The Bibas Children and the Teachings of the Holocaust Parshas Vaera

by Ner Tamid | Jan 26, 2025 | Sermons

Chizkiyahu, one of the last kings in ancient Judea, was quoted as saying, אֲפִילּוּ חֶרֶב חַדָּה מוּנַּחַת עַל צַוָּארוֹ שֶׁל אָדָם, אַל יִמְנַע עַצְמוֹ מִן הָרַחֲמִים

“Even with a sharp sword on one’s neck, one should never despair of G-d’s compassion.”

It’s an appropriate sentiment to reflect upon as we await news about the fate of the remaining hostages, and most specifically, the Bibas children. Not that they are more important than anyone else who has been held in captivity, but those two redheaded boys captured the hearts of so many of us. How could you not fall apart when watching the footage of their desperate mother as she tried to shield her children from the barbarians who were kidnapping them?

Though it is not confirmed, and therefore we will not give up hope, but with the release of every hostage that does not include them, it would seem to indicate that these two precious and innocent children are not alive.

As people of faith, as people who believe in a Judge and in justice, it is nearly impossible for us to wrap our heads around this. It’s a question we could ask in so many circumstances, but it’s especially acute when we see children suffer: What did they do wrong? Why did these innocent souls deserve to suffer? Where is G-d?

The Gemara in Sanhedrin describes Moshe grappling with this same question. The horrifically cruel Egyptian taskmasters had a practice. If the Hebrews were unable to supply the correct amount of bricks, the Egyptians would grab an infant and stuff that infant into the walls of the edifices being built. Moshe, upon seeing this, turned an accusatory finger to heaven and cried out, “G-d, how could you?! What did this infant possibly do to deserve such a gruesome death?”

G-d, in this Medrashic telling, picks up His hands and says, “Moshe, if you know better than me, go ahead, do what you think is best.” Moshe rescues one lifeless boy from this wall. This boy, Micha, grows up to be the man behind the golden calf, and an idolatrous cult in the land of Israel.

This Medrash represents the classic answer as to why bad things happen to good people. It does not mean that every child who dies young would have been evil. What it means is that He is G-d, and we are mortal man. Have a little humility; recognize that our little minds – even minds as great as Moshe – cannot begin to understand the complexity of human history; how something that seems so bad is good and vice versa.

And while this answer is undoubtedly the most accurate – who are we to think we could understand G-d’s ways? – it does not always resonate. There are times when we are overcome by the sheer magnitude of evil or by the weight of our pain that simply humbling ourselves is not enough.

In modern history no event reawakened this question more than the Holocaust. The senselessness. The scale. And the sinister nature of unbridled evil on display compelled every believing person to ask, why?

On Monday, the world will observe Holocaust Memorial Day. Perhaps it’s time to move on from the empty slogan of Never Again. Every time I hear those words come out of the mouth of a world leader it sounds more and more like a 4-year-old claiming to never again misbehave. The world has stood by as thousands of innocents were butchered, the world has remained silent as hundreds of women were violated, and the world has been indifferent to the plight of hundreds of hostages. It has happened again.

Perhaps we can gain some solace not from platitudes uttered by politicians, but by the profound philosophy that was developed in the wake of the Holocaust. Today, with the memory of the Holocaust on our minds and the fate of the Bibas children and so many others unknown, I’d like to share with you how two of our Torah leaders addressed the question of ‘why’ in the wake of the tragedies that they experienced.

The first is from Rav Yaakov Moshe Charlap, a student of Rav Kook, who lived in Israel during the Holocaust. Like his teacher, he was a mystic and a dreamer. Just to give you a sense of who he was – As he lay on his deathbed in Jerusalem, there were jackhammers making a lot of noise right outside his window. His family was going to request that they stop, but Rabbi Charlap insisted that the construction workers continue. “My whole life,” he said, “I prayed for the rebuilding of Jerusalem. And now I finally get to hear it happening.”

In Israel, until the Eichman trial, survivors of the Holocaust were looked down upon. They were accused of being weak like sheep. Why couldn’t they stand up to the Nazis? As ludicrous as that sounds today, that was the sentiment of the Israeli street.

With this in mind, Rav Charlap shared the following idea with a group of survivors: You are all aware of the binding of Isaac. That was the turning point of our history, when Avraham demonstrated that there was nothing that stood in the way of his love for Hashem. It was at that moment that G-d promised Avraham that his descendants would become a nation. But Yitzchak was never slaughtered. Despite the devotion, despite the sincerity, despite the intentions of Avraham, G-d forced him to stop. In Yitzchak’s place Avraham offered a lamb.

