by Ner Tamid | Nov 6, 2022 | Sermons
I’ve been wondering what would happen if Avraham and Sarah lived in the 21st century. This is how I envision it:
It would all start with a TikTok of Avraham smashing his father’s idols. Anti-establishment, anti-authority, this man is cool. He’d get a gazillion followers and the hashtag #breakstuff would be trending for weeks.
Then, he’d get a book deal writing a memoir called, Leaving Charan. It would describe the challenges of leaving home, parental rejection, being an immigrant, and how to start a new life. It would probably make it to Oprah’s Book Club.
And finally, the tent Avraham and Sarah set up would be more popular than Burning Man. Anyone looking for an experience of radical inclusion and unconditional gifting would flock to them. They would be wildly popular, attracting a diverse following ranging from heroin addicts from the streets of San Francisco to royalty like the Duke and Duchess of Sussex.
And that’ll be about when things go south. The downfall will start with a Twitter account, under the handle, Lot, a disgruntled relative of theirs, who claims that Avraham and Sarah are not heroes, they are cult leaders. This account will share snippets of conversations that allegedly take place with guests, demonstrating how the chesed that Avraham and Sarah perform are contingent on the guests becoming monotheists. Of course, this will set off a Twitter war, with the many Avraham-Sarah stan accounts sharing pictures and stories of unbridled kindness and accusing Lot of jealousy.
Eventually the Twitter war will spill over into more mainstream television. Tucker Carlson will have an episode slamming Avraham for involving himself in wars that aren’t relevant to him, and not paying enough attention to his own people. He’ll follow that with a feature on how Avraham saved the people of Sedom despite them being on the wrong side of the culture wars. Then the View will spend a full week talking about how Sarah treats, or rather mistreats her maidservant.
The straw that breaks the internet will be the front-page news, reported by both the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times – Avraham Attempts to Slaughter Yitzchak. And all hell will break loose. Avraham will be investigated by the CIA, Sarah will face a lawsuit by Yishmael, and within a short while, their popularity will plummet.
Yitzchak will go to the grave defending his parents but will be pitied by the media on the left and right as a brainwashed child, who was traumatized by his parents. Yaakov will change his last name to avoid the negative PR, and by the time his twelve sons are born they don’t even know their grandparents existed.
In the modern era, Avraham and Sarah would be scorned into oblivion. Despite their many good deeds, despite the unique path they blazed, they wouldn’t make it past the cynicism and #antihero sentiment of the 21st century. Our society is too cynical, too suspicious, and too individualistic, to allow for a nation to develop around role models like Avraham and Sarah. Had they lived today, Judaism as we know it would be dead upon arrival.
Now, one could argue that our modern skepticism is healthy. Isn’t our cynicism helpful in creating appropriate checks and balances against fraudsters? Doesn’t our society’s extreme transparency and openness ensure that we never follow people blindly? Does the Torah not want us to think for ourselves?!
Yes, yes, yes, but.
Yes, the opposite extreme, that of unchecked adoration, treating Torah leaders as infallible, and believing the leaders to be experts on everything is fraught with danger. You have probably read in the news this past week about Torah scholars in Israel or in New York telling their followers who to vote for. Are these rabbis prophets? No, they are not.
And yes, abdicating any personal responsibility in decision making is not a Jewish value. I remember a woman coming to me years ago, telling me that I have to Paskin – I have to rule – where her son should go to school. I looked at her blankly. How could I tell you where your son should go to school? She eventually left my office and found a rabbi who would.
Yes, I, and am sure, many of you here, have read stories of rabbis who, according to the biographer made a bracha before being nursed by their mother. These stories are false, and lying, of course, is prohibited in all forms.
And yes, we have all heard tragic tales of Torah scholars who have committed horrendous crimes and yet were defended nonetheless by their followers. G-d is infallible, no one else is.
But – if our society is such that an Avraham and Sarah would not succeed in developing a nation, if our society is such that these two giants would be denigrated to such an extent that no one would take them seriously, if Judaism would be dead upon arrival in 2023, then we probably have some soul searching to do.
Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin suggests that G-d wrote the entire Book of Bereishis so that we can learn from the yashrus, the uprightness of our forefathers. G-d wants us to have role models. G-d wants us to have lofty aspirations. G-d wants us to have heroes.
Imperfect? Oh yeah. Subject to mistakes? Yes. Infallible? Not even close. But by throwing away the baby with the bathwater, by throwing away the hero with his or her flaws, it impacts us as well. Because without people to look up to, without people that we venerate, we are left with a static society, we are left with a culture that celebrates the antihero, that highlights our imperfections – “this is me and I’m not changing.”
Two weeks ago, Rav Hershel Schachter the Rosh Yehiva of Yeshiva University, and Rav Shlomo Amar, the former Sefardic Chief Rabbi of Israel, came to Baltimore. Have they made mistakes in their life? I am sure they have. Nonetheless, I spent about an hour with them, and I listened as they humbled me with their depth and breadth of Torah knowledge. I watched intently as they exemplified what it means to ensure that your every breath is consistent with Torah values. I was inspired by their genuine humility and kindness. I will tell you, and I don’t say this flippantly, I walked away from that meeting a changed man. It forced me to reassess and change the Torah learning that I engage in. It forced me to consider how I act in public. So tell me, is veneration, exposure to great Jewish leaders who expand our aspirations, is that not a good thing?
I’ll share more – as I mentioned, I do not ascribe to the idea that a Torah scholar is, by definition, knowledgeable on every topic. The Torah scholars I consult with will regularly tell me they need to speak to a psychologist or doctor or lawyer to better understand a particular subject. Many questions do not need to go to a rabbi. Relationship questions should typically go to therapists. Financial questions should typically go to financial advisors. Etc. etc. However, every time I have spoken to a true Torah scholar about any personal issue, I have walked away with a fresh perspective informed by an absolute immersion in Torah values. I have walked away, almost always, with a perspective that pushes me, that expands me, that I would not have come up with on my own. Is seeking out advice from people who are immersed in G-d’s values not helpful in navigating this complicated world?
Among the many things we’re celebrating today, we are celebrating the birth of a daughter to Simcha and Margie Gross. Their daughter’s name is Chaya Henna. Chaya is named after Rav Chaim Kanievsky and Henna is named after Henny Machlis.
If you recall, last week I shared a story about Henny Machlis – about the man who woke her up in middle of the night to ask her to remind him how to make pizza. And how she graciously got out of bed at 3 AM and patiently reviewed the recipe with him. Did that story not expand your horizons? Did that story not force you to question if you’re really as patient and kind as can be?
