by Ner Tamid | Apr 26, 2026 | Sermons
In a few days, Jacob and Helyn will be walking down the aisle to their chuppah. As they walk down that aisle, most of the people in attendance will likely stand up. Why?
It could be out of respect for two people who are talented and accomplished and are embarking on the most meaningful journey available to humankind. …
That could be the reason but I’m not actually sure.
The custom that many have to rise when the bride and groom walk down the aisle is shrouded in mystery. The few reasons that are suggested are frankly, quite weak, which leads many conclude that this is actually not a Jewish custom. Rav Moshe Feinstein, the most influential Halachic authority of the 20th century did not rise when a bride and groom walked down the aisle.
At some point in the wedding procession, Jacob’s grandmother will also walk down the aisle. Everyone will smile as she walks down the aisle – it’s so beautiful for a grandmother, especially one who has lived for almost a century to be in attendance at her grandson’s wedding, but I imagine most people will remain seated.
But by remaining seated, those in attendance are missing out in fulfilling a positive mitzvah; not a minhag, not a shminhag, but one of the 613 commandments, based on a verse in this week’s parsha – mipnei seivah takum, we are instructed to stand up for anyone who is considered old.
How old is old according to the Torah? Please don’t kill me – 70 years is old. According to Kabbalah, we are actually obligated to stand for anyone who is 60 years old. Meaning, any time you are seated and someone who is 70, or maybe even 60, walks by, if you are younger than that age, you are obligated to stand up.
In some societies, honoring those who are older is framed as self-serving. The great writer, Leo Tolstoy famously captured this message in his short story, the Wooden Bowl, in which a young boy watches as his father gets fed up with his own father whose frailty and shaking hands breaks numerous dishes. And so the boy’s father gives the old man a wooden bowl to eat out of. A few days later, the father sees the young boy making a wooden bowl of his own. The boy explains to his father that he’s making it for him – “Because one day, dad, you’ll be an old man and you’ll need his own wooden bowl.
In this depiction, honoring the elderly is simply a self-serving investment. I need to give my children an example of how they should treat me when I age.
Our Sages take a very different approach. Rashi, in this week’s parsha writes, and I quote: “What is deference? It is refraining from sitting in his place, and not interrupting his words.”
Rav Tzvi Hersh Weinreb explains this Rashi beautifully. “Not sitting in [an elderly person’s] seat means much more than just giving [an elderly man or woman] a seat on the bus. It means recognizing that the elderly person has his own seat, his own well-earned place in society, which you, the younger person, dare not usurp. It is more than just a gesture. It is an acknowledgement of the valued place the elder has in society, a place which is his and his alone.
Similarly, not interrupting the older person’s conversation is much more than an act of courtesy. It is awareness that this older person has something valuable to say, a message to which one must listen attentively.”
This past week there were two articles that caught my attention. One in the Atlantic and one in the New York Times describing something called the gerontocracy. I never even heard of that term before. Gerontocracy is defined as an organizational structure where power is held by leaders significantly older than the majority of the population and includes slower rates of political change and a concentration of wealth among the elderly.
The New York Times article, titled, Older Americans are Hoarding American’s Potential, proposes age limits for elected officials. I’m on board with that. But then he continues by suggesting that we mandate retirement across all sectors to make place for those who are younger. He argues for creating new tax codes which penalize elderly people for staying in their homes and not downsizing – the nerve of holding on to their one asset and not just handing it off to someone who never earned it. And forcing the elderly to distribute their hard-earned wealth so that us young ones could use it appropriately. That’s absurd.
The author of this article, Samuel Moyn, is the Chancellor Kent Professor of Law and History at Yale. And I find that scary. But also perfectly emblematic of an age-old problem; young people who think that old people are getting in their way.
Our parsha begins by alluding to the death of two young people, Nadav and Avihu. The Medrashim tell us that they were slated to be the next leaders of the Jewish People. They were, in one reading, greater than Moshe and Aharon. And yet, they die prematurely in some divine punishment. What was their sin? The Talmud in Sanhedrin quotes these two promising men, Nadav and Avihu, as saying the following: “Eimasai yomusu sh’nei zekeinim halalu? When will these two old men die?” – a reference to Moshe and Aharon – “Va’ani v’atah nanhig es hador, so that you and I will lead this generation.”
Yes, they were ‘with-it’ and maybe understood the culture of the people better than the elders. Yes, they were far more energetic, far more creative, and far more dynamic. But they failed to realize what they would be missing without Moshe and Aharon, two elders, at the helm. There is immense value in the conservative and slow nature of those who have lived long enough to make enough mistakes and have hopefully learned from them, who have seen no shortage of life-altering ideas with so much promise come and go and are now forgotten, who have a wealth of wisdom that no tax code can ever take away from them.
