L’vado, alone, is a term that has both positive and negative connotations.
Lo tov heyos ha’adam l’vado, it is not good for man to be alone. And yet, vayivaser Yaakov l’vado, Yaakov’s aloneness leads to his most spiritual encounter. Is it good to be alone or not?
We are described by Bilaam as a nation alone, am l’vadad yishkon, in what was an attempted curse. But ultimately his curse gets expressed as a blessing. The distinctiveness of the Jewish People, is that a blessing or a curse?
The only l’vad that is clearly positive is a description of G-d being alone, ein od milvado. And yet, it is precisely that aloneness, that distance from us, that makes our relationship with Him so difficult. We want to see Him, we want to understand Him, and yet, He seems so far away, so difficult to comprehend His ways.
My goal this evening is to address three different aloneness’s that we experience; a nation alone, personal loneliness, and loneliness as it relates to our distance from G-d. I hope to provide some perspective on these topics and also a practical exercise for each one. They are not difficult exercises; they are small tweaks to our life. If you are looking for some mind-blowing new behavior this is not the place you will find it. The mesorah I have from my rebbeim is that the only way to bring about effective change, is to make the smallest of behavioral modifications. This past year, I decided last Rosh Hashana to make a change; it was so small and seemingly insignificant but also transformative. And no, I won’t be sharing it with you.
For those of you with a short attention span, my entire talk today can be summed up in one sentence: The key factor as to whether being alone is a blessing or a curse revolves around the difference between being alone and being lonely.
Rav Soloveitchik, in his classic book, The Lonely Man of Faith suggests that to be alone means to be divorced from other humans and that is tragic and that is painful; we are social beings, we need to be connected to others. To be lonely means to recognize that we are utterly unique. To be lonely means to accept that there is a part of us that may never be fully understood by anyone and to appreciate how precious that is. While aloneness saps us of our energy, loneliness, getting in touch with our uniqueness, is actually invigorating.
Aloneness and loneliness.
Let’s talk about how this plays out as a nation.
Allow me to read you a letter that someone in our shul, Dr. Gary Bauman, received a few weeks ago:
“Dear Dr. Bauman,
This isn’t an easy email to write, but my wife … and I won’t be coming to your practice in the future. We’re sorry about this because we appreciate the excellent care we have received from you over many years. But we feel intruded upon by your sign “We stand with Israel,” because, to put it simply, the two of us don’t.
However understandable Israel’s initial response to Hamas’s horrible actions of October 7, 2023 may have been, the continued slaughter of tens of thousands of Gazan civilians, with no end in sight, seems to us indefensible, a violation of the norms of civilized conflict. Obviously, we and you have different views of this—and of course you have every right to your own beliefs– but your sign, in particular, leaves us no choice but to withdraw from your practice.
Sincere regards.”
Shockingly, or maybe not so shockingly anymore, the writers of this email are Jewish. They, like so many other Jews, feel embarrassed of the Jewish State.
I feel angry at them, I feel disappointed with them, and I also feel empathy towards them – I understand, or I think I understand where they are coming from. It is a scary time to be a Jew; it is a scary time to be a supporter of Israel. Since the creation of the State of Israel, I don’t believe there has been a time when Israel has been so marginalized – look at the circus playing out at the UN right now. I don’t believe there has been a time in which Israel’s politicians and even former IDF soldiers are afraid to travel abroad because they might get arrested, a time in which so many countries that have been long-standing allies of Israel are turning their backs on her, a time in which not only the usual suspects like the New York Times but even the Wall Street Journal is hyper-critical of Israel, a time in which college students may be safe today, but that is only because of sanctions that can be repealed at any time, and not because of a change of hearts. I have been traveling back and forth to New York almost weekly for the past few years, and maybe it’s in my head, but I feel like the stares at my kippah and tzitzis are getting worse. It has never been so lonely being a Jew. It has never been so lonely being a supporter of the Jewish State.
I imagine these people who wrote that email, are at least subconsciously afraid of being alone. There is a deep-rooted need to feel connected to others. We are hardwired as humans to thrive when we feel connected and to shrivel when we are isolated.
