by Ner Tamid | Jul 26, 2026 | Sermons
This past Sunday, a woman from the shul called me to ask me a shaila, but before she began, she asked me if my family in Canada was alright. Aside from a lousy economy and rabid antisemitism, I told this woman that my family in Canada was doing just fine. “Why do you ask?”
“Well,” she said. “I came to shul last week and noticed you weren’t there. When I asked someone where you were, this person told me that you went to Canada to save your family from the Canadian forest fires.”
So allow me to clarify. No, I did not go to Canada last week. And no, I am not a fireman.
But it did get me thinking – if I decided to quit the rabbinate, what second career would I pursue?
According to recent data, Google searches for “career change” were at a record high through June, about triple what it was five years ago. With the exception of politicians, who in the words of Nelly Bowles, would rather have a heart attack on C-Span than give up their jobs, most Americans are looking to switch careers.
Parenthetically, the top careers that people were looking to switch into were going into real estate, becoming a social worker, and becoming a… firefighter…
In our tradition, the most impressive, boldest, career changer was Rabbi Akiva. He was a vicious anti-rabbi and desperately poor shepherd for forty years. Until one day he decided to start learning Torah, and became the most famous, accomplished, and wealthy, Torah scholar in history.
We all know the famous story, how Akiva the shepherd saw a rock with a hole in it. And he realized that a small drip of water over years, maybe centuries, created the hole in that rock.
How many people walked by that rock? How many people observed a hole in that rock and never stopped to ask themselves, how did this happen? How many people realized what happened, but never stopped to consider how that holy rock could be relevant to their lives?
Albert Einstein once said: “Creativity is seeing what everyone else has seen, and thinking what no one else has thought.”
That is the greatness of Rabbi Akiva. His defining feature was thinking what no one else had thought. The Talmud tells us that Rabbi Akiva’s specialty was deriving inferences from the crowns over the words in the Torah scroll. For centuries, those crowns were meticulously drawn over certain letters, but no one ever stopped to ask why; what do they mean? Rabbi Akiva saw what everyone else saw and thought what no one else was willing to think.
The most famous story of Rabbi Akiva has him standing over the ruins of the Bais Hamikdash with his colleagues. They see the ruins and cry; he laughs. They are astonished; how could you laugh when coming face to face with such devastation? He responds by connecting two seemingly unconnected verses and extrapolating that somehow the fulfillment of the destruction prophecies will lead to a fulfillment of the rebuilding prophecies. His colleagues reply, Akiva, nichamtanu, Akiva, nichamtanu. You have comforted us.
Notice how his comfort does not come by seeing something new; it comes about by thinking new thoughts. This is the essence of true Torah learning, chiddushei Torah. In response to Jewish thinkers who tried changing the fabric of Judaism by advocating for changes in Jewish law, Rav Soloveitchik beautifully distinguished between shinuyim and chidushim. A shinuy, a change, is a distortion of Judaism; it dismisses the sacred and eternal nature of G-d’s word. A chidush is the essence of Judaism; it reminds us that each precious word is packed with infinite meaning, waiting for the next generation of Torah scholars to mine its eternal message. A few decades before Einstein’s formulation, the great Sefas Emes taught his students that “A chiddush, a new Torah insight, is not creating something out of nothing; it is revealing the hidden light that was always there.”
Many people make changes; far fewer innovate. A change, a shinuy, is moving from one set of circumstances to another. Making aliyah, taking a new job, or getting remarried are all profound changes, but they can still be little more than replacing one address, one office, or one relationship with another. It’s not working out with this spouse; let me find another. This job is too taxing; maybe being a fireman will be less demanding. I don’t have any friends here: I’ll move somewhere else and hope for the best. That’s change; shinuy.
Chiddush, innovation, is different. It is the willingness to create a new way of living. The successful innovator doesn’t simply move, find a new job, or remarry. They build a new reality shaped by the wisdom, scars, and growth of the past. Change alters our circumstances; innovation transforms the person living within them.
This Shabbos we are celebrating two wonderful and amazing couples. Jon and Rachel Groner joined our shul a few years ago. They were both retired, having dedicated decades of their lives to professional accomplishments and community building. They had a lot of experience and yet, there was one question that they would always ask me, “How are things done over here at Ner Tamid?” They wanted to help, but they didn’t want to recreate Ner Tamid. Rachel and Jon appreciated what we have going here and within those parameters, they applied themselves. In the few years they were here, they were on countless committees, always volunteering to help, leading the Sisterhood, sitting on the Israel committee, and more. You did not make changes, you innovated, and in doing so, you transformed our shul.
And during this time, you also transformed. The dedication to Torah study, which was dormant, was awakened; you learned together as a couple, you came to every class you could. You didn’t run away from your past; you embraced what you had before you and evolved. And now, you are off to the next step in your journey; one that you never saw coming, but you opened yourself up, and allowed the power of chiddush to take you to Israel.
We are also celebrating the upcoming wedding of Mark Schwartzman to Julie Katz. Mark is probably one of the most long-standing members in this shul today. He is also one of the most creative people I know. Through the 13 years I have known him, he has constantly come up with new ideas. As creative as those ideas were they were always sober – he was very cognizant of what Ner Tamid is, where Ner Tamid is located, how we can evolve without losing the spirit of our beloved shul.