Today, allow me to share with you just a little about Rav Chaim Kanievsky, who passed away just a few months ago. Rav Chaim Kanievsky was blessed with many natural gifts. He had a photographic memory, and he chose to apply his gifted mind to Torah study. By the age of 13, he completed the entire Talmud, something many people don’t finish in a lifetime. From the age of 20 and on, he would complete the Babylonian Talmud, the Jerusalem Talmud, Nach, Medrash Rabba, Medrash Tanchuma, Tosefta, Sifra, Sifri, Mishnayos, Rambam, Tur, Shulchan Aruch, Mishnah Berurah, and the Zohar. Every year. In-depth. And he knew it.
I remember hearing Rabbi Hartman, a great scholar in his own right, describe searching for a source of a comment made by the Maharal, but could not find it. He finally bumped into Rav Kanievsky who was crossing a street in B’nei Brak. He asked him if he knew where it was. And as they crossed the street, Rav Kanievsky went like this: “Babylonian Talmud… no. Jerusalem Talmud… no. Medrash… no. Zohar… no. Tikunei Zohar – yes!” And gave him the exact location. All this before they finished crossing the street.
He was meticulous with his time. He barely slept, learning Torah every moment he had. And despite his dedication to Torah study and writing important works of Torah literature, he opened his home daily to a stream of visitors who came to him for advice, encouragement, or just a listening ear.
He never accepted a formal position, turned down offers to buy him a nice home, and lived a most simple life, absolutely dedicated to Torah, to the Jewish People, and to G-d.
My children are named after family members, people that we loved, and one child was just given a name that we liked. But Simcha and Margie chose to name their children after role models, after heroes, a Tzadik and a Tzadeikis, Rav Chaim Kanievsky and Henny Machlis. And it’s not surprising that they did so. The Gross’s think big, they act big, they aspire to greatness.
With this name that you gave your daughter, she will forever be inspired to strive to be better tomorrow than she is today. She will forever be reminded that angel-like people do exist in this world, human, yes, imperfect, yes, but angel-like. She will forever be reminded that there are people who are worth associating with, people who are worth speaking with to gain perspective on personal matters.
***
I’ll conclude where I began – We are here today because our ancestors saw both the good and the bad and chose to focus on what would help them grow and because of that we have a Jewish People. But if Avraham and Sarah appeared on the scene today, how would we respond? Would we seek them out or would we put them down? Would we look up to them, despite whatever flaws they may have, or would our cynicism prevent us?
Because the truth is, Avraham and Sarah do exist, all around us. But to see them, to grow from them, we need to allow our hearts to be a little less biting, a little more generous, a little more hopeful.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 19, 2022 | Sermons
In 2011, a book, titled, Legacy Letters was published. It was a collection of messages written by family members of those who died ten years earlier, by the terrorist attacks on 9/11. I’d like to read to you one letter, written by Joe DiFazio, written to his father, a stockbroker, who was on the 105th floor of the North Tower on that fateful day. Joe was 13 on September 11, the day his father died.
“Dad,
I guess it makes the most sense to start at the end. The last time I saw you, you had a triple stack of powdered donuts piled on top of a belly that looked used to that sort of thing. Confectioner’s sugar dusted your lips, and every time the Giants’ defense missed a tackle, you pounded a chubby fist into the couch and left a phantom smudge. You were barely five-ten, bald and out of shape.
I looked at you and saw the strongest man in the world.
“All right, time for bed,” you said. It was only the third quarter, and I turned my head to argue, but you knew what was coming. “I don’t want to hear it,” you told me. “It’s your first week of high school and you’re gonna start it off strong.”
I stalked off, headed for the stairs leading to my room. No hug, no kiss goodnight. I grumbled under my breath. It’s not fair. This [stinks].
“I love you, champ,” you told the back of my head. You knew I was upset, and you weren’t really expecting an answer. You didn’t get one.
I never heard your voice again.”
There is a term that’s used when we don’t have proper closure with a loved one. Situations like those who lost their otherwise young and healthy parents or spouses on 9/11, who never said goodbye, who for some, did not even say goodnight. Psychologists call it ambiguous loss – a loss that occurs without a significant likelihood of reaching closure or clear understanding.
It’s not limited to dramatic scenarios like Joe DiFazio and his father. It happens all the time. For example, with Alzheimer patients – Your loved one is here, you’re holding his hand, but his mind is somewhere else. When do you say goodbye to someone who will likely be with you for years to come, and at the same time never be with you at all? How do you say goodbye to someone who may forget your goodbye the very next day or the very next minute?
Ambiguous loss is applicable to any and every person who experienced loss and does not follow the classic five steps of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Psychologists have concluded over the years that many do not and cannot follow these simplified or oversimplified steps. Some people are “stuck” at one of these steps, unwilling or unable to move forward. Some people are left grieving forever.
A congregant [who recently lost a loved one] asked me after the second day of Rosh Hashana, after I spoke about Jews loving dead Jews, the following: If I am so opposed to the emphasis of “death” in Judaism, then why don’t I cancel Yizkor? After all, it reminds us of death. In truth, reciting Yizkor is a relatively new custom. Sefardic Jews don’t do Yizkor. We say it on Yom Tov, it’s supposed to be a happy day? Let’s get rid of this death reminder! That was his suggestion.
But the truth is, Yizkor in particular, and Jewish memorials in general, are the greatest response to ambiguous loss –
What is Yizkor? What are we about to do?
If you read the text of the prayer you’ll see that we first and foremost, reflect on the past. We remind ourselves of our loved ones; who they were, what they stood for, what they taught us. And then, we commit. Classically, we commit to give charity in their memory, but it’s not limited to charity. We commit to being inspired by their legacy and living a better life in their honor.
Yizkor is an exercise in embracing the ambiguity of loss –
- Yizkor is an acknowledgment that I cannot ever have complete closure, and so we return at prescribed times to reflect and relive our memories.
- And at the same time, Yizkor reminds me to not get stuck in the past; I use memory and grief to propel me forward.
Instead of fighting ourselves to forget, we allow ourselves to hold on. Instead of fighting ourselves to leave our loved ones behind, we allow ourselves to take them with us as we move forward in life. That’s Judaism’s response to ambiguous loss. It is not meant to depressing or death-centered. It is meant to be uplifting and life-affirming. It allows us to move forward without closing our eyes or hearts to our past.
