical?
I know this will be quite off-putting to some of you, but to me, suggesting that Judaism should stay out of the public and political arena is comical. Prophets, from Moshe onward, were constantly advocating for political change. The Torah’s legal system directs behavior not only in the privacy of one’s home but in the public sphere as well. Avraham takes down four superpowers, Moshe stands up to the injustices of Egypt, and every prophet’s main role was to criticize the immoral policies of the ruling king. Of course, Judaism is meant to be a vehicle for political change.
The oft-quoted “Render unto Ceaser the things that are Caesar’s, and to G-d the things that are G-d’s,” is found in the books of Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Yeshaya and Yonah would laugh at such a sentiment. Does anyone really believe that the Torah has nothing to say about the weighty topics that this and every election revolves around? Really??
You might be wondering, if the Torah does indeed have what to say about public matters, what does the Torah say about who we should have voted for? Why did I not sign on to either one of those letters – Rabbis for Trump or Rabbis for Harris?
You may accuse me of being afraid to offend people in the shul, and I am sure that blind spot is at play, but trust me, by the time I am done this morning, I will have offended everyone here…
Let me share with you an old poem by John Godfrey Saxby.
It was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
G-d bless me! but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!
The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried, Ho! what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me tis mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!
The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
I see quoth he, the Elephant
Is very like a snake!
The Fourth reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain quoth he,
Tis clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!
The next one grabs the elephant’s ear, the next one grabs its tail. You get the point. And this is how it ends:
And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!
And I know what you’re thinking, I can’t believe Rabbi Motzen spoke about an elephant and not a donkey!!
In all seriousness, are we not all blind to some degree? Is it not incredibly hard to see the entire picture with all its vast complexity?
The Gemara tells us that in ancient Jewish history, to be elected to the Sanhedrin, Judaism’s equivalent to the Supreme Court, you had to suggest 50 reasons why something the Torah lists as impure, tamei, is actually tahor, pure. What that means, explains the Maharal, is that the highest level of intelligence, the prerequisite for sitting on the highest court in Israel, is the ability to not see things in black and white, to recognize that even if in the final analysis something is impure, something is wrong, something is evil, but nothing is absolute. There are 50 pure features in something that is ultimately impure.
To those saying, of course, Trump is better for Israel and for the Jewish People, I ask you, are you familiar with Bret Stephens, a proud Jew, a staunch conservative, someone who believes that Israel’s strength is needed for the wellbeing of the planet, who nonetheless, begrudgingly voted for Harris?
To all those saying, of course, we cannot vote for Trump because of his character and temperament, I ask you, are you familiar with the millions of Never Trumpers who changed their tune and begrudgingly voted for him?
As you know, I am Canadian, and I do not vote. But if I was not so lazy and took care of the paperwork, and finally became an American citizen, I know who I would have voted for.
But can I understand the individual who shares virtually the same Jewish values as I do and who chose to vote for someone else? Yes. Yes, I do. To take one complicated topic – abortion. The Halachic position does not fall neatly into either party’s ideology.
And that’s why I would not have signed on to the Rabbis for Trump or the Rabbis for Kamala. Because I cannot in good faith tell you that voting for this candidate is mandated by the Torah.
Last and most important point – Reena, our Bat Mitzvah girl, is multi-talented. She is bright and athletic; apparently, she’s a great goalie. She is musical and has the most easy-going personality. You’re just an awesome person. But Reena’s favorite talent is her artistry. At Kiddush, you’ll see one of her many paintings; it’s excellent.
Reena, I have a question for you – when you’re drawing, you know what you are trying to create, right? But if I were watching you sketch, would I necessarily know? No, not at all. If anyone here has ever played Pictionary, you know how long it takes to recognize what is being drawn.
There are people in this room who woke up Wednesday morning elated; Trump is going to be amazing for the economy and for the Jewish People. And there are people in this room who woke up Wednesday morning despondent; what will be with our civil liberties and human rights?
Sometimes when we are so stuck in the moment, we forget that there is Someone up there painting this picture. Before making a covenant with Avraham, G-d asks him for one thing – Heyeh tamim, which Rashi translates as, “Walk with G-d wholeheartedly. Put your hope in Him. Do not attempt to investigate the future.”
Anyone with the most rudimentary knowledge of history knows that presidents who were expected to do X, did Y, who was supposed to be bad for Israel, were good for Israel, who was supposed to kill the economy, enabled it to flourish. Heyeh tamim, “Do not attempt to investigate the future.”