Now there is another group of Jews on the opposite extreme; these Jews are hyper-focused on the Jewish People’s survival and so they isolate themselves as best as possible. Often times, this isolation from others bleeds into denigration of others, such as mocking non-Jews. Even more extreme, there is a small, and I repeat, very small group of Jews, we’ll call them hyper-nationalists, who are so focused on the Jewish People that they believe that non-Jewish blood, and specifically, Arab blood is worthless.
As distant as these two groups are from one another, they have something in common. Both the self-loathing Jew and the hyper-nationalist Jew believe that to be a Jew means to be alone – separate from the nations of the world. The self-loathing Jew attempts to escape Jewish fate, which as we know, never works. If the Nazis were to come tomorrow, those email writers, Hannah Einbeinder, and everyone else like them would be in the same line as me and you. The Meshech Chochmah famously suggests that the reason calamities befall the Jewish People is to make them realize that they cannot escape Jewish fate. But some people never seem to learn this lesson.
On the other hand, the misguided hyper-nationalist Jew dreams of a world without non-Jews, and that too is wrong. Ironically, these people, many of whom live in Israel, are living with a galus mentality. Their mindset is born out of 2000 years of exile, of trying to survive while the nations of the world were trying to devour us, physically and spiritually.
We are past that stage. The Jewish dream which we are clearly so close to seeing fulfilled is one in which all nations of the world have a place. Ki beisi beis tefillah yikoreh l’chol ha’amim. “My house,” says G-d, “will be called a house of prayer for all the nations.”
Rav Kook, in one of his most famous pieces, describes different levels of greatness. There is the nationalist, the individual who is not only focused on themselves, but they are focused on the Jewish People, and that is great and that is beautiful. But at an even higher level is the following individual:
“There is a person whose soul is so broad that it expands beyond the border of [Am] Yisrael. It sings the song of humanity. This soul constantly grows broader with the exalted totality of humanity and its glorious image. This person yearns for humanity’s general enlightenment. and looks forward to its perfection.”
We are not meant to be alone – separate from the nations of the world. We are meant to be lonely – unique among the nations of the world.
After October 7th, some Jews tried as best as they could to escape the aloneness by blending in. Other Jews saw the massacre as a call to arms – the world is against us. Then there were others who said they will not be alone, but they will be lonely; they decided to embrace their Judaism, even though in doing so it made them different.
My favorite example of this phenomenon is the famous actor, Michael Rappaport. Rappaport is not your typical role model. He cannot finish a sentence without dropping at least two to three words that have to be censored. He is not an observant individual. But after October 7th, he went on the Jewish offensive. Not only did he defend the State of Israel, he started wearing a Talis and Tefilin every day. Despite his newfound love for Israel and Judaism causing him to get less roles in films, he has not stopped, he’s only doubled down. In his own words, and these are some of the few quotes that you will ever hear from him that do not involve four-letter words, he said as follows:
“My Judaism has changed 100%. I am more in tune with it. I’m more proud, I’m more aware, I’m more educated. I’m more proactive in every single way possible and I’m really glad about that. I believe in G-d in a different way. I believe in Hashem in a different way. I celebrate and understand him in a different way.”
“I think we have nothing but faith. You have to have faith. That’s been one of the good things that has come from this last year for me personally.”
Again, Michael Rapaport is far from a shining role model, but at least in this respect, he understood, when we are singled out by our enemies, we don’t run, we don’t hide, we don’t hate. We embrace our difference; we accept that to be a Jew is to be lonely.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, building upon a theme the Ramchal writes of in Derech Hashem, explains that G-d separated us as a nation, gave us unique laws for many reasons, but one of them is to teach the world, what he famously described as, “the dignity of difference.”
When we think of Judaism as being a light onto the nations, the greatest gift we can give the world is the reminder that we are not all the same. In his eloquent words: “The test of faith is whether I can make space for difference. Can I recognize G-d’s image in someone who is not in my image, whose language, faith, ideals, are different from mine? If I cannot, then I have made G-d in my image instead of allowing him to remake me in his.”
This is why, Rabbi Sacks argues, G-d made us different from other nations, to remind them of the dignity of difference, and in doing so the dignity of every human being.
Aloneness is a curse; it is likely what Bilaam had in mind when he described the Jewish People as a “nation apart.” We are not meant to be alone. We are meant to be different, we are meant to be lonely, we are meant to be proud of who we are, G-d’s blessed people, and we are meant to be driven by a mission to share that blessing with the nations around us, who as Rav Kook taught us, we must strive to care about.