If we’re being honest with ourselves, we too identify with Nadav and Avihu. All the people in this room who bristled when I said sixty or seventy is old, why was it so uncomfortable to hear that? Why do we have such a hard time being called old? In Judaism old is not an insult, it’s a compliment, it means you are worthy of respect! When I speak to leaders of shuls who are looking to strengthen their shul, all I hear about is the “future of the shul,” and “how can we get better programming for the young adults?” That’s all great. But what about the traditions of the shul? What about the legacy members of the shul who created the institution? Are they unimportant?
Thank G-d, I think we do pretty well with this at Ner Tamid, but it’s a constant balancing act.
In Judaism there are two currents that are always at play and in conflict. There are two moments that define our existence more than any others – Ma’amad Har Sinai, standing at Sinai, receiving the law, and another moment which have yet to experience – the Messianic Era, Yemos Hamashiach, a brilliant and rectified future.
From the perspective of Sinai, we are always regressing, we are always moving further and further away from the clarity of that moment when G-d spoke directly to man. We are moving further and further away from a true understanding of G-d’s will. And in that light, the past is holy, the past is pure, and we, so distant from that moment, are nobodies. In the words of our Sages, “If the earlier generations were like angels, we are like men, and if they are like men, we are like donkeys.” The elders, in this model, are to be revered, the past is to be enshrined, the youth ignored, any talk of a different future should be met with deep skepticism.
But from the perspective of Mashiach, from the perspective of the End of Days, that view is completely backward. From the Messianic perspective, we are progressing, closer and closer, higher and higher, to a time of peace, of moral perfection, of clarity. And in that light, the younger we are, the closer we are to the truth. The youth, in this model, those who are attuned to the changes in the wind, are the heroes, overriding the ignorance of the old.
We live in constant tension between the young and old, the past and future, as both have a place in the development of the world. But in the sum-total of Jewish literature, it would seem, that the heavy past carries more weight than the flighty future.
And so when the young and bride and groom walk down that aisle filled with dreams and aspirations, we smile and we applaud them. But when the elderly walk by, we stand and we listen. We acknowledge the weight of experience and wisdom that the elderly carry.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 19, 2026 | Sermons
My favorite part of every Bar Mitzvah is what takes place in my office a week or two before the Simcha. I meet with the Bar Mitzvah boy and his parents to discuss the upcoming weekend, what their plans are, how things are going, and then, I ask the parents, “Please tell me all about your child.” And I get to listen as parents list quality after quality of their young man. I watch as the child, who until this moment was slightly checked out, perks up, and listens as their traits are shared.
Leiby, your parents did not disappoint. Your father told me about your love for family, your social skills, and your deep connection to Yiddishkeit. Your mother described your sense of humor, your musical talents, and your sensitivity. Of course, these are traits you acquired from them, each in their own way, giving you a shining example of what it means to be a contributing, community-centered, Jewish adult.
But my favorite-favorite part was when I asked you what you want to be when you grow up. Most kids hem and haw at this point. But you thought about it, you hesitated for a second, and then you blurted out – “I am going to be an inventor. I am going to invent a solution for pollution.” On Friday morning I checked it out – the name Pollution Solution was once trademarked by a linen company but their trademark expired in 1993. If anyone wants to get a great Bar Mitzvah gift for Leiby, all yours.
But what I didn’t tell you at the time was that that I had the same dream when I was around your age. That’s right. You see, there was a very popular television show when I was growing up called… Captain Planet. It told the story of these five kids who each had their own superpower, and “With the five powers combined they summon Earth’s greatest champion… CAPTAIN PLANET!”
Horrible graphics, plotlines that could have been written by a second grader, but for some reason it captured my imagination.
Admittedly, a lot has changed since then. Singlehandedly, over Pesach I threw out enough plastic plates and tin foil pans to kill off an entire species.
But as I told you, Leiby, in my office, pollution is actually the perfect metaphor for something that is found in our parsha that I have always struggled to explain. TUMAH. Tumah is translated as impurity but that really doesn’t capture its essence.
Tumah, Rav Yehuda Halevi explains, is rooted in death. But that doesn’t seem to match up with our day-to-day experience. One behavior that generates tumah, the tumah of tzo’ra’as is lashon hara, gossiping. I don’t know about you, but if I am being honest, I feel energized when I hear a juicy piece of gossip.