G-d is throwing splotches of black paint here and brilliant reds there. He is erasing and redrawing. He is sharpening and smudging. When watching the Artist of artists painting, do we really have the hubris to say we know what this picture will look like?
Of course, we have to do our part. Of course, we have to ensure that it is our Torah values that influence our every decision, including political decisions. But to be overjoyed because (quote) “these next four years will be amazing?” Or to fall into despondency? Whether it’s over the elections or even over the horrendous news coming from Amsterdam? Yiush?! Giving up hope?!
Hold on. He’s not done drawing just yet.
We have no idea what comes next on the canvas of world history. And so we pray, and we trust, and we march forward.
And as we cautiously do so, we try to appreciate the colors that don’t always speak to us, and when we do so, we start to realize how all the colors, all those differing opinions, are not clashing, but bringing out the best in one another, and creating a brilliant mosaic.
Reena, keep painting your beautiful pictures, and may we all merit to see the day when the final painting will be unveiled.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 27, 2024 | Sermons
This Simchas Torah is not a new challenge.
Every orphaned child wonders if it is appropriate to celebrate a birthday without their mother or father by their side.
Every widow hesitates before going out on a date or having too much fun.
Every bereaved parent sees their lost child in the accomplishments of the living, and wonders what their child would be up to if he or she were still alive.
And it’s not just death that intrudes on the times of joy; sometimes it’s guilt that prevents us from happiness.
Our Sages in Bereishis Rabbah teach us that after eating from the Tree of Knowledge and being kicked out of the Garden of Eden, Adam abstained from being together with his wife for hundreds of years. How can I taste any pleasure if I am such a terrible person? How can I experience that lofty emotion called love? Instead, I’ll build walls to the heavens and not allow myself to be loved.
Hazorim b’dimah b’rinah. We stumble through life with a confused mix of tears and joy, of guilt and pride, of sadness and happiness.
Some have suggested that we experience our sorrow and joy simultaneously. I believe that’s a mistake.
The Zohar describes the worst type of hell as the Kaf Hakeleh. A Kaf Hakeleh is a slingshot. The Zohar explains that the soul is flung from one side of the earth to the other, from cold to heat, from dark to light, and the soul has no rest. To be in a perpetual state of impermanence, to constantly have conflicting emotions intrude and upend whatever you are experiencing, is not life. It is hell.
G-d does not want us to experience hell on earth.
And so He gave us a Torah that helps guide us through this confusing mess. As Rav Yehuda HaLevi explains, G-d gave us a varied calendar to give full expression of all our conflicting emotions. He gave us days to cry; Yahrtzeits, Tisha B’avs. And it gives us days to rejoice; Sukkos, Purim. The Torah even teaches us what to do when these two days conflict. When a Yahrtzeit of a loved one falls out on a holiday, the joy of the holidays supersedes the sadness of the Yahrtzeit.
This is the primary function of the Torah; to help us navigate life, to distinguish between the holy an the mundane and the varying emotional states.
Sheryl Sandberg, the former COO of Meta, in her wonderful book, Option B, describes the aftermath of her husband’s sudden death. She describes loss as a door closing. “When one door closes, another opens; but,” she adds, “often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us.”
In the words of King Solomon, there is a time to cry and there is a time to dance. And it’s critical to know which time is which; to know when it’s time to turn away from the sadness and focus on the good.
This is not done to ignore the sadness, on the contrary. What Shlomo Hamelech is teaching us to do is to fully mourn – take the time to cry seriously. Because when we fully mourn, we are given the power to fully rejoice.
Rav Yisrael Meir Lau in his autobiography describes a young survivor of the Holocaust who one day heard a lecture that brought him to tears. This young boy turned to the man who made him cry and said the following: “When the [Nazis] took my father and mother, my eyes were dry. When they beat me mercilessly with their clubs, I bit my lips, but I did not cry. I have not cried for years. Nor have I laughed. We starved, froze, and bled, but we did not cry.” This young man thought he had a stone for a heart. “(But) just now,” he said, “I cried freely. And I say to you, that whoever can cry today, can laugh tomorrow…”
That same Medrash I referenced a moment ago, tells us that Adam, at one point, realized that he was mistaken. Yes, he sinned. But he was also a good person. There’s a time for regret and for remorse, and so he spent time repenting. But there is a time to move forward and so he then reconciled with his wife. The Medrash concludes that his relationship with her, his love for her, was so much stronger that it was before. When we give ourselves the space to cry, to mourn, to grieve, we open up the doors for joy and for love.