So what does this look like practically? In what practical way can we balance our Jewish pride, our need to be distinct, without losing sight of the nations around us, without losing sight of the ultimate goal of all nations coming together in harmony?
Here’s my solution. It’s small. It’s simple. But I think it captures it. Three words. “G-d bless you.”
That’s right. All of us interact with non-Jews all the time. At work, at the store, our friends. When we say goodbye, when we say thank you, can we take stock of who we are? We are G-d’s People. Can we be proud of who we are? We are G-d’s blessed nation. And can we remember to share that blessing with the nations of the world?
G-d bless you.
Every time we say that phrase to a non-Jew, as a sign-off, as a salute, as a thank-you, we are affirming our Jewish pride, our Messianic destiny, and our love for the nations of the world. “G-d bless you” – exercise #1 in embracing our loneliness.
***
But now let’s zoom in, a little closer to home, to a form of aloneness that plagues us as individuals. I am not referring to what is known as the loneliness epidemic that has been written about, talked about, and has recently been highlighted by the surgeon general as an epidemic. What I’d like to discuss is how we are completely disconnected, not only from others, but from ourselves.
Our Neshama, our soul, the part of us that is really who we are, is isolated. It may be inside us, but we almost never tap into her. We are so frenetically busy, we ignore her entirely. We can be in the most spirituality-inducing setting possible, and we just ignore what’s bubbling up inside.
They say a story about a man at a funeral who turns to the officiating rabbi right before the service begins and asks him for the WiFi password. The rabbi’s incredulous. “Have some respect!”
“Thanks rabbi. Is that all lowercase?”
It’s a funny joke, but it’s a sad commentary on society.
We don’t give our soul, and by soul, I mean, our deepest feelings, our yearnings, an opportunity to breathe.
We bombard ourselves with endless memes, clips, and news flashes, and we’re left clueless as to who we really are. Sometimes the content is Torah content, and it’s still a distraction.
We are so busy consuming content that we forget that we are content creators; there is a fabulously rich creative reality living under the surface.
Instead, we ignore her because we’re too busy and too overwhelmed to pay attention.
Rabbeinu Bachya, in Chovos Halevavos, written in the 11th century, speaks of Pizur Hanefesh, the fracturing of the soul, when we feel like we are all over the place. It’s not a new phenomenon, but in 2025, it’s especially insidious.
Rav Itamar Schwartz, author of Bilvavi Mishkan Evneh, suggests that the fracturing of the soul comes from a good place. Our souls are thirsty – they want so much, but they can’t make up their mind. And so, we jump from thing to thing, from idea to idea, even from inspiration to inspiration. Rav Kook argues that as time marches on, there is not yeridat hadorot, a diminishment of spirituality. On the contrary, there is what he calls, aliyat hadorot, there is spiritual progression; the souls of every subsequent generation are more elevated than the generation before. And so aside from the technological advances that distract us so brilliantly, perhaps our souls are also hungrier than ever; we jump from one thing to the next because we want more.
One way or another, the pizur hanefesh, the sense of disconnect and being all over the place, is, in 2025, undoubtedly more pronounced than ever.
How do we deal with this terrible alienation of ourselves from ourselves?
How do we find ourselves in a world which bombards us with exciting and even inspiring messages at every turn?
Where do we develop the capacity to listen to a soul? How do we overcome pizur hanefesh and tap into who we really are and what we really need?
One person who grappled with this mightily was Rav Kook. He was the Chief Rabbi of what was not yet Israel. He writes: “I force myself to learn, act, socialize, to carry out various obligations until not a single thought ever gets the opportunity to become complete and mature.” It was a desperately poor country, he was in the middle of a firestorm of politics, and he had no time to breathe. Or perhaps more accurately, he had no time to think. And his soul languished and it killed him.
But he did not give up. He did not simply say, this is the new world, this is my reality. Instead, he shares us how he overcame this challenge: “The greater a person the more they must seek to discover themselves… We need to be alone frequently, to elevate our imagination, to deepen our thought, to liberate our mind. [Only then,] will our soul reveal itself to us by radiating some of its light upon us. Then we will find our happiness.”
What he is describing is not Hisbo’dedus, something Rav Nachman encourages, quiet time to speak to G-d. He is not describing meditation which is an exercise to silence the mind. What Rav Kook is describing is simply time for oneself. No podcast. No music. No devices. Silence.