Don’t give me that look. This is biology. When listening to gossip, our brain gets a shot of dopamine, the ‘feel-good’ chemical that we all enjoy.
The question is why. Why does it feel so good to hear something scandalous when we know that it’s so wrong?
Rav Shlomo Freifeld has a brilliant take on Lashon Hara. He makes the following observation: If I were to tell you that in Raleigh, North Carolina, some dude named Bob did something wrong. Would you care? Not really.
But if I told you that it was someone who lives on this block, who is in this room, someone you know well, did something wrong, all of a sudden we get excited. Why is that?
Rabbi Freifeld explains that tragically most of us assess our self-worth relative to the people we know. We plot ourselves on a continuum with all the people we know. Am I a kind person? Well, let’s look around. If this friend is rude to everyone she talks to and this friend runs from chesed opportunity to chesed opportunity, and I, am sometimes rude and sometime engage in chesed, well then I suppose I am a moderately kind person.
But let’s say I find out that Mrs. Chesed-Chaser also is terribly mean to her children, guess what happens? Now she has gone down a few notches, which means that I am now a better person relative to the people I know.
This is why we don’t care if Bob from Raleigh is up to no good. He doesn’t affect my standing. This is also why the best type of gossip, the one that causes a massive flow of dopamine, is gossip about people who are supposed to be upstanding. Because when they go down, I go up. (Not in the Michelle Obama way. You know what I mean.)
The more gossip I speak, the more Lashon Hara I listen to, the less in touch I am with who I am and who I am meant to be. I completely lose sight of my own potential; I forget that my worth is intrinsic and that I will only be judged based on who and what I can be. What greater form of death can there be then living and breathing while being completely divorced from my own self-worth. Mi ha’ish hechafetz chaim? Who wants life? Who wants to really be connected to themselves and not live in a self-imposed delusion? Someone who abstains from gossip.
And this is where the Tumah-pollution analogy kicks in. Because in the short term, pollution is meaningless. It’s just one plastic plate. It’s just one puff of smoke. It’s just one factory. But it adds up. The smokers’ lungs eventually collapse, the inner harbor is eventually toxic, and the air in China, for example, is the direct cause of 2 million deaths a year. In the short term, if I know the hock, I am popular. If I know the latest community news, people gravitate to me, and as I put others down, I get lifted up. But in the longer term, it’s death. Who am I? I have no clue. I am so caught up in everyone else’s news, moving up and down on the superficial scale of relative worth, my own identity is buried in the rubble.
Mi ha’ish hachafetz chaim? If you want life, if you want your own life, stay away from gossip.
***
The fight against pollution has not been all that successful. TV shows like Captain Planet were successful in creating greater awareness, there have been some controversial pieces of legislation that have moved the needle, local efforts to encourage recycling have been a bit of a joke, for the most part, it’s not working.
The same could be said about the modern fight against Lashon Hara. Kickstarted by the Chafetz Chaim about a hundred years ago, it has also seen some success; learning the laws of Lashon Hara has become in vogue, setting aside time every day not to speak Lashon Hara is trendy. But like the fight against pollution, we’re just not there yet. If I were to tell you that I am going to now share with you a juicy piece of Lashon Hara no one would budge. (Should I?) If anything, the gossip industry is getting so much worse. What was once whispered between two friends is now posted publicly for posterity. Society-at-large has become a cesspool of takedowns and criticisms.
But the solution I believe is right in front of our eyes.
That famous passuk that describes Lashon Hara is well-known. Mi ha’ish hechafetz chaim? Who wants life?
N’tzor l’shoncha mei’ra. Restrain your lips from speaking evil. That we all know. But we forget that Dovid Hamelech has more to say. Sur mei’ra, stay away from evil. And this is the part people forget – Va’aseh tov, do good. Bakeish shalom v’radfeihu. Seek out peace and pursue it.
The best way to combat speaking lashon hara is not only to stop speaking negatively, it’s to speak positively, it’s to compliment, it’s to seek out opportunities to share kind words. And it’s magical.
“Leiby, you rocked your leining.”
“Jeff and Ayala Pensak, thank you for putting together this kiddush!”
“Jay, thank you for keeping me company!”
“Cerrill, I love your new glasses! Where’d you get them?”
“Thank you everyone for laughing at my silly jokes.”
Leiby, how did it feel when I complimented you? It felt good, right? But you know who else felt good? I did. Because when we speak positively about other people it demands confidence, it demands of us to stop judging ourselves based on others and to just lift them up. When we compliment people it gives us life. It trains us to connect to our true selves. Using our mouths for good is the greatest antidote to the death-inducing-tumah that is brought on by gossip.