Sometimes we are unable to separate the joy from the sadness into distinct days. For example, how can we rejoice at our child’s wedding without remembering our loved ones who are no longer with us or the suffering of the world-at-large? And so we carve out a moment within that day of joy; we take a moment to break the glass and to sing a song of longing. And then we dance and sing.
Or how can we eat festive meals on Yom Tov when we are overwhelmed with memories of our Bubbies and Zaidies and our mothers and fathers? And so we carve a moment within the festival to say Yizkor, to acknowledge them, and the void we are left with. And then we rejoice throughout the holiday.
And that is exactly what we will do this Simchas Torah.
We will make a space for our tears – you should have received a card by now with the names of those who were murdered on October 7th and I invite all of you who normally step outside for Yizkor to stay inside a little longer. To say the names of the men and women on your card because today, because right now, in this moment, we are all mourning.
We will make a space for our tears by glancing at the Bima cover with the names of those murdered on October 7th and the Torah cover dedicated to Eliyahu Michael Harush.
We will make a space for our tears by dedicating the first and last Hakafah to those whose Yahrtzeit will forever be tied up to this day.
And then, having made a space for our tears and for our sorrow, we will dance and we will sing and we will rejoice. We will not ignore the many doors that have closed on this day, we will look at them, we will reflect on them, and we will cry for them. Having given them their space, we will then rejoice. Eis lispod v’eis lirkod.
The truth is, the joy that we are to experience on this holiday is in some ways even greater than any year prior. Allow me to share with you a story that I hope will make this point clear. It’s the story of Shaylee Atary and her husband, Yahav, from the newly published, a Day in October (Koren). Shaylee and Yahav both experienced terrible trauma in their early lives. They both thought that they would never be able to love or be loved. But they taught themselves to cry. And by crying they taught themselves to once again live and love. Their walls of self-protection eventually came crashing down, and they got married.
A little while after their wedding, Yahav and Shaylee moved to Kfar Aza. Shaylee was disabled and the Kibbutz was fully accessible. It was peaceful, serene, and the perfect place for these two souls to heal and start a family. And so it was; in September of 2023, they had a baby girl, who was beloved by the entire close-knit Kibbutz.
One year ago, today, at 6:30 AM, they were awakened by the Red Alert sirens. They both rushed to their shelter and closed the door behind them. They soon realized that the Kibbutz had been infiltrated. First via text messages, but within a few moments, they heard the terrorists’ voices.
They tried to lock the door and window of their shelter, but it was an old building, and the lock didn’t work. Yahav whispered to his wife, “I’ll get the door; you get the baby.”
Suddenly a hand reached through their window. Yahav grabbed the hand and started shoving the terrorist away. He looked back at his wife and again, “I have the door; you have the baby.”
Shaylee bolted out the door and ran to safety.
She almost didn’t make it; she was chased, she was shot at, the baby almost suffocated, but Shaylee and the baby survived. Yahav was killed holding the door.
To quote Shaylee: “We had an agreement, Yahav and I… We each had our job. And that’s still what’s going on. He’s still holding the door. He’ll be holding the door for the rest of my life. And I’ve still got the baby. And as long as I’m here with the baby, I’ll never let my light go out… I saw him sacrifice his life for mine. … So I’m keeping our agreement. And that agreement is what keeps me alive.”
One year ago today, over 1200 of our brothers and sisters were killed. They were holding the door for us. They may not have known it. But they were the first line of defense, protecting the land and people of Israel. Hamas tried on this very day to stamp out the Jewish People, but those holy people held the door.
We, the survivors, are left holding the baby.
When we take the Torah out of the Aron tonight and tomorrow and lovingly dance with it, we are holding the baby for those who held the door.
When we throw the children in the air and dance with them at the center of the circle, letting them know how precious they are and the magnificent role they have to play in history, we are holding the baby for those who held the door.
When we commit ourselves to living a passionate life of Torah and Mitzvos, not just today and tomorrow, but going forward, ensuring that their sacrifice was not in vain, we are holding the baby for those who held the door.
Yes, we will make space to cry for our own loved ones who held the door for us through their many sacrifices, and for the holy 1200 souls who held the door for us on this day. We will allow ourselves to fully mourn. We will make space for our tears and our sorrow.
But we cannot simply go on like usual. Not after all they sacrificed for us.
Instead, we will dance, we will sing, and we will commit to the most passionate, spirited, proud Jewish life. We will treasure and forever hold the precious baby.