What would it look like if this year we made our world a little quieter, a little less distracting, and give ourselves an opportunity to reacquaint ourselves with… ourselves? Wouldn’t that be nice?
We live in an era in which there are two powerful opposing forces going head-to-head – our souls have never been thirstier; I am fairly certain our grandparents didn’t yearn for closeness to G-d the way we do.
And yet, we have never been so bombarded by distractions, by an endless stream of stuff, some good, some bad, but all of it robbing us of a relationship with our inner selves.
What would it look like if this year for ten minutes a day we would just sit, or walk, or even drive in silence? Do you know how powerful that would be? An opportunity, in the words of Rav Kook, to “elevate our imagination, to deepen our thoughts, to liberate our mind.”
And if that’s too much, which it might be. Why don’t we start with a few minutes every day where we put our phones down, or if you are so tethered to your phone like I am, a half hour on ‘Personal Mode,’ silencing our phones from any notificatios?
Let’s reunite with ourselves. Not to be alone, but to be lonely.
***
The third form of aloneness that so many of us experience is our distance from G-d. And here there are two categories of people, some, and I’ll include myself in this category, who simply forget about G-d more often than we’d like to admit. We aspire to think about Him, to recognize we are always in His presence, but we don’t.
And then there is another category of people who don’t forget about Him. They think about Him all the time, and they are angry. Especially this time of year. Another year in which your prayers were not answered. Another year in which everyone around you seems to be doing just fine, but not you. Some question G-d and others accuse Him; why are You making my life so difficult?
I obviously don’t have any easy answers to those in this second category, but I do want to share a thought that has been on my mind.
I’m going to share with you something that many of you will find either mind-blowing or heretical, inspiring or deflating, I don’t know. And I want to be clear, not everyone agrees to this idea, but I think it’s something worth reflecting on.
The introduction to Nefesh Hachaim, written by Rav Yitzchak Volozhin, is a biography of his father, Rav Chaim Volozhin. His father was a scholar, a paragon of kindness, a leader, an innovator, he was so many things. But there was thing his father would say all the time with a lot of emotion. He would remind his son constantly, “We were not put in this world for ourselves, we were put in this world for others.”
The simple understanding of this is that we should be kind. We should think about other people.
But if you read the rest of the book, you will see that that’s not what he meant. He meant something much deeper. We are other people. As important as it is to get to know ourselves and our unique Neshama, we also have to recognize that we are all one being. We do not have an independent existence. This is true for all of civilization, and this is especially true for the Jewish People. We are truly one.
What Rav Chaim Volozhin was conveying to his son is that it is ridiculous to only care for yourself and not everyone around you. It’s like looking out for one your fingers and not the others. They’re all important and they are all connected; they are all one.
Westerners like us struggle with this idea. We place such a premium on independence that it’s hard to think about being connected to others. You know who lives this connectedness? Our brothers and sisters in Israel. Specifically, those who serve in the army. They are part of a unit. They are ready to sacrifice their lives for the lives of others.
Hold that thought.
From Rosh Hashana through Yom Kippur, your fate is being decided. Right?
But what if I told you that it’s not true?
What if I told you that at least according to some, there is a judgment taking place this week, but not the judgment that you are thinking of.
Rav Yosef Albo in Sefer Ikarim explains that the judgment of an individual does not take place while we are here on earth. Of course, there is absolute justice but that plays out in heaven after we die.
He proves this from a principle, s’char mitzvah b’hai alma leika. There is no reward for good deeds in this world. Individual reward and punishment is exclusively in the next world.
If so, what do all the passages in the Torah refer to when they say, ‘if you do what’s right you will get rewarded ad you do what’s wrong you will get punished?’ It sure sounds like there is reward and punishment in this world?!
He explains that we are judged on earth as a nation, as a collective, but not as a person.
(See the Kli Yakar in the beginning of Bechukosai for a list of answers to this question.)
For most people, the most moving part of the Rosh Hashana-Yom Kippur davening is Unesaneh Tokef. When we get to the words of, “who will live and who will die,” many of us shudder. We think about the many people we know who did not make it through the year. We wonder what the year ahead has in store for us.