And this is where you come in Leiby. One of the most beautiful traits that you learned from your parents is your kindness. And you express that kindness regularly by complimenting your friends, by sharing with them a word of comfort when they’re going through a difficult time. I don’t know if you’ll ever come up with a solution for physical pollution, but you’ve already made a real dent in the spiritual and verbal pollution that we are surrounded by.
Imagine a world where we all learn from Leiby. If instead of, or in addition to committing to not speaking Lashon Hara for an hour a day, we commit to complimenting one person each day. If when we go to kiddush today we compliment someone. If when we go home, we notice how a child or spouse did something nice and we let them know that we saw it. If in our next conversation with a colleague or friend, we seek out a way to praise them. Imagine how pure our world would be.
We don’t need Captain Planet. We need more Leiby’s. We need more positive speech to overcome the toxic pollution of Lashon Hara.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 10, 2026 | Sermons
I did it. I went to Seven Mile this year three days before Pesach. I had to buy four items – my wife would never ever ever trust me with an entire list of groceries. I avoided eye contact with the people I knew – I was on a mission (I’m sorry). I learned that the sun-dried tomatoes were not in the vegetable section. For some reason, I am pretty sure Seven Mile chooses the narrowest aisles to make into Pesach aisles. Right? You could barely squeeze two shopping carts in the aisle AND the Seven Mile worker decides that this would be a perfect time to start stocking the spices with a huge box and ladder.
By the time I was done, I was filled with gratitude to Hindy for doing this every other day of the year. To all of you grocery shoppers, especially for Pesach, you all deserve a round of applause.
Then, I tried to pull out of that parking lot. Wow. That parking lot was not made for fifteen-seater vans and hundreds of transplants from New York.
As I pulled out, I peeked at my receipt. And then I thought it might actually be a good idea to get my car hit by one those crazy drivers so I could have the money to pay for my shopping bill.
In short, it was stressful.
Later that day, I read a Facebook post from Shira Sheps, a woman who lives in Beit Shemesh. She too was shopping Erev Pesach. She was in line, ready to pay, when the sirens went off. Instead of pushing her way through a narrow Pesach aisle, she filed into a tiny room with 75 other people. Instead of navigating a parking lot with blaring horns, she stood, shoulder to shoulder, in a room filled with babies who were somehow not screaming. Though she didn’t mention it, the prices of her food were exponentially more expensive than mine, as grocery costs have sky-rocketed in Israel due to the war.
I’m embarrassed to say that in all my busy-ness in the lead-up to Pesach, I didn’t really think about what was going on in Israel. Yes, I woke up every morning to check the news. But I was reading about the bombs, about Iran, about the IDF. I wasn’t thinking about Shira and the millions like her. I wasn’t thinking about the thousands who have loved ones who could not be with them for Seder because they are on Miluim. I wasn’t thinking about the Seders that were interrupted constantly. Or the Seders in Israel that would be terribly lonely because a loved one’s seat will remain empty forever.
***
It’s Yizkor today, a time dedicated to remembering our loved ones. But sometimes I wonder, and I apologize if what I am about to say is insensitive – do we really need a day to remember a parent, a spouse, a child? Those who have experienced loss live with that loss daily. There is nothing that does not evoke a memory of a mother or father, of a spouse, a child or a sibling who is no longer with us. But there are others who we too easily forget.
Maybe it’s someone who sits in our row in shul but hasn’t been there in a few weeks. Maybe it’s a friend who is going through a hard time who would probably appreciate a call. And maybe it’s our family and friends in Israel, who are wondering if perhaps we have forgotten them.
***
One of the most haunting scenes in Eli Wiesel’s memoir, Night, takes place on a cattle car. He and his fellow inmates were on the death march, they were broken and starving. A soldier threw them a few scraps of bread, which were immediately pounced upon. Two people grabbed the same piece of bread and started fighting over it. One of them was a little stronger than the other – a tiny bit more flesh on his skeleton, and he started beating the other man viciously. When the other prisoners finally pulled them apart, they realized that it was a son beating his father.
Starvation saps the humanity out of us. Even those of us who are not starving, in times of distress, we easily forget about those around us.
***
Two weeks ago, I received a message from a friend in Israel:
“Hi,
I hope you’re doing well… Some of us here in Israel are sensing a certain amount of “Israel fatigue” compared to after October 7th. [We’re not hearing] from friends abroad or [seeing any] social media posts. I’m wondering if you have any thoughts?”