With thanks to Rabbi Avi Goldstein for the brilliant tie-in.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 20, 2024 | Sermons
The cover of last year’s Yeshiva University’s Torah publication says it all. It has a picture of a man walking from a Maserati to a private jet with a kippah on his head and his tzitzis hanging out. The title of the publication is, A Material Matter: Jewish Influence in Contemporary Times.
Tradition Magazine, the intellectual mouthpiece of the Rabbinical Council of America hosted a one-day symposium on the topic of materialism and the excesses of wealth in the Orthodox community and dedicated a full journal to the topic. Most discussed was an article by Rabbi Jeremy Wieder, a rebbi in YU, who highlighted, among other things, a short-lived Orthodox publication known as the Mocher magazine which “surveyed fine wines, shpitz suits, cigars, man caves, and fine watches.” In a subsequent podcast he lambasted those who go on exotic vacations and share their pictures with others. If you want to go to the slopes of Vail, go for it, he said. But to share pictures of yourself doing so is the ultimate violation of tzniut, the Jewish value on modesty.
And there’s a certain irony here. While the Orthodox community’s taste in fine things continues to grow, so much of our literature promotes perishut, a sense of holding back and refraining from enjoying the indulgences of this world. Avital Chizhik-Goldschmidt and Chaim Saiman share an example of this tension: When Rav Chaim Kaniefsky, the leading Torah scholar in Israel passed away a few years ago, there were two things that people spoke about – his diligence in studying Torah and his simplicity. He lived in a tiny apartment in Bnei Brak despite being the most influential person in the Orthodox world. And yet, after he passed, his shtender, the piece of wood he learned from every day was sold by auction for millions of dollars.
Today we read the book of Kohelet. Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin suggests that the book was originally a lecture given by King Solomon to the visiting gentiles who would flock to Israel during the holidays. This would explain why there is barely any mention of G-d in the entire book and even when there is, the more universal name ‘Elokim’ is used. Be that as it may, Kohelet, a book which is a sustained critique against hedonism is not directed to the Jewish People, seemingly because they did not need it.
Our Sages were wise enough to recognize that in the modern era, Solomon’s message is as relevant as can be. For those who missed it this morning, King Shlomo engages in an experiment. To quote: “I withheld from my eyes nothing… and denied myself no enjoyment… I multiplied my possessions. I built myself houses and I planted vineyards.” In modern terms, whatever ads showed up in Mishpacha magazine was immediately purchased by King Solomon; he went on all the vacations, bought all the watches, the wigs, and the jewelry.
But when it was all said done, he was left with nothing. Writes Shlomo: “A lover of money never has his fill of money, nor a lover of wealth his fill of income. That too is futile. As his substance increases, so do those who consume it; what, then, does the success of its owner amount to but feasting his eyes?”
Why am I sharing all this with you? Our parking lot is not filled with fancy cars, people are not wearing high-end watches, and I rarely see anyone here sharing vacation pictures on social media. If you look around this room, you will not have a clue who is wealthy and who is behind in their mortgage payments. The leadership of our shul has never been dominated by the rich and famous.
And that’s exactly why I am sharing this message with you, the Ner Tamid community. Keep. It. Up.
My comments are not meant as a critique of any other group; there is nothing to gain by criticizing others, there is only value in introspection. But today, I simply want to highlight something that we are good at – the attribute of modesty. Modesty is the Jewish way of life – hatzneia lechet – and it promotes humility, simplicity, and not standing out. Yes, it includes detailed rules about the clothing men and women should and should not wear, but that is just a single expression of this beautiful way of life.
People may complain about our mechitza being too low and it being a breach of tzniut, of modesty. We could and should talk about the size of the mechitza another time; to discuss how to raise it in an appropriate fashion. But don’t you dare accuse Ner Tamid of not being tzanuah! This is the most modest shul in town.
In Ner Tamid, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs are simple. People dress simply. People are private about their financial success. Keep. It. Up.
Ner Tamid is a breath of fresh air.
Where to draw the line between appropriate indulgence and excess is extremely difficult and extremely subjective. Please don’t judge other shuls and other people. Let’s just appreciate this morning how we have something good going for us and we should embrace it with our heads up high (well, not too high, because that would not be modest).
I’ll conclude by sharing a beautiful observation made by Rabbi Wieder. Yaakov, today’s Ushpizin, has two dreams that are recorded in the Torah. One when he leaves Israel and one on his return. The first dream is a dream about angels, the second is a dream about sheep. The first dream took place after spending years studying Torah and the second dream took place after twenty years as a shepherd. This is a subtle critique. What we engage in is what we dream of. Yaakov’s aspirations had shifted over the years from the spiritual to the material.