These last days of Yom Tov, Shemini Atzeres and Simchas Torah are dedicated to the concept of ambiguous loss. Sukkos is over. We should have concluded the holiday season yesterday. However, G-d instituted a new holiday, an additional day. Why? To hold us back, to make us stop. The word Atzeres comes from the word, Atzor – stop. G-d is asking us to stop before going home, before leaving the holiday season. Why does He ask us to stop?
The Medrashic literature phrases it beautifully: “Kasheh alai pridas’chem/ it is hard for me to say goodbye.” We just spent almost a month full of powerful prayers- do you remember how the room shook at the conclusion of Neilah? We just spent hours in quiet contemplation – do you remember how we stood in silence, dreaming of what life could be? We just ate countless meals filled with joy – Jewish joy! So, G-d asks us to stay just a little but longer. It’s hard to say goodbye. Closure, it would seem, is difficult, even for G-d.
Rav Yitzchak Hutner poses the following question: If it’s so hard to say goodbye, then how does adding one day help? Instead of being hard to say goodbye yesterday, it’s going to be hard to say goodbye today. It’s still hard to say goodbye! Pushing off the inevitable seems pretty small-minded?!
But this is where Simchas Torah comes in. Simchas Torah tells us that when it comes to all relationships, and certainly our relationship with G-d, we do not ever have to really say goodbye. The Torah, which we are celebrating tonight and tomorrow, is the vehicle through which we are able to hold on to some of the magic that we experienced. We cannot experience the magic of the High Holiday season all year long, but the Torah, the medium through which G-d connects Himself to the Jewish People, the Torah through which He speaks to us, that allows us to hold on.
You know, I sometimes walk into these last days of Yom Tov a little disappointed, maybe even upset, at all the lost opportunities. Did I accomplish enough? Did I take advantage of the special closeness that we have with G-d at this time? Am I proud of how I treated my family, my friends, during this holy time of the year?
But I am reminded of a story, a Chassidic tale, of two young men dancing on Simchas Torah. We’ll call them Yanky and Berel. The rabbi in this story watches as these two young men dance the night away. After the seven hakafos, they’re still dancing. Everyone watches in awe. The rabbi turns to one of his followers and says, “Yanky is going to stop dancing soon, but Berel, he’ll keep on going.”
And sure enough, that’s what happens. Yanky eventually sat down but Berel kept dancing.
“How did you know, rabbi? Can you tell the future? Are you a prophet?”
The rabbi smiled and explained. “I had recently spoken to both Yanky and Berel. Yanky told me that on Simchas Torah he would be celebrating the many books of Torah that he completed. He learned a lot this year, he had a lot to celebrate. And that’s why he danced so much tonight. But Berel, he told me he would be celebrating all that he hoped to accomplish in the year ahead. Yanky’s accomplishments were finite, but Berel – he’s dreaming of the future. The possibilities are endless.”
Shmini Atzeres and Simchas Torah are an exercise in ambiguous loss. It is hard to say goodbye, it is. So we don’t. Or, we don’t fully say goodbye. We make some space, we carve out daily rituals, to hold on to the magic. Today and tomorrow, the days in which we stop to say goodbye, is the time to ask ourselves, in what way will I hold on to this enchanting experience? Through which book? Through which class? Through which podcast? Through which text?
***
Allow me to conclude by quoting Joe DiFazio once again. Because he got it. He held on, he never let go, but he also used the warm memories of his father to be a better person, to build a better future. And I quote:
“I wish that someday you could have held my kids. I wish I could
stand and watch from the bedroom doorway while you sat beside
them and sang about the young cowboy who lives on the range. I know the words–I’ll do my best.
I’ve spent hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, talking to your memory in the dark. I ask for help when I’m confused, for strength when I’m scared, and for comfort when I’m upset. I wonder how it was just at the end–if you were afraid, if there was pain.
You never answer, and that’s okay…
But more than anything, I wish I could hear your voice again,
even just for a minute. I wish I could listen to your stories and to the laugh that lit the room. I wish I could hear you tell me that you’re proud.
…
I’ll always remember to look out for Mom and my little sisters, to treat women like the angels they are and to show kindness to everyone, especially those who need it most. I’ll always remember that the guy who sees it the longest hits it the best.
Thank you for showing me that laughter can cure all, but that it’s okay to cry.
Thank you for showing me how to be a man.
I love you too, Dad, and I’ll miss you forever.
Your son,
Joe”
All loss is ambiguous, all goodbyes are difficult, but the future – the future is entirely in our hands. Can we take our warmest memories, our high points of inspiration, and create something beautiful for the year ahead? We don’t have to say goodbye. We can and we must hold on.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 6, 2022 | Sermons
My phone is out of memory. Again.
Every few years I buy a new phone with more memory, like, a lot more memory, assuming that this time it will have enough memory to last forever, but it never does. Invariably, I am faced with that annoying pop-up every few minutes reminding me that iPhone storage is full.
You have to understand, I don’t have a lot of apps, I don’t take a lot of pictures. But my children, especially the younger ones, when they see my phone on the counter, they know they could just slide their finger and access their favorite toy in the world – the iPhone camera.
Which by the way, it is insane that my children can so easily access my camera. Apple boasts endlessly about their phone’s security. Double verification, triple verification, quadruple verification, you name it. My iPhone is a Ft. Knox. You can’t access the phone’s calculator without facial recognition. But there is one feature that you can access without any code, without any double-checking, without anything more than a flick of your finger and that is the camera. Why?!
Okay, I’m sorry, I just had to get that off my chest.
When I see this iPhone pop-up, telling me I am out of storage, I know to go to my pictures. And this is what I see –
Four thousand pictures of Miri, that’s my two-year-old, four thousand close-ups of her nose. Then there’s a few hundred pictures of one child posing. Each pose is slightly different than the next… A few nice family photos. And then another hundred unflattering pictures of me as I try to wrestle my phone out of my two-year-old’s sticky hands.
So, I delete. And delete. And delete. Because after all, the pictures are all the same. I keep a few unique pictures, but what’s the point of duplicates?
What’s the point of duplicates?
And it made me wonder – if a photographer was walking around with me all day, all week, all year, snapping pictures, how many pictures would I end up deleting?
Probably a lot.
How many days would look exactly as the day before? Different suit, different tie. But the same old mistakes, the same old good deeds. Delete. Delete. Delete. What’s the point of duplicates?