The Binding of Isaac, Akeidas Yitzchak, suggested Rav Charlap, is an ongoing historical process. It started with the kavannah of Avraham, but it culminates in the death of any Jew who is killed because of their connection to our faith. Yitzchak had to survive for the Jewish People to come into being, but every Jew who died by the hands of the Nazis is part and parcel of the most significant moment in our history. Their death is part of the greatest expression of G-dly love.

Rav Charlap, you may have noticed, was cleverly flipping the sheep narrative on its head – those who died in the Holocaust were not sheep to the slaughter, they were the sheep of the Akeidah. They were not victims, they were heroes. They may have been physically weak, but their spiritual impact was powerful.

He continued: As Jews we believe in a Messianic Era, a time of brilliant spirituality and G-dly light. But the world is not ready for such a powerful expression of G-dliness in the world. And so, as the Talmud tells us, there is something known as Mashiach ben Yosef, a messianic figure who will tragically die. The pain and shock we experience over his death shields us from the brilliant light of Mashiah ben Dovid and creates an entranceway for the Messianic Era. This tragic Messianic figure is not a person, it’s a collective experience of overwhelming pain. Without it we will never get to our final destination. The 6 million Jews who died in the Holocaust did not die for no reason, they died to pave the way for the most brilliant light of Mashiach.

Yes, these ideas are esoteric, but the message is clear. When we look at one child or six million children in a vacuum we cannot begin to understand. But when we see them and we see ourselves in the context of a people and in the context of human history, we can understand that it is all part of a bigger and better picture, that the pain is paving the way for our collective joy.

While Rav Charlap was following the news of the Holocaust in Israel, there was a man by the name of Rav Kloynamous Kalman Shapira who was living it. Rav Shapiro, also known as the Aish Kodesh, was a Polish Chassidic rabbi who spent much of the war in the Warsaw Ghetto. Immediately before the war his wife died, in the opening days of the German attack on Poland, he lost his only son and daughter-in-law, and his mother. He was given many opportunities to flee but he did not want to leave his followers behind.

Every Shabbos, despite it being punishable by death to do so, he had a Shabbos morning minyan. Almost every Shabbos he would deliver a sermon to those who joined him. After Shabbos he would write the sermons down, and thanks to the hand of Divine Providence we have access to his incredibly moving and inspiring sermons.

It is both fascinating and heartbreaking reading these sermons. You could see, as time goes on, how his message changes. At the outbreak of the war, he shares classical messages of inspiration; if bad things are happening to us it is G-d’s way of telling us we need to change. As time goes on and he experiences more and more anguish, as the realities of what is happening become clear to him, he moves away from this classical approach of G-d punishing us for our misdeeds. But with few exceptions he does not deal with theology; he does not attempt to explain why. Instead, he focuses on the what. What can we do in this circumstance? Initially, he tells his followers that they should study more and pray more. With time, that becomes impossible and so he tells them we should be kinder to those around us, to help one another. As there is less and less to give, he instead begs them to think kindly of one another. And finally, he implores them to not give up hope.

This approach is beautifully summed up by Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm who suggests that instead of reading the famous words, Keili, Keili, lamah azavtani, Lord, O Lord, why did you forsake me, they should be read as lemah azavtani, to what end did You forsake me; not why but what can I do.

Why did G-d allow the most sophisticated army to let their guard down on October 7^th? Why did G-d allow so many innocents to be butchered? Why did G-d allow so many innocents to not come out of those tunnels of hell? Why does G-d allow so much overwhelming pain exist in this small fragile world?

Ultimately, we do not know, and that is not always satisfactory.

But perhaps those who lived through the Holocaust, perhaps Rav Kloynamous Kalman Shapira and Rav Charlap can provide us with some direction. To humble ourselves and recognize that even Moshe could not understand G-d’s ways. To be motivated by the fact that our suffering is part of a cosmic plan, and somehow the tears we plant will bring forth great joy. And to not ever be debilitated by the pain. These martyrs and survivors, through their words and actions, can teach us that you can be in the depths of hell and still find meaning, and still find purpose, that there is always a what that can be done, even when we don’t know why.

May we merit to see the day when all the hostages are returned, when all the soldiers go home, and the brilliant light of Mashiach will sprout forth from the field of our tears.