There is nothing wrong with working. On the contrary, making a living is a value and has to be balanced with a life of spiritual pursuits. But the litmus test for how we and our children are doing is what we are dreaming of –
Are we dreaming of beautiful homes or are we dreaming of beautiful families?
Are we dreaming of high-end watches or are we dreaming of using our time wisely?
Are we dreaming of diverse stock portfolios or are we dreaming of diverse Torah knowledge?
May we continue to be a beacon of light, of modesty, and endless spiritual aspirations.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 13, 2024 | Sermons
Earlier this year, I was at a small conference with a group of rabbis. We were gathered to discuss the state of Jewish unity – or the lack thereof. One rabbi wondered out loud if the time for Jewish Peoplehood was over. In the past, this rabbi said, he used to connect with rabbis of other denominations over their shared love and concern about Israel. But now, the one thing that used to keep them together is too often the source of what’s pulling them apart. “Even if I was to go to out for coffee with the rabbi of the Reform shul down the block,” he said, “what would we talk about that would not be divisive?”
To be clear, this rabbi is one of the most loving, most inclusive, most pro-interdenominational dialogue rabbis I know. But he is also a real lover of Israel. He could not fathom having a genuine dialogue with the rabbi from next door, who was marching in solidarity with the Arabs living in Gaza, who was speaking out against Israel with leading politicians, and was likely putting Jewish lives at risk.
About ten years ago, Rabbi Chaim Landau, Zt’l, met with me. He never once asked me to do anything ever, but in that one meeting, he invited me to deepen my relationship with rabbis of the other denominations in Baltimore. I did not listen to him at the time; I was busy acclimating to my new role. And that was a mistake. Rabbi Landau was right. All of the Jewish people are family and there is always time for family. It was now time to do teshuva and so I pushed back.
“If this pro-Palestinian Reform rabbi was your brother,” I asked, “and he was getting married to a Jewish woman, would you go to the wedding?”
This was not a theoretical question I was posing to the group. It’s a variation of a question I received this past year, and I am sure many others did as well.
“This rabbi is your brother. He’s part of the Jewish People. Is he not? If I may- I think you should go get some coffee and to the question of what will you talk about? Talk about anything. Talk about the local sports team. Who cares? Even if you have nothing in common, even if you disagree about everything, you are family, and family sticks together.”
Not all the rabbis in the room agreed with me. Some pushed back, saying that there is a line, and if someone is endangering the life of the Jewish People, we do not go to their wedding and we do not go out for coffee. It’s fair and it’s complicated.
But it made me realize that maybe there is something else amiss. It’s not Jewish togetherness that is becoming unfashionable, it’s the concept of family togetherness that is at stake.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks once wrote, “Unconditional love is not uncritical, but it is unbreakable. That is how we should love our family.” Does that resonate in 2024? When Psychology Today reports that 1 in 4 Americans are estranged from a family member? When #No ContactFamily is one of the hottest trends on TikTok? Family relationships are about as fragile as can be.
So when people lament the rift that exists within the Jewish People, between Jew and Jew, whether it is over Israel’s right to defend itself or whether it’s over the Charedi draft or whether it’s over the hostage deal, you have to wonder if our disharmony is part of a broader trend of family estrangement.
And it’s so complicated. There are people who undoubtedly should have zero contact with their family to preserve their wellbeing. But there are others who perhaps should have more limited contact with their family. And then there are others who need to accept that they have difficult family members and need to work on themselves. It is sometimes very unclear as to which category you fall in. But what is clear is that when 25% of Americans from their family, there are definitely many who are going too far.
A moment ago, Meshulam, our chazzan, beautifully led us in Kol Nidrei. One of the key lines of this ancient and haunting prayer is permission to pray with sinners. Anu matirin l’hitpalel im ha’avaryanim. Rav Aharon Lichtenstein Zt’l explains that the real purpose of Kol Nidrei is to undo any excommunications that were instituted by the community. In the ancient world when someone in the community misbehaved egregiously the community would excommunicate them. But on Yom Kippur, they would annul that excommunication and invite the individual back in, letting him or her know that it was just a break, a pause, but the bond between them and the Jewish People, the bond of family cannot be broken.