The only thought I had was, wow, how embarrassing.
Fatigue was a very generous assumption. If I’m being honest, in the hustle and bustle of pre-Pesach life, I simply forgot.
That man who texted me is not alone in feeling abandoned by American Jews; I have heard this sentiment numerous times from Israelis. “While you are making your Pesach plans around Kosher for Pesach food, we are making our Pesach plans around bomb shelters.” Or “We are living in two different worlds.” Or “You cannot possibly understand what we’re going through.” Israeli Jews have started describing Diaspora Judaism as a different form of Judaism.
That’s wrong, we are one people, and we always will be. But there is also some justice to their critique.
Maybe I cannot donate anymore to Israeli causes, that’s fair. But have I really spent time thinking about how difficult it must have been these past four weeks, preparing for Pesach with houses full of children, as missiles rained down? Have I spent any time this past month thinking about ways I can help?
***
We’ve been learning about the life and works of Rabbi Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal over Pesach. As I read about his life, I thought of the Elie Wiesel story. In the final section of his book, Eim Habanim Semeicha, a book that is ostensibly about building up the land of Israel, he shifts gears and starts talking about unity. He argues that the main reason building Israel is so important is because it’s a project that can bring all Jews together, and togetherness, unity, true care for a fellow Jew, is the most important value of all.
That is the final message of his book, and also the final message of his life. He too was on a train in occupied Europe, this one on the way to the Mathausen concentration camp. The German soldiers also played their sick games with him and the other Jews crammed into a cattle car. They threw some crusts into the car; one was grabbed by an old Jew. There was a Ukrainian prisoner in the same car, and he snatched the crust from the Jew. Rabbi Teichtal witnessed this and calmly walked over to the Ukrainian and demanded that he return the crust. The Ukrainian laughed at him. The Jews in the car who knew Rabbi Teichtal begged him to leave it alone. But he replied: “How can I stand by when the man’s life depends on this food?” He tried again to retrieve the crust, but this time the Ukrainian started beating Rabbi Teichtal. A Nazi officer stepped in and helped the Ukrainian. Rav Teichtal died with Echad on his lips, the oneness of the Jewish People.
***
We are all on a train together and we all face the same choice. Which of those two stories is ours?
Will we get swept up in our own stressors? Will we ignore the cries of our brothers and sisters in Israel? Will we go on our exotic vacations, sleep undisturbed through the night, and allow the bond between us to wither away?
Or will we feel their pain? Will we stand up for them? Will we do whatever we can to support them?
There is so much more to do, and I hope you can help me come up with ideas of how we can best give them strength. But at the very least, let’s let them know we care.
This Yizkor, let’s not only remember those who passed, let’s remember the living who need our attention. Let’s remember Elliot Heller, a young man who grew up in our shul who spent Pesach in Gaza eating out of cans. Let’s remember the tens of families who made Aliyah from our shul who spent Seder night running to and from their bomb shelters. Let’s remember Hodaya Harush and her kids whose husband’s picture we walk by every Shabbos in shul – I am sure she, who sat with no one at the head of her seder table, would appreciate being remembered. Let’s not just remember them; let’s send them messages after Yom Tov, wishing them a good Shabbos, thanking them for being in Israel on our behalf, letting them know we care.
I have spent the past week talking about Israel and making Aliyah. It is a beautiful Mitzvah to live in Israel, but it’s also not for everyone. But unity, true care and connection with one another, that is something we are all obligated in. As Rav Teichtal observes, when faced with the decision of staying in Israel or reuniting his family in Egypt, Yaakov Avinu was told that unity is more important; keep the family together.
At 120, we will not be asked why we did not reach out to say hello to a Charedi we never met or a secular Jew in Tel Aviv we never crossed paths with. But we will be asked why we did not remember those we know, those whose phone numbers are in our phones. Those people are in our train, and right now, they need us.
We cannot allow the divide of the ocean or differing life circumstances divide us any further. Let’s remind them and remind ourselves that we are one. And in that merit, may G-d bring us all to Israel speedily in our days.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 6, 2026 | Sermons
I’d like to tell you about a man whose name many of you likely never heard, whose influence was quite limited, but whose life story is exceptionally relevant in April of 2026. Rabbi Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal was born in Hungary in 1885. He studied in Pressburg, today is known as Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia, in the same yeshiva my grandfather learned. His early years followed the typical trajectory of a bright and precocious young man.