The Closing of Solomon Schechter and the Future of Judaism Parshas Vayechi

by Ner Tamid | Jan 11, 2025 | Sermons

One of the most important works on Jewish sociology of the 20^th century was Professor Marshall Sklare’s book, Conservative Judaism. It was published in 1955, the heyday of the Conservative movement, during which many graduates of Orthodox yeshivas were taking pulpits in Conservatives shuls and more and more Orthodox shuls were changing their affiliation and becoming Conservative. Sklare famously declared the history of Orthodoxy in the United States “can be written in terms of a case study of institutional decay.” He concluded his analysis of Jewish Orthodoxy by proclaiming that its future was bleak.

I thought about Marshall Sklare this past week as I read the news from Queens, New York. The board of the very first Solomon Schechter school, named after one of the most influential leaders of the Conservative movement, voted to change its charter from being a Conservative school to an Orthodox one. This school of almost 500 students no longer has an egalitarian minyan and is now called the Hebrew Academy of Queens.

This is part of a national trend; Conservative Judaism is on the decline. Over the last 20 years, one third of Conservative synagogues have closed their doors. Meanwhile, in our little Pikesville, a new Orthodox shul is born every day.

While there are some Orthodox Jews who have been celebrating this shift, I think it’s worth reflecting on two relevant implications.

One – every Conservative school or shul that closes its doors leaves hundreds, maybe thousands of Jews spiritually homeless. While a handful may decide that traditional-Torah Judaism is the only way forward; many will simply lose their connection to our faith. That is a travesty.

There’s an additional point worth considering that directly impacts us. Why are these shuls and why are these schools closing their doors? Conservative Judaism seems to be a perfect blend of structure, but not too much structure. Respect for the past, but modern. Where did they go wrong?

To be clear, I believe their understanding of how Jewish law works is flawed, but that’s not a reason why the movement would not remain as wildly popular as it was in the 50’s and 60’s. Why is their movement no longer as attractive as it once was?

One of the articles that reported on the Solomon Schechter school in Queens noted that the school’s shift to Orthodox was also part of a local trend. Many of the previously Conservative shuls have become Orthodox over the past decades. How did they get the formerly conservative membership to agree to separate seating and all other Orthodox practices?

They left the memorial plaques in place.

They left the memorial plaques in place. That was what it took.

Effectively, they were more focused on the dead than the living, on the past, more so than their future.

And this is something that we are far from perfect with ourselves.

I shared with you all in the past how we love dead Jews.

What’s the one day a year that our shul is packed? Is it Purim with its tangible joy, children in costume, and lively music? No. It’s Yizkor when we pay tribute to the dead.

What’s one historic moment that all Jews rally around? Is it the giving of the Torah, when 3 million Jews heard from G-d Himself? Is it the creation of the State of Israel, celebrating her miraculous success, the revival of our ancient tongue, regaining sovereignty after 2000 years? No. It’s the Holocaust. All Jews can agree that it’s good to talk about 6,000,000 dead Jews.

What is the one ritual that we all hold dearer than any other? Is it Torah study? That opportunity to connect to our ancient wisdom? Is it prayer, that invitation to speak directly to the Creator of the World? No. It’s a yahrzeit when we say Kaddish for the dead.

We love dead Jews.

I have been haunted for a decade by a short conversation I had with a child of this shul. I asked her what shul is. Her reply? “Where my family goes when someone dies.”

Reverence for the past is beautiful, but when we choose the past over the future, when we choose plaques over people, when we choose to memorialize and not internalize, that is a recipe for the end of a movement.

There is only one non-Biblical fast day that overrides Shabbos. According to one opinion, Asarah B’Teves, yesterday’s fast would override Shabbos, but not everyone agrees. The one fast that overrides Shabbos is a fast that one takes upon themselves when they have a bad dream. If you were to wake up on a Shabbos morning after a harrowing dream, you would be allowed to fast if you so choose. Now If Tisha B’av, the day that commemorates the destruction of both Temples and the start of our exile were to fall out on Shabbos, we would push it off to Sunday. Why?

Says Rav Meilech Biederman, Tisha B’av is about the past, it happened already. If you memorialize it a day later, big deal. A dream is about the future, and the future is potent, the future is powerful, the future is the only thing we really need to worry about.