There was a video clip making the rounds this past week from an anti-Israel protest on October 7th. On the day that we just wanted to mourn our dead, some sadistic and twisted people thought it would be appropriate to chant in support of Hamas and the Intifada. I cannot think of anything more despicable. At one of these evil protests, three teenagers from Chabad are seen with one of the protestors, a young man wearing a keffiyeh, and they are helping him put on tefillin. Let’s be clear – there is no middle ground between those chanting that Israel should be destroyed and those of us who know that Israel has the right to defend herself. But family is family. And despite these Chabad boys getting roasted by many on Twitter, I think they did the right thing.
I don’t have any brilliant solutions to the issues ripping our people apart. I often struggle mightily when trying to help someone navigate when a family member is truly harmful, and it is appropriate to fully disengage and when it is not. What I do know is that I, Yisrael Motzen, have made some pretty big mistakes this year, some were truly mistakes and others were not. And I will be turning to G-d over the next 24 hours asking Him to be compassionate, asking Him to recognize my frailty, asking Him to believe that I can change, and asking Him to hold on to me even though there are things He knows I will not change.
Can I be more compassionate to my family members? Can I recognize that the person before me is human with all the implied frailties and limitations? Can I believe the family member who tells me they will finally change? And can I still hold them close even though I know they will not?
There is undoubtedly a Jewish togetherness problem. But even more fundamentally, there is a family togetherness problem. Rav Chaim Vital writes that when G-d judges us for how we did with our interpersonal relationships, the only place He looks is how treated those in our home.
So perhaps for those of us who can, on this day of unity, on this day of reconciliation, can we ask ourselves those questions:
Can I be more compassionate to my family members? Can I recognize that the person before me is human? Can I believe the family member who tells me they will finally change? And can I still hold them close even though I know they will not?
In the merit of our attempt to bring our own families together, may G-d bridge the seemingly unbridgeable and bring our Jewish family together once and for all.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 6, 2024 | Sermons
Who is the most important person in this room today? This is not a trick question. …
The most important person in this room this morning is not the chazzan and not the rabbi, it’s a volunteer, and his name is… Watch this, I am about to give someone an all-out panic attack. The most important person in shul this morning is Aaron Polun.
Aaron is the Baal Tokeiah; he will be blowing the Shofar at our shul. That is the only Biblical obligation we have today. We could skip the sermon, the chazzan can get hoarse, and we will be just fine. But if Aaron does not blow that Shofar, we are in trouble.
Ironically, the Shofar is the hardest part of the services to connect to. We may feel nostalgic hearing the Shofar; it may be exciting to see how long the Tekiah Gedola will last, but in terms of the meaning and symbolism of the Shofar blasts? It’s quite hard to connect to.
Last week, Aaron brought this up to me, and asked me what he should be thinking about when he blows the shofar. It was such a refreshing question. It’s not just the technical elements that need to be met; he wanted to properly represent the congregation with his intentions, with kavannah. I shared with him a classic thought from the Baal Shem Tov, the father of the Chassidic movement. The Baal Shem Tov explains that the Shofar is a primal scream. We do not always have the words, we sometimes don’t even have the thoughts, but there is pain, there is yearning, and it wants to be expressed. The Shofar is the tool to convey that call from deep deep within.
I suggested to him that when he blows the shofar he should think about all the silent screams that fill this room and fill the world and bring them to Hashem. I suggested that he look at our new Bima cover with the names of all those murdered since October 7th and think about the cries of their families, to think about the cries of the tens of men, women, and children, still in captivity, the cries of the mothers and fathers and spouses and children whose loved one is on the front line. The cries of the people, many of whom stifled their own cry, because they felt it would be small-minded to cry while so much was going on in Israel, but instead of going away, their silent cry grew louder and louder. That’s what I told Aaron to think about when he blows the shofar for our congregation.
But two days ago, I realized made a mistake. Yes, a primal cry is one of the symbolisms of the shofar blast, but I do not think that’s what you or any of us should be thinking about as the shofar is blown today.
There is another symbolism, suggested by the Vilna Gaon. It’s a symbolism that I struggle to connect to, but I’m hoping that maybe if I share this with you, we could help each other experience what I believe to be the true meaning of the shofar this year.
Hayom haras Olam. Today we celebrate G-d creating the world. The Hebrew term for world is olam. Kabbalists explain that this word olam is related to the word he’elem, which means hiddenness. And that’s because when G-d created the world, He hid. Why He hid is a discussion for another time but hide He did.
What G-d hiding means is that we do not see G-d’s hand or presence in this world; instead, we see chaos and injustice. Good people suffer. The undeserving prosper. It’s a world which screams at every corner, leis din v’leis dayan! There is no justice, there is no judge! Not only is the G-dliness of the world hidden away, but the G-dliness that exists within each and every one of us is also hidden; the precious soul that is a refraction of G-d Himself is concealed in a physical, lustful, material body. It’s as if G-d took a huge thick blanket and covered Himself.