And now, I have had the pleasure of watching you evolve. Since meeting Julie, you have become a new person. Not because you have changed, but because your bride has brought out the most beautiful traits that were always there, they were just waiting for Julie to breathe new life into them.
There is an age-old question that is asked about this Shabbos, Shabbos Nachamu. How could we go so quickly from sitting on the floor reflecting on the most horrific moments of Jewish history, highlighting the brokenness that exists in the world, to a Shabbos in which we are expected to be overjoyed, to a weekend in which concerts are taking place all over the Jewish world, a Shabbos of unbridled simcha? Did anything change? Can we just forget the Holocaust? Can we just ignore the raging antisemitism in America?
The answer is clear. We don’t just walk away from Tisha B’av. Shabbos Nacahmu is a time to reveal the hidden light that was always there.
It’s a time to say that yes, Jewish history is tragic, filled with persecution. But it is also filled with people who had the courage to rebuild.
It’s a time to say yes, the political climate is frightening; more and more Americans are turning to antisemitism. But there are also more and more Jews who have been awakened to the beauty that Torah Judaism has to offer.
It’s a time to say yes, my life is imperfect. I feel stuck. I feel lost. I feel down. But as a Jew, as a disciple of Rabbi Akiva and the holy Sefas Emes, I have the ability to reveal hidden light that is always there.
Mark and Julie, nichamtanu – you have brought us comfort. Rachel and Jon, nichamtanu – you have brought us comfort. May we all find the hidden light within our history, our relationships, and ourselves, and may we have the courage not merely to change our circumstances, but to reveal what was waiting there all along. And may the day soon come when Rabbi Akiva’s laughter is fully understood, when every promise of rebuilding is fulfilled, and when Hashem transforms our mourning into joy and brings true comfort to the Jewish people.
by Ner Tamid | Jul 5, 2026 | Sermons
Mazel Tov Eli on your Bar Mitzvah! You did a fantastic job reading the second to longest parsha in the Torah. Does anyone know how many pessukim there are in this week’s parsha?
Wrong.
There are 167 and a half pessukim.
There is one word in this week’s parsha that has a VAV in it. Instead of a regular vav, which is essentially a line, there is a crack in the line – a vav ketuah. In Teshuvos Binyan Av, Rav Doron tells a story about a shul in which the Baal Koreh did not realize the vav was supposed to have a crack in it. The Baal Koreh saw the letter had a crack in it, stopped reading, thinking it was an invalid Torah, and had the Torah returned to the Aron. They took out another Torah and also found a crack in the vav. They finally took out a third Torah in which the VAV did not have a crack and read from it, not realizing that it was the third Torah that was actually invalid.
In 1743, in Rovigo, Italy, a young rabbi was double-checking the Torah scroll before Shabbos and found that the VAV in this week’s parsha had no crack in it and decided to not use that Torah. The community members were up in arms, claiming that their custom was to write the VAV regularly, with no crack. They sent the question to the rabbis of Venice for a ruling, and they affirmed that it was indeed an Italian custom to write a regular VAV. Other rabbis got involved. A rabbi from Padua vehemently disagreed and declared all those Torahs with a proper VAV to be invalid. Rabbis from Amsterdam and from Poland even got into the mix. (h/t Rabbi Josh Flug)
Does anyone know which word in this week’s parsha is the center of this controversy?
Ironically, the word that caused so much dispute and disagreement is none other than the word Shalom, peace.
Last week’s parsha concludes with a Jewish prince committing a horrible crime in public. He takes a Midyanite woman into his tent but not before taunting Moshe in full view of the Jewish People. His actions have the potential of totally undermining Moshe’s authority and with that, the stability and unity of the Jewish People. But Moshe is frozen. The Torah tells us that he was overwhelmed, he was crying in despair. Pinchas, Moshe’s nephew, enters the scene, he grabs a spear and kills this Jewish prince.
Our parsha begins with G-d declaring that what Pinchas did was noble and as a reward, he will receive “brisi shalom, a covenant of peace.” It is that word shalom, the gift given to Pinchas, in which the letter VAV is cracked.
Why?
Rabbi Berel Wein suggests a simple and relatable answer. Peace is fragile. It’s all too easy for familial relationships to unravel, for friendships to go cold, for neighbors to stop talking to one another. All it takes is one careless remark, one inconsiderate action, and it all comes undone. Shalom is written with a broken letter to remind us how careful we must be to maintain peace.
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch has a very different approach that is both profound and especially pertinent:
He observes that many people see peace as a soft value. Meaning, peace is attained when people look the other way, when people don’t bother arguing with one another, when societies adopt a live and let live philosophy. That, he argues, is false and it’s dangerous. That’s not peace; it’s a lack of conviction.