In the introduction to a widely acclaimed book that he wrote on Halacha, Mishnas Sachir, he relates the following episode from his youth. He woke up one morning hungry and asked his mother for something to eat. She was baking but the food was not yet ready and instead his mother gave him advice, which he said, stuck with him his entire life: “I will give you advice,” she said, “to quiet your hunger: Know, my son, that the holy Gemara has the effect of quieting hunger and satisfies living beings just like bread. Take you Gemara and review what you studied this week, and you will be full. You will not feel any hunger. On the contrary, you will taste honey sweeter than from the comb, a taste even sweeter than the cake.”
His mother’s loving message guided him as he developed into a true Torah scholar. At the age of 36 he was appointed the head of the Beis Din of Pishtian. It was a wealthy city in Czechoslovakia, known for its mineral baths and it attracted an endless stream of visiting rabbis with whom developed deep relationships. Three years later he published Mishnas Sachir, a book of Halachic responsa that was widely-acclaimed. He was living the Rabbinic dream.
A year later Rabbi Teichtal published a book of his sermons. Many of the sermons were directed against Orthodox Jews who were Zionists. This was not surprising. Anti-Zionism was a given among the leading Orthodox rabbis of the time.
Rav Yosef Ber Soloveitchik, the namesake of the Rav Soloveitchik that we all know, described Zionism as the false Messiah of their times. The Chofetz Chaim stated that the fate of Jews was to remain in exile until the coming of Mashiach; to emigrate to Israel early was a denial of Mashiach.
There was more than just theological arguments, there was a practical reason many rabbis opposed Zionism. The vast majority of those leading the Zionist movement were anti-religious. Ben Gurion described his vision of a new Jew who was devoid of any connection to religion. To him, and to many others, religion kept the Jewish People intact in exile, but now that a homeland was available to them they could maintain Jewish Peoplehood simply by living in the land.
Additionally, there was political concerns. Many Jews, regardless of their faith, were concerned that this nationalist movement would cause their host countries to see them as unpatriotic and they feared that Zionism would cause them to lose their newly acquired rights as full-fledged citizens. The first Zionist congress was supposed to take place in Munich but the local Jewish population was so scared of the political impact that Herzl was forced to move the congress to Switzerland.
Rabbi Teichtal was a devoted follower of the Rebbe of Munkacz, one of the fiercest anti-Zionists of the time.
In 1938, the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia. Rabbi Teichtal was given an opportunity to escape but he refused to do so as there were people there who needed his support. As the Nazis got closer, he and a number of others hid in the attic of the local Bais Medrash where they miraculously went undetected. He relates how he watched through the cracks in the walls how the Jews were gathered up and deported. He watched in horror as many Jews were killed on the spot.
While he remained in hiding, he had plenty of time to think and he started wondering why. Why was G-d allowing for these terrible atrocities to take place? His community was a devout one, they dedicated their lives to Torah and Mitzvos. They were generous with the poor; they were good people. Why would G-d bring such a terrible fate upon the Jews?
And in that attic, he underwent a transformation. Drawing on his encyclopedic knowledge of Torah that he memorized he started reviewing sources that described why bad things happen to the Jewish People. And he came to a conclusion that I am sure shook him to the core; they should not have been living in Europe. G-d had given them the ‘medicine before the affliction,’ He had given them the opportunity to come back home, to return to their Promised Land, and they rejected that gift. (To be very clear, his view was not, as some mistakenly attribute to him, that the Holocaust took place because they did not live there – he couldn’t begin to fathom why the Holocaust took place. But) he believed that G-d had given them an opportunity to escape the inferno of the Nazis and they simply ignored this Divine present.
In that attic he started writing his ideas on scraps of paper, scraps of paper that became his most prized possession.
In 1942, he escaped to Budapest, which was still safe from the Nazis. Being that he was held in such high esteem, he was invited to give lectures in the community, which he did. The theme that he spoke of was this one – we rejected G-d’s gift; we should be in Israel. Unfortunately, no one listened. Worse, they mocked him. They assumed that he had a nervous breakdown in that attic; what he saw must have caused him to snap. But that didn’t stop him. With the war raging all around him he went about to publish a book, titled, Eim Habanim Semeicha, in which he outlined his newfound philosophy of Zionism.
Pesach is known in Kabbalistic literature as the holiday of faith. Through the ten plagues, the Jews in Egypt were given a masterclass on G-d’s existence and power. It is meant to be a time during which we strengthen our faith. The way we do that is by asking hard questions about what we do and why.