When people are going through difficult times; when they have prayed and prayed and G-d did not answer their prayers, when people who are so sweet and good go through such hardships, and they ask me, how could G-d do this to me? It breaks my heart emotionally. But philosophically, it’s hard to say this out loud, but it makes sense. We live in a world of he’elem, of hiddenness. When G-d created the world, He went into hiding. And when we were exiled from the land of Israel 2000 years ago, G-d, so to speak, placed another even thicker blanket over Himself. Ha’hastara sheb’soch ha’hasatara. Basic Jewish philosophy will tell you that we do not get to see justice in this world.
As Jews we believe, as one of our principles of faith, that there will be a time when that blanket will be removed. When the light of G-d will illuminate the world. Evil will be punished; the righteous will be given their due reward; we will not be seduced by the artificial flashing lights of our modern world. We call that time Mashiach, or the Messianic Era. But until that time, we wait. Achakeh lo b’chol yom she’yavo.
This past Friday, a hole was ripped in those blankets of concealment.
The façade of a world without G-d, a world without justice, was pierced.
Hassan Nasrallah, the head of Hezbollah, was the mastermind and spiritual force behind countless murders of both Israeli and American citizens since the 1980’s. He was an anti-Zionist, an antisemite, an anti-anyone who was not a devout Shiite Muslim; he wreaked havoc on the world. And now he is gone. His cronies are gone. His beeper-wearing minions are gone.
That is not a he’elem reality; that is a Messianic reality. As Jews, we do not expect to see justice in this world until the time of Mashiach. But the light of Mashiach shined through.
Now I know this makes me sound like a fanatic. We don’t discuss Mashiach in polite society. It’s a belief we keep in the back of our mind and in the back of the siddur. But wait until I’m done; then you’ll really call me a fanatic. Because I realized that it was not just one hole in that 2000-year blanket of hiddenness. No. There is an explosion of Messianic light bursting through; there are other holes in the blanket that I have been ignoring.
Returning to the land of Israel, is that not Messianic? And for us to not only live in our homeland, but to have developed one of the most impressive economies and militaries, and straight-out-of-a-movie military spy agencies, is that not a gaping hole in the façade of G-d’s hiddenness?!
October 7th was horrendous and heartbreaking. But it was also the given, that is what we are supposed to expect in a pre-Messianic era where injustice reigns supreme. It fit very neatly in 2000 years of history of enemies attacking Jews. But for the Jewish People to stand up and dust themselves off? For the Jewish People to say, We will dance again?! For Iran to attack Israel not once but twice with a barrage of hundreds of missiles and the only casualties to be an Arab and a Druze girl?!
We are not living in the Messianic Era, but the Messianic light at the end of the exile-tunnel is bright as can be. The blanket G-d used to conceal Himself is shredding into pieces.
And once you start looking for it, you can see this Messianic light in the craziest of places. Even some of the cultural shifts that are on the one hand so disturbing are also bringing in G-d’s light. For example, there is nothing that annoys me more than the ‘trophy for trying’ mentality our society has adopted. It infantilizes our youth and does not prepare them for the real world. But there is also something Divine, a taste of a Messianic world, that is shining through this cultural shift –
You see, though we cannot see her or feel her, each one of us possesses a soul. That soul is purer than pure, it is described as a piece of G-d. And no matter what we do, no matter how far we fall, no matter what sins we’ve committed, that soul remains, at its core, pure as can be. That soul represents that unbreakable bond with G-d. G-d loves us, accepts us, and cares for us, no matter what.
It’s very hard for many of us to swallow that. Does G-d really love me? Does G-d really see the good in me despite all the times I’ve ignored Him? Come on.
For most of history those questions prevented us from feeling that acceptance. But in the Messianic world, there is a trophy waiting for us all; v’ameich kulam tzadikim. And to be clear, some will get very big trophies, some will get very small trophies. If we waste our life away, if we ignore our soul, there are consequences. But the bond, the love, the acceptance from Hashem, whether we keep every Mitzvah or keep none at all, that bond is everlasting. So yes, we have some bizarre cultural shifts going on around us, but can you see the Messianic light mixed in? Can you see it shining through?
Now if I am correct in my fanaticism, that G-d is giving us a sneak-peek of the times of Mashiach, He probably wants us to do something in return. Don’t you think?
If G-d is shining a Messianic light onto us, we should probably shine a Messianic light back to Him.