When Yaakov Avinu gathers his family around him at the end of his life, he does not tell them to make sure to not forget him, he does not tell them how good things were in the old country. Instead, הֵאָֽסְפוּ֙ וְאַגִּ֣ידָה לָכֶ֔ם אֵ֛ת אֲשֶׁר־יִקְרָ֥א אֶתְכֶ֖ם בְּאַחֲרִ֥ית הַיָּמִֽים׃

Yaakov is entirely focused on the future, on what comes next. Are you passing our values on to the next generation? Are you ensuring that your children get the best Jewish education possible? Are you describing our rituals as a connection to a quaint past or as the most relevant present and the only way forward to a glorious future? A focus on children and on the future is the only way for a people to thrive.

This week is, I believe, the most significant week in my time at Ner Tamid. When I joined the shul there was a teen minyan, a very nice minyan with no talking, but there were no teens. Over the years, I noticed many shuls had learning programs for young families on Saturday nights, I didn’t think we had the critical mass or the interest to have one at our shul.

Last Saturday night, Ner Tamid hosted its first very own Family Learning. I got emotional looking around the packed room of Ner Tamid boys and girls, mothers and fathers learning together – especially impressive as it overlapped with a Ravens game. Today, right now, I will be exiting out that side door to go join our reinstated teen minyan. Our teens will be meeting weekly for a teen-led Mussaf minyan. We waited and waited until we had a critical mass of teenagers and now, thank G-d, we do.

Even those of you who are not into sociology may be familiar with the last name Sklare. You may not know Professor Marshall Sklare, but you may have heard of Rabbi Yonah Sklare. You see, Marshall Sklare’s son decided to join that movement that his father described as “a case study of institutional decay.” Marshall’s grandson, Rabbi Yonah Sklare, is a noted lecturer and teacher of Torah, who has given numerous talks in our shul.

Plaques are important. The past is important. But you cannot drive a car by only looking at the rearview mirror. A movement obsessed with the past will not survive.

Is the Torah relevant to us today? Can Judaism bring us closer to a better tomorrow? If that’s the message we are living and breathing, then, and only then will our children follow in our footsteps. Then, and only then, will this shul and movement live on.

Now if you could please excuse me as I go shep nachas from our future.

Living Outside the Ghetto Parshas Vayigash

by Ner Tamid | Jan 5, 2025 | Sermons

I have to get something off my chest – In 2012, I served as the interim rabbi of Ner Tamid. During that time, the shul conducted a national search to find a rabbi. I was one of the candidates, and appropriately given the same treatment as the others. There was a formal interview, there was a single Shabbos that was considered my try-out, or probba Shabbos, a town-hall style meeting. All good.

But then I was asked to have a second town-hall meeting. How did I merit to have a second meeting?

Apparently, some people were nervous. “Rabbi Motzen is a graduate of Ner Israel – the ultra-ultra-ultra-Orthodox institution. What is he going to do to our shul?” So this town-hall meeting had very specific questions about what practices I would impose on the congregation. Would I continue saying Hallel on Yom Haatzmaut? (Yes) Would I open the parking lot to cars on Shabbos? (No) And my favorite – would I ban the congregation from having televisions or the internet?

I love the assumption of the question, that I could just waive my hands, maybe write a short little email, and voila, everyone would unplug their modems and throw their 45-inch screen TVs in the garbage. Unfortunately, I have no such power. I could barely get my children to go to sleep at their bedtime…

I think I laughed out loud when that question was asked. Of course I would not be banning the internet. But the older I get, the more removed from my time at Ner Israel I get, the more I realize that maybe I should not have laughed at that question.

In 1516, the Jewish community of Venice was forced to live in a segregated part of the city. The Jewish quarter became known as a ghetto. The meaning of the word ghetto is unclear. Some suggest that it comes from the Venetian word, geto, which means foundry, as the very first ghetto was built on an old foundry in the city of Venie. Others suggest that it comes from the Yiddish gehekts, which means closed in, which is exactly what a ghetto is, a closed-in area. Some argue that it comes from the Old French word, guect, which means to guard, as the function of the ghetto was to protect the Christian from the “negative” influences of the Jewish People. Ghettos were an on-and-off feature of European life, and they reached their nadir with the over 1000 ghettos constructed by the Nazis.