In the Pesach story, the Jewish People’s newfound faith is contrasted with the stubbornness of Pharaoh. No matter what he saw and experienced, he refused to change his way of thinking. The Torah describes his stubbornness as a ‘heavy heart.’ Historians point out how meaningful that term was in Egyptian culture. In the ancient world, when an Egyptian would die, they would put his heart on a scale. On one side was the deceased’s heart and on the other was a feather. If the heart was heavier than the feather, the individual was depicted as evil. So when G-d describes Pharaoh’s heart as heavy, He was conveying a message. You know what evil is? Evil is the inability to change your mind.
We are all brought up with ideas shaped by our parents and society; we can’t be blamed for having certain ideas in our youth. But when we face challenges, when we encounter experiences that are out of the ordinary, and we don’t reexamine our beliefs, that is evil. וַיַּכְבֵּד פַּרְעֹה אֶת־לִבּוֹ גַּם בַּפַּעַם הַזֹּאת Even after seeing the miracles of the plagues, Pharoah did not change, he hardened his heart, that is the definition of evil.
And that begs the question. I imagine everyone in this room considers themselves to be a Zionist. We believe in the value of a Jewish homeland and we support in many ways. But we are living through incredible times; times of upheaval but also times of incredible miracles. Are we reexamining our beliefs? Are we really justified in living in Baltimore? Are the excuses that were perhaps valid in the past still valid today? As more and more Jews make Aliyah, as living in Israel is getting easier and easier, as the people of Israel are experiencing daily miracles while we read them in the news, is it time to challenge our beliefs? Or are we simply walking in the footsteps of Pharoah?
Rabbi Teichtal writes the following in the early pages of his book:
I must confess the truth and declare my sin. I, too, despised the rebuilding of the Land, because I heard unqualified statements made by many Orthodox Jews, which became firmly implanted in my heart. I did not concern myself with this matter at all, because I was preoccupied with learning, teaching, and writing volumes on the Talmud and its commentaries, as well as responses to questions regarding the word of HaShem. I only delved into this halachah after we suffered afflictions in this bitter exile. HaShem enlightened me, and I saw that I and all those who opposed this movement were mistaken. I admit and say, “That which I previously told you was mistaken.” … Thank God, I have no qualms about publicly expressing the truth that is in my heart. I am not afraid of any man… I will not revoke my Torah opinion because of any gadol or rebbe or our generation, unless he debates the issues with me in the manner of Torah dialogue, using proofs from the words of Chazal. I will then concede to his words, if they are correct, but not if they are unfounded. (Em ha-Banim Semekha, p. 28 in the M. Lichtman translation).” This is the legacy of Rabbi Teichtal – the ability to ask tough questions, the strength to overcome our naturally hard hearts.
Over Pesach, in the evenings, I will be teaching selected pieces of Eim Habanim Semeicha, to give us some food for thought, to encourage us and to encourage me personally to look in the mirror and to make sure I do not have a hard heart.
There are no simple answers to these questions. I do not believe that everyone should or could make Aliyah. But if there is any holiday, in any era, in which we should be asking these tough questions, it is this one.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 6, 2026 | Sermons
Forty-two years ago, there was a family in Bnei Brak. They were a loving family with many children, all of them doing well, except for one child, Avrami. Avrami was struggling. At home, in school, with his friends and with his teachers. Erev Pesach could be a tense time in many homes, and this household was no exception. There was some argument over something silly, but it quickly escalated. Avrami got upset, really upset, turned to his family and said, “That’s it. I’m done!” He quickly packed a bag and stormed out of the house.
The family assumed he’d be back after an hour or two, but they were wrong. The rest of the day flew by, showers, setting the table, naps for the young children, all with an eye to the door, but Avrami did not return. Throughout the day, the parents kept looking out the window to see if maybe Avrami was outside. He wasn’t.
With a heavy heart, Avrami’s family went to shul Pesach night. They davened at the Lederman shul where the rabbis was Rav Yaakov Kanievsky, otherwise known as the Steipler, one of the great Torah leaders of his time. After davening, the father went to wish the Steipler ‘a good Yom Tov,’ and then told him what was going on with Avrami. “What should I do?” asked the concerned father. “Techakeh, wait,” the Steipler. “Just wait.”
The family came home, the table was set, the children were hungry, but the father told them what the Steipler had instructed him to do, and so they waited. An hour went by, two hours went by. They could hear their neighbors singing Hallel already. But the family just waited.
Finally, as it was getting close to midnight, the father decided he would go visit the Steipler and ask him what to do. He opened the door and there, standing in the doorway was Avrami. Looking sheepish, with tears dripping down his cheeks. Without any words, he walked into the home.