What that means is very simple – the only really big difference between now and the Messianic era is one emotion – simcha, joy. In Shir Hamaalos we say, Az yimalei s’chok pinu, “Then” – in the Messianic Era – “our mouths will be filled with laughter.” In a world in which we see justice, in a world in which we feel G-d’s loving embrace, that’s a world in which we could experience true joy.
But if G-d is acting Messianic now, then perhaps we could do the same.
We have spent so much time this past year crying. We have spent so many hours wringing our hands at the state of antisemitism. We have anxiously paced our homes wondering what will be in Israel and what is the future of America. But I don’t think that’s what G-d wants from us.
There is a story told of the Baal Shem Tov. He lived in the 18th century, during a time when the lights of Mashiach were also shining through, but in a very different way. The societal changes he experienced in his life inspired him to start a movement, and one of the salient features of this movement was not so coincidently, the emotion and expression of simcha.
It was a controversial movement and the Baal Shem Tov was constantly defending himself and his followers. One day he was asked why it was that his followers were always dancing and singing, how they could always be happy in such a dark world. The Baal Shem Tov replied with a parable:
There was once a musician who came to a village and started playing on a street corner. This musician was something else; his music was uplifting and lively, beautiful music like they never heard before. People walking by stopped in their tracks. Within a few moments, there was a dance flash mob in the middle of the street.
And then a deaf man walked by. He looked at the town people jumping up and down and shook his head. “The whole city has lost their mind.” And he walked away.
Said the Baal Shem Tov, “Just because most people are deaf to the beautiful music of the world, does not mean my chassidim should stop dancing. Just because they could see what others fail to see does not mean they should not be in a perpetual state of joy.”
Kierkegaard wrote: “It takes moral courage to grieve; it takes religious courage to rejoice.” But today, in October of 2024, I don’t think we need that much courage. We need to just open our eyes and ears.
If you are alive today, then you have witnessed G-d busting through that dark blanket with a flourishing State of Israel; you have seen the light of a Jewish spy agency that is playing out stories straight out of the Bible; you have seen bright justice in a world of darkness.
Just yesterday I saw a very prominent man post the following on Twitter: “[I am a] fiercely Jewish atheist willing to wrap [tefillin]. What’s the bare minimum of prayer involved… in case [the] religious aspect of my belief system is wrong?”
He, like so many, is seeing G-d like we’ve never seen before. He, like so many, is bursting with pride to be a Jew, to be part of a remarkable, uplifting, persevering, and tough-as-nails nation that has truly woken up from a 2000-year slumber. When the Nazis attacked my great-grandparents they put their heads down. But now? We Will Dance Again! Ashreinu mah tov chelkeinu! Look around! There is light everywhere!
And to be abundantly clear, I do not know if we will experience the Messianic era tomorrow or even in my lifetime. But the walls between this world and the next are crumbling, there is light shining through, music bursting forth, and we’d be crazy ignore it.
Over the next hour and a half, we could choose to scream a primal scream. We could focus on all the prayers that speak to the scary judgment of Rosh Hashana, or we could be b’simcha, in a state of Messianic joy, by focusing on the many prayers that thank G-d for choosing us, me and you, as His people, for no reason at all.
Over the next three days, we could find all the ways our family members are failing us, or we could be b’simcha, in a state of Messianic joy, by focusing on how they support us.
Over the next ten days, we could focus on all the reasons we are not doing well enough and be crushed by our shame, or we could be b’simcha, in a state of Messianic joy, by reminding ourselves that G-d loves us no matter what, and to allow ourselves to feel that embrace.
Over the next year, we could choose to march along like we have for 2000 years. Or we could say, no! This is different. G-d is acting differently. And I too will do the same.
So, Aaron, you want to know what to think about as you blow the Shofar? It is not a primal scream. We are well past that. The shofar, in the Hebrew year 5785, is the sound of a trumpet. Nagein b’teruah. It is music, it is song, it is joy. It is light. It is an echo of the most famous shofar, the tekiah gedolah, that will burst through the remaining darkness and banish whatever hiddenness is left.
Ladies and gentlemen, let’s dedicate this year to simcha. Enough tears! Enough kvetching! Enough crying! Let us embrace the light-filed chutzpah of the Messianic era that is shining through our people. Let’s not dance again sometime in the future. Let’s dance again right now. Let’s dance again today.
I do not mean that figuratively. I mean that literally.
I cannot think of a more appropriate way to set the stage for the blowing of the shofar this year. Please join me…