Although historians suggest that the ghetto in 16^th century Venice was the very first ghetto in history, it’s not true. When Yosef’s family joins him in Egypt, he spends significant time coaching them on how to speak to Paroah to ensure that they end up living on their own in a city called Goshen. The Torah records this dialogue in great detail. Rashi suggests that Yosef wanted them in Goshen for entirely pragmatic reasons – they were shepherds and Goshen was a pastureland. However, the vast majority of Biblical commentaries disagree. Ramban, Kli Yakar, Netziv, Rav Hirsch, and even Josephus argue that Yosef’s intention was entirely spiritual. Egypt was the center of civilization but also the center of decadence and immorality. Yosef was desperate to keep his family away from the pull and attraction of Egyptian culture.

You see, there is another type of ghetto. One that is not imposed from the outside, it is imposed from within. As opposed to the ghetto wall put up by our enemies to keep us away, this second type of ghetto wall is put up by ourselves to allow us to build and develop.

The children of Yaakov faced an incredible challenge. They were a new nation, made up of barely a hundred people. How would they develop their own culture? How would they develop their own sense of self? And so Yosef wisely encouraged his family to live far away from the Egyptian capital so that they would have a chance to come into their own.

It was in Goshen that the children of Yaakov adopted distinct names and held onto their native tongue. It was in Goshen, in this self-imposed ghetto, that the children of Yaakov became the Nation of Yisrael.

This second type of ghetto was immortalized by none other than Trevor George Smith Jr., otherwise known as Busta Rhymes, a popular rapper. In one of his most well-known songs, called, The Ghetto, he describes how his culture, Black culture, thrived and developed in what he described as their own ghetto, the Black neighborhoods in New York. (I cannot quote a single verse from the song, so you’ll have to trust me.) In those neighborhoods concentrated with others of the same background, they were able to come into their own, creating a strong and unique culture.

There are still self-imposed Jewish ghettos around the world. In Meah Shearim and in New Square, there are communities of people who are deliberately running away from all other cultures. But the Goshen-Ghetto model is for the most part a thing of the past. That’s not the way we nor most of the Jewish People live today. If anything, we are far more like Yosef who lives in two worlds, the cultured, sophisticated man of the world, AND the spiritual and devout Jew.

But I sometimes wonder who’s right? Is it the Jew in Meah Shearim who does not know have to hear cruel jokes about the murder of the CEO of United Health Care, or is it me, able to quote Bava Basra and Busta Rhymes? Am I really better off?

As I sift through the books in the library, forced to choose between appropriate and inappropriate children’s books for my little ones, as I quickly scroll past ads on social media that would make most of our parents blush, as I am bombarded by ideas that do not in any way align with a Jewish way of life, I have to wonder if maybe pulling the plug on my modem would be the right thing to do. Even Yosef, Mr. Cosmopolitan, recognizing the dangers of his lifestyle, helped his family set up a self-imposed ghetto. This world is unsafe in more ways than one.

Despite my reservations, my modem is staying plugged in. I do not have a television but if I did, I would not throw it out, and like I told you twelve years ago, I don’t think you have to throw yours out either.

But for those of us who choose to live this Yosef lifestyle, immersed and engaged in the exciting and beautiful world around us, our connection to Judaism has to be stronger than those in Meah Shearim, not weaker.

There is a strange phenomenon where those who are more cultured and more connected to the broader culture, are often weaker in their religious observance. That is completely backward. And it’s not sustainable.

To be a Yosef, to engage in modern culture, we need to be honest with ourselves and say that not everything out there is good. A starting point is a filter on every device. But it’s more than that – we need to be disciplined and distinguish between good culture that is clean and wholesome and expansive, and bad culture that fills my mind with stupidity or worse.

To be a Yosef, to live in a world filled with ideas that are anathema to Jewish values, we need to be saturated with Torah so we could know who we are and what we stand for. Whatever amount of Torah they are learning in sheltered communities, we need to be learning double!

The other week it was freezing one morning, about 15 degrees, not including the wind factor. I had planned on going for a run and now I had two options. It’s freezing outside; I could stay indoors and stay warm. Or, I could run like… like a beast. I ran almost double my regular speed that day, I was dripping with sweat by the time I got home. Had I ran my regular pace I probably would have gotten frostbite.

I’d like to believe the benefits of being connected to the world around us outweigh the benefits of hiding away. Keep the internet. Keep your tv. But if we go down this path, we must follow in the steps of Yosef, known as Yosef HaTzadik, the Righteous One, and not just casually trudge along. The only way to thrive or even survive in such complicated conditions, outside the ghetto walls, is to make sure we break into a spiritual sweat.