Avrami came in, took a look around and was shocked. His siblings were reading on the couch, sitting on the floor playing games. He looked at the table, and it was perfectly set, not a drop of wine in the cups.
“You waited for me?” asked Avrami. “I can’t believe you waited.”
“Of course, we waited for you,” said his father, as they embraced. And Avrami never looked back.
This is the Pesach story. G-d promised Avraham that the land of Israel would be theirs and that He would live lovingly with his children. But we ran away. We fought with our brothers, selling one of them down as a slave. We moved to Egypt where we adopted their pagan customs and lost all connection to our Father in Heaven. And yet, as Rashi writes, we call Pesach the ‘night of watching,’ as it represents G-d, who was watching and waiting for the Jewish People to turn things around, to realize that they strayed, to come back home. Until we did.
And when we did, G-d embraced us. He showed us that He was waiting all this time. He demonstrated to us that He loves no matter how far we stray. (Heard from Rabbi Yechiel Spero)
This story of Avrami, the story of Pesach, was the story of the Jewish People throughout all of history; we would turn away and eventually we would come back home. And each time, G-d would be waiting for our knock, waiting for us at the door, to welcome us back with open arms.
But today, in Shir Hashirim, we read of a different reality. Today in Shir Hashirim, we read how our loving Father in heaven doesn’t just wait for us to knock at his door, sometimes he comes knocking on our door.
In 1956, Rabbi Yosef Soloveitchik delivered a speech built around a few verses from Shir Hashirim. In one of the most evocative scenes, the male lover, a representation of G-d, comes knocking on the door of his maiden, representing the Jewish People. Kol dodi dofeik.
Rav Soloveitchik suggested that in 1956, after two thousand years of G-d waiting for us to knock on His door, started knocking on ours. Rav Soloveitchik described six “knocks,” six new historic realities that were so clearly Hashem knocking our collective door, letting us know how badly He wants to connect with us.
There was the political knock, how the Western Powers and the Soviet Union somehow both agreed to vote on the partition plan.
There was the military knock, how Israel defeated six Arab armies in the War of Independence.
There was the theological knock, how Christians could no longer point to the Jewish People being in exile as a proof of G-d rejecting us.
There was the psychological knock, how the State of Israel injected pride into the Jewish psyche.
There was an ethical knock, how self-defense became a renewed value. Thanks to the IDF, Jewish blood was no longer free.
And finally, there was a practical knock in that every Jew now had a place to flee.
These knocks were G-d’s way of saying, I want you, please let me into your life. Let’s reunite. Let’s start again. I am tired of waiting for you to come to me; I’m here and I miss you. 1956, Rav Soloveitchik was saying, was the dawn of a new era for the Jewish People. All we had to do was listen, hear Him, get up from our slumber, and let Him in to our lives.
Seventy years have passed since that talk. In that time, some of those knocks have become muffled, but others have only gotten louder.
For example, in 1956, when Rav Soloveitchik gave this talk there were approximately 1 million Jews living in Israel. Today there are roughly 8 million. In 1956, 50,000 Jews from Arab states made Aliyah to escape persecution. Since October 7th, with rockets raining down, over 50,000 Jews made Aliyah, not to run away from anything, but because they wanted to come home. The number of Arab countries who are at peace with Israel, officially or unofficially, is staggering. Imagine telling Rav Soloveitchik in 1956, that Jordan, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia would be working with Israel to fight a common foe. The message that Jewish blood is not cheap, and the military knock –You’d have to deaf and blind to not feel the power of this G-dly knock.
If I were to tell my great-great-grandfather that there was a Jewish army, he would say, “Oh, Mashiach came.”
If I were to tell my great-grandfather that there was a State of Israel, he would say, “Oh, Mashiach came.”
If I were to tell my grandfather that Israel was decimating its Arab foes and that Israel was the strongest most sophisticated army in the region, he would say, “Oh, Mashiach came.”
These are not normal times! I know I say it often, but how can I stop saying it? G-d is not just knocking on our door; those are the sounds of a battering ram smashing the door to smithereens. We are living through the greatest era in Jewish history in at least 2500 years. And I’ll keep on saying it until it sinks in. Maybe it has sunk in for some of you, but for me, I know it, but I still don’t feel the way I should.
For 2500 years, no matter how assimilated we became, no matter how far we strayed, G-d waited for our knock at the door. But in 2026, G-d is knocking our doors, G-d is banging away, hoping that we finally learn and that we finally truly believe how precious we are to Him and how much He loves us. Let’s open the door and let Him in.