There is a book called, Einstein’s Dreams, written by Alan Lightman. It’s a work of fiction in which the author imagines what was going through Einstein’s mind as he was developing his theory of relativity, his theory of time. The author paints for us a wide array of possibilities of what time could look like. Allow me to read you a few passages from one alternative conception of time:
“Suppose time is a circle, bending back on itself… In the world in which time is a circle, every handshake, every kiss, every birth, every word, will be repeated precisely. So too every moment that two friends stop becoming friends, every time a family is broken because of money, every vicious remark in an argument between spouses, every opportunity denied because of a superior’s jealousy, every promise not kept.
And just as all things will be repeated in the future, all things now happening happened a million times before. Some few people in every town, in their dreams are vaguely aware that all has occurred in the past. These are the people with unhappy lives, and they sense that their misjudgments, and wrong deeds and bad luck have all taken place in the previous loop of time. In the dead of night these cursed citizens wrestle with their bedsheets, unable to rest, stricken with the knowledge that they cannot change a single action, a single gesture.”
Are we aware of how much our life is on repeat, on how the frame of each day looks exactly like the day before? Do we wrestle with our bedsheets knowing that we’re still stuck in the same ruts, still celebrating the same accomplishments of years ago, still unable to break free of the demons we have fought with forever?
Or do we blissfully snap picture after picture. Same smile. Same frown. Same today. Same tomorrow.
Isaiah, our most eloquent prophet, paints a picture of teshuva, of repentance. “If your sins are like scarlet, whiten them like snow; if they are crimson red, bleach them as wool.” Isaiah utilized two different metaphors to describe the process of change.
The second approach Isaiah references is a process of laundering, “bleach them as wool.” This is the more well-known approach to change. We’ve committed a sin, we have a characteristic flaw, and so we cleanse ourselves. We fast, we beat our chests. “Ashamnu, bagadnu, gazalnu.” As we reflect on our past, we become aware of the crimson red sins on our soul. As we beat our chests, we pour warm water on the cloth. As we beg G-d to forgive us, we scrub the sins away with soap. This is the well-known and well-trodden path of experiencing Yom Kippur – a day at the laundromat cleansing our soul.
But the first approach, “If your sins are like scarlet, whiten them like snow,” this speaks to a very different teshuva experience. What does it mean to whiten our sins like snow?
There is nothing more majestic, more beautiful, more poetic than waking up to a city covered in snow. Before the tractors start plowing, before the people on their way to work start shoveling, before the children start playing. Just white snow. A sheet of purity covers everything. The muddy path is now a white velvet carpet. The bare tree is now a glittering tower. Everything is covered in a fresh coat of white.
A significant portion of today’s davening does not focus on cleansing ourselves from the past. It asks us to imagine a beautiful future. “V’yeiasu chulam agudah achas, and all will become a unified society.” “Uv’chein tzadikim yiru v’yismachu, and the righteous will see and rejoice.” “V’simloch ata Hashem levadecha, and You, Hashem, will reign alone.” The liturgy begs us to imagine a pristine tomorrow, a reality totally unlike the one we are living. A snowy blanket covering all our shame, whitening all of our misdeeds, erasing all of the many things that hold us back.
And we walk outside onto this virgin snow. And our foot goes, ‘crunch,’ as it breaks through the frost. What a sweet sound. And we look at the imprint of our foot. You could see all the lines, all the contours of our boot. Every step is deliberate. Every line is new. Everything makes an impression.
Imagine living life like that. Imagine living life like every step is the first step on a fresh slate. Where every gesture is the first of its kind.
Allow me to once again read from Einstein’s Dreams, this time from a very different depiction of time:
“The shoppers walk hesitantly from one stall to the next, discovering what each shop sells. Here is tobacco, but where is mustard seed? Here are sugar beets, but where is cod? These are not tourists on their first visit. They are citizens. Not a man can remember that two days back he bought chocolate at a shop named Ferdinand’s, or beef at the Hof delicatessen. Each shop and its specialty must be found anew.
When it is time to return home at the end of the day, each person consults his address book to learn where he lives. Arriving home, each man finds a woman and children waiting at the door, introduces himself, helps with the evening meal, reads stories to his children. Likewise, each woman, returning from her job meets a husband, children, sofas, lamps, wallpaper, china patterns.
Late at night the wife and husband do not linger at the table to discuss that day’s activities or the bank account. Instead, they smile at one another as when they met the first time fifteen years ago. They find their bedroom, stumbling past family pictures they do not recognize… For it is only habit and memory that dulls the physical passion. Without memory, each night is the first night, each morning is the first morning, each kiss and touch are the first.”
Do you remember when you first held your newborn child in your hands? Would you even dream of taking out your phone and scrolling through Facebook as they cried for your attention?
Do you remember when you first held your spouses’ hand? Would you even dream of criticizing him or her and ruining the magic of the moment?
Do you remember one of your earliest memories, a hug you received from a parent when you were in pain? Would you even dream of laughing at their old-fashioned ways as they embraced you with their huge protective arms?
Imagine a world covered in snow.
Imagine a world where you got to start again.
Imagine a world where everything was fresh.
That’s what we’re doing here today. We do not have to take the same picture every single day of our life. We could live a life full of pictures worth saving. Pictures of new horizons, of growth, of change.
And yes, of course, we do change with time. I am sure we’ve all changed this year. But how much of that change just happens to us, is a reaction to life circumstances, and how much of that change is planned? Proactive?
For the next ten hours, the world, your world is covered in snow. It’s a fresh new start. What will that first step on the pristine ground look like? A tender moment with a child? An apology to a spouse? In what way will we be a better sibling? In what way will we be a better neighbor? A better Jew? What will it be? What will it look like? What will you look like?
Yom Kippur is an opportunity for a beautiful new start. But there’s a catch. The magic of Yom Kippur wears away. The snow melts.
So, if I could suggest if we want to take advantage of this G-dly gift of a snowy Yom Kippur, what we need to do before leaving this room tonight, is make a commitment. One small, tiny commitment, a change. Something that involves a stretch, but not too big of a stretch. Something different that we can do every day or every week of this year.
Because G-d willing, we will be back here next year, and we’ll be reviewing the photos that were taken over the course of the year. Will they be the exact same or will they be different? Will we once again repeat and delete? Repeat and delete? Repeat and delete?
Or will this be the year of change?
by Ner Tamid | Sep 29, 2022 | Sermons
It was the height of Chutzpah. Too surreal to be believed. Too unimaginable to be made up. The German Chancellor, Olaf Scholz was standing together with Mahmoud Abbas, President of the Palestinian Authority, in Berlin, fielding questions from reporters. Suddenly, one reporter’s hand shot up and asked a question about the upcoming anniversary of the Munich massacre half a century ago, in which eleven Israeli Olympic athletes were killed by the Palestinian terrorist group, Black September, a group linked to Abbas’ Fatah party. “Mr. Abbas,” the reporter asked, “do you plan on apologizing to Israel and Germany for the attack ahead of the 50th anniversary?”