250 years ago, to this day, a group of men declared independence from British rule and in doing so declared war against the English. There were many who argued that what were doing was foolish. Why couldn’t they just put their heads down and accept the current reality? But those men were anything but foolish; they were filled with conviction. Were they looking to fight? No. They were looking for peace. But they were driven by deeply held convictions about how a society should function, that all men are created equal, that no man is above the law, and that everyone should be treated with respect. They understood that the only way to get that result was through war. (h/t Rabbi Josh Flug)
In the early 1940’s this debate raged once again. Should the US enter the war theater in Europe or should they stand by? Yes, the axis of evil was… evil, there was no doubt. But why should the US get involved? It’s not our fight! Thank G-d, men of conviction stepped up, sending hundreds of thousands of American soldiers into war, and through their intervention bringing about true peace. Had they not done so, I, and many others in this room, would not be standing here today.
It’s an argument that is once again ripping apart this country as we debate the value of crushing evil regimes across the world.
Shalom, peace, says Rav Hirsh, is too often a reflection of weakness, physical and moral weakness. Hence, the word Shalom is written with a broken VAV. Remove the VAV and what you have is Shaleim – perfection, conviction, strength. Torah-driven peace is not weak; Torah-driven peace is driven by superhuman strength. Moshe stood still and cried. But Pinchas armed himself, he shed blood, and in doing so brought about true and lasting peace.
Anyone who knows Eddie and Ita Rosenblatt knows that they are the nicest, kindest people around. Always with a smile, always ready to help, always peaceful. But if you really know Eddie and Ita, you would know that their peace is driven by conviction. Theirs is not the soft-everything-goes type of peace. They are warriors. They fight for their children, they fight for what they believe in, they fight to do what’s right – they are shaleim, and that’s why they are b’shalom, that’s why they are so peaceful.
Eli, you have so many talents and skills; you’re bright, you’re good at math, you love to learn Torah, you’re curious, and you come across as incredibly sweet. And yet, when your parents were singing your praise, one of the words that they used is that you are a gavra, from the word, gibbor. You have a quiet, understated strength that drives you. Like your parents, you understand that true peace is fueled by conviction.
Allow me to conclude with story that some of you may know but every time I think about it, I am moved. Just over a month ago, in Monsey, New York, a terrible tragedy unfolded. Yudi Herzberg was picking his son up from school when he received a call from his wife. She was frantic, she could hardly speak, something about their daughter being hit by a car. Yudi raced home and found his eight-year-old daughter, Charlotte, on the street surrounded by members of Hatzalah.
He immediately noticed his best friend and next-door neighbor, who was also a member of Hatzalah, and that made him feel a little more comfortable. Knowing that his friend was there meant that his daughter would receive the best possible care. Only that Yudi noticed something was wrong. His friend saw him but did not come over, he avoided eye contact and quickly looked away. And then it clicked. The car on the street right next to Charlotte’s motionless body was the car of his best friend.
Hatzalah whisked his daughter away and sped to the nearest emergency room. They worked on her for over 40 minutes, but tragically, Charlotte would not make it. On June 3rd, Charlotte was laid to rest.
At the funeral, Yudi got up to speak. He spoke about his precious daughter, her smile, her energy. He thanked the many people who tried to help her. And then he acknowledged the elephant in the room. “I’ve been wondering to myself,” he said, “how this could have happened. Not just the tragic death of my daughter. But how could it be that my closest friend, the man I speak to whenever I need advice, the nicest guy I know could have caused this?”
“It must be,” he continued with a crack in his voice, “that there was a conversation up in heaven. G-d was boasting about how peaceful our community is, how much shalom there is between neighbors, how different types of Jews could all get along. And the Satan came along and said, ‘Big deal. The only reason there is shalom is because they’ve never been tested.’ And Hashem gave Satan permission to test us. This is the only plausible reason I could come up with.”
And then Yudi’s voice rose to almost a yell. “But Satan,” Yudi said, “you underestimated us! We will not fall for your trap! We will not point fingers! We will not spread stories! We will not allow this terrible incident to rip us apart! We will double down in how loving we are with one another! I bear no grudge against my friend; he is still my best friend! And I ask you,” he concluded, “to join me in bringing more shalom to the world.”
Tell me that shalom is soft. It is not. Shalom is made of steel. Shalom demands superhuman inner strength.
But I can’t help but wonder if Yudi Herzberg got the details of his heavenly story somewhat wrong. I can’t help but wonder if after October 7th, G-d was boasting at how unified the Jewish People were, how we all came together as one family, across religious divides, across continents. I can’t help but wonder if the Satan was given permission to test us, in Israel, in Baltimore, all over the world, to see if we could really hold it together.
The Herzberg family launched a campaign this past week called Shalom for Charlotte. They are asking people to commit to one act of shalom. These are not weak acts; they are acts that demand strength. Stop waiting for your friend to apologize and take the first step yourself. Call the sibling you haven’t spoken to in years. Take some time to better understand a fellow Jew who has an opinion you believe to be wrong. LINK: https://shalomforcharlotte.com/
As we start the Three Weeks of Mourning, a time to reflect on the cause of the destruction of the Bais HaMikdash there is no greater time to learn from the Rosenblatt’s and to learn from the Hertzberg’s, to find the courage to make peace, the strength to forgive, to make Shalom for Charlotte.