The question infuriated Abbas. Irate, Abbas responded instead, by citing allegations of atrocities committed by Israel since 1947. “If we want to go over the past, go ahead,” Abbas, who was speaking Arabic, told the reporters. “I have 50 slaughters that Israel committed in 50 Palestinian villages… 50 massacres, 50 slaughters, 50 Holocausts,” he said, taking care to pronounce the final word in English.
What chutzpah! Can you imagine? Accusing Israel of perpetrating a Holocaust in Germany?! Surely, Abbas would have been thrown off the stage! Surely, the German Chancellor would have instantly rebuked Abbas and disavowed his comments. But instead…he was met with silence.
Germany’s popular BILD newspaper published an outraged story about the incident, under the title “Antisemitism scandal at the federal chancellery.” It expressed shock that “not a word of dissent [was said] in the face of the worst Holocaust relativization that a head of government has ever uttered in the chancellor’s office.” To be sure, in the coming day, there were apologies issued by the German government. But in those crucial moments, the German Chancellor remained silent.
Why? Or better yet, how could such a thing have happened? Germany is so committed to rectifying any wrongs done by their country. How could the German Chancellor be silent?
The answer, or at least one answer, lies in the central message of a book I read this year by Dara Horn. The title of the book is startling and deliberately provocative. It’s called, “People Love Dead Jews”. The Holocaust garners world sympathy. But the Holocaust reminds us of the past. When it comes to say, Israel, a living, strong Jewish state – the world can’t stand it. People love dead Jews. Live Jews? Not so much.
If you listened closely to the condemnations that followed Abbas’ comments, it was mostly about the trivialization of the Holocaust. It was NOT the blood libel against the Jewish State. That people didn’t care about too much. And that I suspect, is what confused the good Chancellor. A blood libel against Israel did not warrant immediate condemnation. But when he realized that he also trivialized the Holocaust- that we must condemn.
Horn’s book does an incredible job proving this sad truth. Here’s another example she gives related to the Holocaust. Once again, the height of Chutzpah. Too surreal to be believed. Too unimaginable to be made up. In the opening chapter she describes a kippah-wearing man who was discriminated against for his Jewishness. He was not beaten, but he was barred from wearing his kippah at work. Where did he work? You’re ready for this? The Anne Frank House in Amsterdam. Barry Vingerling was asked to wear a baseball hat to cover his kippah in one of the most well-known sites dedicated to tolerance! And specifically, tolerance for Jews! After four months, they finally relented and allowed him to display his faith. As Horn put it, “Four months seems like a long time for the Anne Frank House to ponder if it is a good idea to force a Jew into hiding.” All the sympathy in the world for poor dead Jew, Anne Frank. But none made available for the living, practicing, vibrant Jew, Barry Vingerling.
This is not just about a perversion of the Holocaust. One more story: On July 13, 2022, at 3:40 PM, Yossi Hershkop, a young Orthodox man, was attacked in New York. He was punched repeatedly, needing hospitalization for his bruises. His five-year-old son sat a foot away, witnessing his father, his rock, his source of stability, being reduced in front of his eyes. This was not a mysterious crime. It took place in broad daylight. You can watch a video of the perpetrators beating Yossi. You can see the security camera footage that catches their faces and the license plate of the car that they drove off in. You would think that with this much information, the police would have caught the criminals immediately and brought them to justice. But that’s not what happened. A full two weeks later, Hershkop, exasperated, tweeted how his son is too traumatized to walk outside. The tweet went viral, caught media attention, and magically, later that day, the first arrest was made.
I imagine many of you never heard of this incident with Yossi Hershkop. Unfortunately, many of us are unaware of the almost daily violent attacks against Orthodox Jews in New York. Despite a dramatic spike in incidents, they almost never make the news. Not only do they not make the news, these crimes, even when they are reported, almost never lead to prosecution. Of the 118 adults arrested in the past few years for antisemitic incidents, only one has been sent to jail for his crimes. Local activists assume that around 80% of crimes go unreported because Jews in New York have lost faith in the justice system protecting them.
Why didn’t they care about Yossie Herskop? He was a Chabad Chossid. He had a beard, tzizis were out. He was a vibrant, religious, living Jew. But the world only loves Dead Jews. This is exactly Horns’ point. Here’s my final and most telling example – when a politician or famous actor makes an antisemitic remark and then apologizes, where does the Jewish establishment take him?
To Washington, to the Museum of Tolerance. Far better than going to Washington to see dead Jews, you know where they should be taken? To Brooklyn to see live Jews, with their peyos flying, kippah on their head, trying not to get smacked by a passerby. But that’s not where they take them. Because – people love dead Jews.
It’s a chilling book with a chilling thesis. But as I was reading it, an even more chilling thought occurred to me. It’s not just “People” who love dead Jews. You know who else loves dead Jews?
We do. Jews love dead Jews. For example:
- What’s the one day a year the entire American Jewish community makes sure to come to Shul? Is it Purim with its incredible exuberance, children in costume, and lively music? No. Its Yizkor. We pay tribute to the dead.
- What’s one value that all Jews can embrace? Is it Israel with its incredible success? Miraculously rebuilding the country? Reviving our ancient tongue, regaining sovereignty after 2000 years? No. It’s the Holocaust. Israel is deemed too offensive for many. Living, vibrant Jews are too controversial to talk about. But not 6,000,000 dead Jews.
- What’s the one ritual that we all hold dearer than any other? Is it Torah study? That incredible chance to connect to our ancient wisdom? Is it prayer, that incredible opportunity to speak directly to the Almighty? No. It’s a yahrzeit when we say Kaddish for the dead. For dead Jews.
Do you want to know who also realizes this? Our kids. The next generation. There’s nothing less inspiring than when children see the thing that matters most to their parents about their Judaism is dead Jews. I once asked a child what shul is. His reply? “Where my family goes when someone dies.”
There is an age-old question as to why the Torah does not speak of the afterlife. It hints, it alludes, but it never spells it out. It’s only when we arrive at the Oral Law, the Mishna, the Talmud, that the afterlife is discussed explicitly. Why is that?
Allow me to quote Rabbi Jonathan Sacks: “Ernest Becker in his classic The Denial of Death argues that fear of our own mortality – of death – has been one of the driving forces of civilization. It is what led the ancient world to enslave the masses, turning them into giant labor forces to build monumental buildings that would stand as long as time itself. It led to the ancient cult of the hero, the man who becomes immortal by doing daring deeds on the field of battle. We fear death; we have a love-hate relationship with it. Freud called this thanatos, the death instinct, and said it was one of the driving forces of life.”
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggests that the Torah is silent on the afterlife, in what happens after death, because “Judaism is a sustained protest against this worldview. That is why “no one knows where Moses is buried” (Deut. 34:6), so that his tomb should never become a place of pilgrimage and worship. That is why, in place of a pyramid or a temple such as Ramses II built at Abu Simbel, all the Israelites had for almost five centuries until the days of Solomon was the Mishkan, a portable Sanctuary, more like a tent than a temple. That is why, in Judaism, death defiles and why the rite of the Red Heifer was necessary to purify people from contact with death. That is why the holier you are – if you are a Kohen, more so if you are the High Priest – the less you can be in contact or under the same roof as a dead person. G-d is not in death but in life.”
Today, on Rosh Hashana, as we plead with G-d for life. Zachreinu l’chaim, Kasveinu b’sefer Hachaim, if you listen really closely, you could hear G-d ask us: Can you write Me into your life? Can our relationship, your relationship to Judaism, be about the life you live and not your deceased family members who are no longer? Can it be about connection and not guilt? Can it revolve around Torah study not the recital of Kaddish? Can it be a year of life?
And so, if I may be so bold. On this Rosh HaShana, 5783, perhaps we can make the following resolutions:
- For every Yahrzeit candle we light, we should light a Shabbos and Yom Tov Candle, or do an extra Mitzvah.
- For every Kaddish we recite, we should recite and better understand one of the treasures of Jewish prayer.
- For every Yizkor service that we come to Shul for, we will come on a Simchas Torah or a Purim.
- For every Holocaust program, or article we read, we will connect with an Israel event or Torah learning session to enrich our appreciation of Yidishkeit.
I started this talk with the growing challenge of anti-Semitism, I may have gone a little astray. But not that far astray. As we speak about and think about rising antisemitism, we always come back to the question of what can we do? How can we respond?
Let me share with you how Dara Horn responded. In the final chapter of the book, People Love Dead Jews – and I am sorry for the spoiler, she writes as follows. After the antisemitic shooting in Pittsburgh, the New York Times reached out to her for comment. After the antisemitic shooting in Poway, the New York Times reached out to her for comment. On December 10, 2019, there was an attack in New City, New York. Instead of reporting on the clearly antisemitic nature of the attack, many of the newspapers decided to focus on “context” – the fact that in recent years, many Jews have flooded this small town and there is some tension between Jews and those who had been living there before. Aside from the implication that neighborhood disputes should be taken care of by donning tactical gear and trying to storm a Jewish school… it was also completely irrelevant as the attackers were not local to New City.
Be that as it may, at this point, Dara Horn was tired. She was tired of being the spokesperson for dead Jews, and so she turned her attention elsewhere, to a gathering that was taking place at around the same time that also caught her attention. 90,000 Jews met at Met Life stadium in New Jersey. It was not a protest against antisemitism, it was a celebration of life. These Jews were celebrating their completion of a seven-year cycle of daily Talmud learning. That, thought Dara Horn, is what I want to focus on.
To quote her, “I suddenly knew what I wanted to do… I began to study the Daf… and something magical happened when I switched over from looking online at news reports about anti-Semitic attacks to joining some of the online Torah study platform…After the dark weeks I had just sleep-walked through with anxiety and worry about anti-Semitism, I experienced a strange and unexpected feeling, an undeniable sense of welcome and relief. It was like coming out of a cold dark night, into a warm lighted room…And while I still read today’s old, old news about anti-Semitism. I also run away from it, toward the old, the ancient. I turn the pages of Torah texts, carried by fellow readers, living and dead who all turn the pages with me.”
If I could add one more suggestion, inspired by Dara Horn, every time we hear or read about another antisemitic act this year – and unfortunately, we likely will, let’s go to a class that day, let’s go online and listen to a lecture, let’s open a siddur, let’s open a Jewish book. Or even better, pre-empt it – Let’s make this a year of chaim by filling our lives with more Judaism, more Torah, more life.
The story of the Jewish People is not one of survival against those who tried to kill us – that’s a victim narrative, it places death at the center of our faith, and it’s just not true. The story of the Jewish People is the story of a group of people who chose life, and who continue to choose life. We will, of course, remember and give respect to our past and to our loved ones, but we will also live our own Jewish life, by praying more, by studying more, by living more.
May G-d bless us with a year of life. Amen.
Written with Rabbi Avi Goldstein.
by Motzen | Sep 11, 2022 | Sermons
There will be many terms that you will hear and read in the tributes to Queen Elizabeth II. Words like stability, dignity, tradition, unifier of her country, and grace. Those are all special terms in that they are hard to find in this day and age. As one columnist put it, “As I sit down to write about her life, I cry, realizing that all that she stood for is no longer.”
In addition to all that she stood for, there was something that surrounded her that is also ‘no longer’, something that would be worth spending some time contemplating and appreciating this morning, and that is awe.
In April 2009, President Barak Obama and his wife Michelle, visited the Queen of England. It was a disaster. The gift the first family presented the monarch was an iPod – which was derided as tacky. But far more controversial was the way the First Lady greeted the Queen. She gave Queen Elizabeth the Second a hug.
Now for most of you here that means absolutely nothing. What’s the big deal? None of the papers in the US picked this up as anything special. But across the Commonwealth, they were losing their minds…
You do not hug the queen. It is not just against royal protocol. It’s just unfathomable. The queen is sacred. The queen is literally untouchable. When in the Queen’s presence, if you are lucky enough to be there, you don’t breathe unless it fits with royal protocol. Like the big-hatted soldiers outside Buckingham Palace, in the Queen’s presence, you stand at attention. You stand in awe.
The concept of awe, the notion of something being sacred, is quaint, it’s old-fashioned. It is, to us democratic and egalitarian Americans, backward. And that’s a pity. Awe is the most… awesome emotion we can experience, but our culture, its speed, its tone, its self-centeredness all precludes us from experiencing true awe.
A few years ago, a group of students from Vassar College visited the home of Ludwig van Beethoven. His home is preserved as a museum in Bonn, Germany. The centerpiece of the museum is the room in which Beethoven’s piano is found. It’s the piano on which he composed most of his incredible musical pieces. The 200-year-old piano, valued at an estimated 200 million dollars, is of course, roped off.
However, one of the students came to the room that held the piano and just couldn’t resist the temptation to ask a museum guard if she could play it for just a moment. The guard allowed himself to be influenced by her generous tip and he let the young woman beyond the ropes for a few moments. She sat at the famed piano and knocked out several bars of Moonlight Sonata. When she finished, her classmates broke into applause.
As she stepped back through the ropes, the young woman asked the guard, “I suppose over the years, all the great pianists that have come here have played the piano, right?”
“No, miss,” the guard replied. “In fact, just two years ago I was standing in this very place when Paderewski, the famous pianist and composer, visited the museum. He was accompanied by the director of the museum and the international press, who had all come in the hope that he would play Beethoven’s piano. But when he entered the room, he stood over there, where your friends are standing, he gazed at the piano in silent contemplation for almost fifteen minutes. Finally, the director of the museum gently invited him to play the piano, but with tears welling in his eyes Paderewski declined, saying that he was not worthy of even touching it.” (h/t R. Efrem Goldberg)
That, my friends, is awe.
What would you do in that room? Would you play that piano, or would you stand in silent and awe-inspired contemplation?
The last passage of this week’s portion speaks of the archenemy of the Jewish People, the nation of Amaleik. We know they attacked us as we left Egypt. But they weren’t the only ones who did so. Why is the Torah so dead set against this nation?
If you look closely at the Chumash, it does not say they attacked us, it writes, asher karcha baderech, literally, this means they encountered you on the way. It’s a strange term, asher karcha. And so, our Sages, with their exquisite and sensitive ear, understand the term karcha not to mean encounter, but rather, from the word, kar, cold. They cooled you off.
You see, the nation of Amaleik is the anti-awe. The Jewish People, after the ten plagues, after the splitting of the sea, were revered, they were untouchable, they were seen as special by all. Amaleik could not stand this. They believed that there is nothing sacred. There is nothing called holiness. There is nothing that is worth an iota of awe. And so they attacked us to demonstrate that we are not that hot, that nothing is that hot.
Had they lived in 2022, they would have just tweeted a cynical tweet. Maybe they would have created a silly meme of the Jewish People. Or they would have written a hit piece. The Amaleiki people with their anti-awe philosophy would fit right in with our modern society. Amaleik would scorn the notion of an untouchable queen. Amaleik would sit down and play ‘Mary had a little lamb’ at the piano of Ludwig van Beethoven.
Amaleik is no longer. But what they represent – anti-awe – is all around us. The quick pace of life precludes us from ever allowing ourselves to be swept up in a magical experience. Fashionable cynicism precludes us from admiring anything or anyone. Leon Kass once said, “Shallow are the souls that have forgotten to shudder.” We, our generation, has forgotten to shudder.
So how do we develop this ability to shudder? How do we overcome the cynicism, the pace of life, and develop a sense of awe?
It starts here, in shul. One of the prime objectives in the institution of the synagogue was to instill within the Jewish People a sense of awe. According to Jewish Law, it is forbidden to kiss a child in a shul. Judaism is all about family, but in shul, we are meant to develop a sense of awe. This is why we have separate seating. Sitting with family is comfortable. But we are supposed be a little uncomfortable in the presence of G-d.
When I first joined the shul, I remember how David Greenfeld would get so worked up about making sure the people taking the Torah out of the ark all stood in the right place and all walked in formation following the Torah. My initial reaction was, who cares. But he was right.
We come to shul, especially during the days of awe, and we stand in silence, we bow, we listen, we have processions, we have pomp, we have ceremony. It’s slow. And you know what, it’s supposed to be slow. It’s meant to slow us down.
And then we open the siddur, and we start reading about things that we know and see all the time, but we ignore them or even worse, dismiss them. “Thank you, G-d, for giving me sight… for enabling me to stand… to walk.” We thank G-d for the cosmos, for light, for darkness, for Jewish history. Shul is one long exercise in developing a sense of sophistication and a sense of awe.
The goal is to then take that sense of awe and bring it to every part of life. I’ve shared this poem with you before but it’s worth sharing again. It’s an old Yiddish poem about an orange that was brought to a small, poor shtetl somewhere in Eastern Europe. The town-folk had never tasted, let alone seen, an orange in their lives. And so, when the orange was brought to town, everyone left work early that day. They gathered at the marketplace, and each and every person had a chance to hold and smell the orange. They admired its radiant color, they took in its powerful citrusy-sweet smell, and allowed their fingers to caress the smooth grooves of the fruit before passing it on to their friend.
The next day, after work they gathered again as the orange was peeled. They crowded together so they could catch the burst of juice as the peel was punctured for the first time. The peel was first grated and a lucky few were able to go home with some orange zest. The remaining peels were chopped and then distributed among the community members so they could each make a tiny little batch of marmalade.
The next day, they gathered again. This was the grand finale. They all stood in silence as one woman delicately peeled apart each segment of the orange. The people admired the ingenuity and uniqueness of a fruit that needs no chopping or dividing, a fruit that’s readily available for sharing. They oohed and aahd as the sections were separated and a chosen few were given an orange piece of their own to eat, to savor and to enjoy.
We don’t need to go to Buckingham Palace to feel this way. We live in a magical world, we’re surrounded by incredible people, we are the recipients of endless gifts from Hashem. Can we use our time here to slow down, to open ourselves up, and to experience a true sense of awe?
by Motzen | Sep 4, 2022 | Sermons
I’m sure by now you’ve seen the Pizza Hut commercial.
Certainly, the many people here today from the former Soviet Union know what I’m talking about. Da?
In 1997, Mikhail Gorbachev, who passed away this week, appeared in a Pizza Hut commercial. He and his granddaughter are seen walking into a Pizza Hut, which of course, is an American franchise that had only recently opened its doors on Russian soil. At another table in the restaurant, two men who notice him start arguing. “It’s Gorbachev! Because of him, we have economic confusion,” says one of them. His friend, clearly a lot younger, replies, “Because of him, we have opportunity!” The argument continues: “instability”, “freedom”, “chaos”, “hope”, and back and forth and back and forth.
That argument of Gorbachev’s legacy is still going on today. There are people like Vladimir Putin who despise Gorbachev’s shift to restructuring the USSR to a policy of openness, or in Russian, glasnost and perestroika (how’s my Russian accent, guys?). And others, especially many Jewish leaders, who hail him as a hero who allowed millions of Jews to go free. You’ll find some obituaries that claim that he was a visionary who saw value in democracy, and others like Natan Sharansky, who argue that he was an ardent communist who was forced to make concessions.
So as this argument is playing out in this Pizza Hut commercial, an older lady stops the two men and exclaims, “Thanks to him… we have Pizza Hut!” Which no one can argue with. And before you know it, the entire Pizza Hut is raising their glasses to toast Gorbachev… for bringing them Pizza Hut. (Only in Russia do they have alcoholic beverages in Pizza Hut.)
My initial reaction upon seeing this commercial was that this is bizarre and pathetic. Clearly, Gorbachev was in need of funds – which he was, and therefore allowed himself, he, formerly one of the most powerful people on earth, to appear in a commercial for pizza. Not even good pizza, I am told, and allow himself to be mocked.
But I thought about it some more and I realized that maybe I was mistaken, maybe this commercial can teach us a profound truth about life and about Judaism. Hear me out:
Every one of us desires to have a legacy, right? We hope that we’ll be remembered for doing something good, positive, constructive in this world. So, we build our legacy. We give donations that will ensure organizations that we value will impact people for years to come. We build families – the clearest form of legacy. We come up with ideas that will change the world, or our communities, or our workspaces. We all want to leave our mark. And that’s great and it’s important. But sometimes, it comes at a cost.
There’s a Chassidic tale of a man who had a recurring dream. He dreamt that under a certain bridge in Cracow there was a huge treasure buried. Night after night, he kept on having this dream. This guy was poor, dirt poor. He figured he had nothing to lose so he packed his bags and started travelling across Eastern Europe until finally he arrived in Cracow. He finds the bridge and starts digging.
He’s digging and digging and digging until suddenly he hears a voice yell, “Jew! What are you doing?!” He looks up, there’s a Polish soldier staring at him menacingly. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He tells him the truth. “I know this sounds crazy, but I had this recurring dream that there’s a treasure buried under this bridge. So, I travelled from my home to come here and find it.”
The soldier looks at him and then bursts out laughing. “You fool! I also have a recurring dream of a treasure buried, but it’s across the country in Berditchiv. Do you think I am going to travel there to find it?”
The Jewish man says, “Wait, where in Berditchiv?”
The soldier replies, “In this and this street and in this and this home, under the fireplace.”
Sure enough, the address the soldier gave him was his address. The man went home, dug up his fireplace and found a magnificent treasure.
You see, sometimes we are so focused on the big picture, sometimes we are so focused fulfilling our dreams and laying out our legacy, on accomplishing all of our big plans, that we ignore and lose sight of what’s right in front of us, right under our nose.
Let me ask you a question, what is the mission statement of Judaism?
There is none. (The notion that being a light unto the nations as our prime goal is simply untrue. It’s important, but it’s not the entirety of our faith.) Nowhere in the Torah does Moshe say, this is what it’s all about. This is everything. This is the big picture. Instead, we are given Mitzvos. 613 Mitzvos. In addition to the 613 Mitzvos that are in the Torah there are a gazillion Rabbinic Mitzvos. There is a big picture in Judaism, but by not laying it out in the Torah, Moishe is teaching us not to worry about the big picture, not to worry about the End of Days, about the ultimate goal of the Jewish People. Because when we do so, we sometimes lose sight of, and even worse, we sometimes trample on, opportunities that are standing right before us.
There is a Mitzvah in this week’s parsha, that we are not to cut a down a fruit-bearing tree. And we extrapolate from there, that we are not to waste anything at all. Ba’al tashchit; do not destroy things for no reason. You take an extra piece of paper towel to dry your hands, you just wasted.
And the context of this Mitzvah is critical. It is describing the Jewish People in war. And in the context of warfare, when lives hang in the balance, the Torah demands of the Jewish soldier not to waste fruit trees. Really?! Is that so important right now? We have bigger things on our minds! But what the Torah is trying to do with this Mitzvah, it would seem, is sensitize us to the small things that we so often ignore, that we so often trample on in pursuit of what we believe to be greater and more important.
Our Sages take this even further, suggesting that an even greater sin than wasting material items is wasting time. Think about it –
… In the five seconds I just let go by, you could have turned to the person next to you and told them how nice their hair/ suit/ dress looks. You could have made someone’s day. You could have said a short prayer and rejuvenated your soul. But we’re sometimes so focused on what’s next that we forget about what’s now.
In the 16th century, a great rabbi by the name of Rabbi David ibn Zimra received a question. A Jewish man was in jail for life. But he was given the opportunity to take one day off. One day! And he sent a letter to this rabbi asking him which day should he take off? Should it be Yom Kippur so he could say Kol Nidrei and Neilah with a congregation? Should it be Pesach so he could have a seder with family? Maybe Rosh Hashana so he could hear the Shofar?
You know what the rabbi answered? He said, take off the first day you can. Whether it’s Shabbos, whether it’s a Tuesday. Because today, each day, is an opportunity. Each day has endless potential. Stop looking forward, stop looking up, stop looking big, and look right in front of you.
That old lady, in the Pizza Hut commercial, she was right. Legacies, fame, honor. They’re nice, but they’re not always attainable, they’re complicated, and most importantly, they could be distracting. Bringing people together, to enjoy each other’s presence, right here, right now, that is a big deal. Hail to Gorbachev!
Now, it’s a struggle. I’ll be the first to admit. This Friday morning, I was davening shacharis, morning services, and I was thinking about what I was going to say this Shabbos. And I had to stop myself. What am I doing? I am in middle of praying. I have an audience with G-d! And instead of appreciating what I’m doing right now, I am thinking about tomorrow. What a waste!
So maybe we can all practice this. We’re all going to go to Kiddush. We’ll be speaking to someone. Let’s try to speak to them and speak to them only. Let’s not worry about refilling our plate, let’s not worry about the friend we want to catch before they leave. Let’s value what is in front of us. It’s priceless.
In sixty seconds, we are all going to rise and have a few moments of silence. It’s called the Amidah, shemoneh esrei, the climax of today’s service. We believe that at that moment we are standing before our Creator. He’s listening to us. Every word. An audience with G-d. Let’s speak our mind. Or let’s just allow ourselves to relish and enjoy the experience of G-d paying attention to us, to me, to you, because we matter to Him. Wow.
I hope and pray that we all leave noble legacies behind, undisputed legacies. And we’ll need to dream big dreams to get there, we’ll need goals, we’ll need strategies. But on this great journey, let’s not lose sight of what’s right in front of us, let’s not lose sight of the countless treasures that we can access every moment with small acts of kindness, with prayer, with Torah learning.
There is nothing more precious than what’s right here, right now.