The original text of those words, first found, in Vayikra Rabbah and also found in our Rosh Hashana machzor in the section of Zichronos, has those familiar words: aizo lacherev, v’aizo l’shalom. “Who will die by sword? Who will have peace?” But it is preceded with a few absolutely key words: V’al ham’dinos bo yei’omer, which means, about the countries it is said. What that means is that the passage that we always translate as a personal judgment, the moment that G-d decides if we will live or die, is actually a collective judgment. It is a judgment being made for the entire country, community, or people, not for an individual. That’s what we are davening for during these days. For G-d to have compassion on us as a community and as a nation.
I may have just completely ruined Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur for you. I’m sorry.
But I’m also not sorry. Because this interpretation demands of us to reorient how we think about ourselves and how we think about what happens to us.
When bad things happen to us, even if we were to say that it is a punishment, it’s not necessarily because I did something wrong, it’s because the Jewish People did something wrong, and for some reason, I am the one who is being punished. When good things happen to us, it’s because the people as a whole are deserving of reward.
I personally find this invigorating. We are standing before G-d this time of year not as an individuals, but as an army.
When an army goes into war, there are casualties. Did that particular soldier make a mistake that caused him or her to get shot? No. They are part of a unit, which is part of a troop, which is part of an army.
When we come back here year after year, wondering why G-d did not give me the job I wanted, the spouse I was looking for, the health I so desperately need, instead of thinking that G-d is punishing me, maybe we should think about ourselves as part of something so much greater than just ourselves. You are soldier! And oh how we love soldiers! We send them vests and socks and poorly drawn pictures by my five-year-old, anything we can fit into an oversized duffel bag. One of my colleagues, a rabbi with a good sense of humor, not too long after October 7th asked a soldier to make a video asking his congregants to pay their dues. He figured when soldiers ask us to do things, we listen.
In all seriousness, you are a soldier, you are part of an army. What is happening to you is helping all of us. I don’t know why you were chosen for this particular mission, but recognize the impact it has on all of us.
And like the soldiers of the IDF, it’s inspiring to see you in action. You keep showing up even though G-d is holding you back from all your dreams. He’s not punishing you; He’s punishing us. And we, those who were not chosen for this special-op, those of us who have boring lives, are grateful to you for being on the front line.
Will that help you be able to forgive G-d? To be less angry at Him? I don’t know, but I hope so. And truly, from the bottom of my inspired heart, thank you for showing up and being a soldier.
Then there’s the rest of us who have absolutely no excuse to not be constantly connecting to G-d. Despite all the many things He gives us, we just keep on forgetting that He’s here in our lives. It’s embarrassing.
There’s a story of a chasid who used to go and study with Reb Chayim Halberstam of Sanz, one of the great Chassid rebbes. This Chasid would travel some distance, and on the way there and back he would pass through a small town, where he stayed for Shabbos.
The rabbi in that small town also fancied himself to be a shtickl Rebbe, though he didn’t have many followers. “I can also teach you,” he told the chasid. “I’m closer to you. Why go to Sanz?”
“In Sanz,’ explained the chossid, “they are teaching me also how to be a yode’a machshovos” — to see into the hearts of those who are sitting before them, to divine their thoughts and concerns. You can’t teach me that.”
“Really?” said the local rabbi, a little skeptical of these powers. “Then what am I thinking now?”
“That’s easy,” said the chassid. “You’re thinking about G-d.”
“Aha!” the rabbi said triumphantly. “No, I most definitely am not thinking about G-d right now!”
The chasid shook his head. “Nu. Now you know why I go to Sanz.”
He’s everywhere and He’s everything and yet, we forget about Him constantly.
Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev used to give a regular sermon with one line and one line only – “Chevra, friends, G-d exists.” Simple to say. Hard to live with.
Rav Tzadok Hakohein has a suggestion for us. In the beginning of his most popular book, Tzidkas Hatzadik he teaches us that the Talmud begins with Meseches Berachos because a bracha is the entry point to our relationship with Hashem. Blessed are YOU, ATA – we remind ourselves, even fleetingly, that we are standing before Hashem.
To think about G-d constantly, impossible. To think about Him every time we say a bracha, ideally, but also quite difficult. But can we think about Him one bracha a day?
Maybe the first blessing you say every day, to say it, imagining G-d is before you, because He is.
And if you don’t say berachos, maybe this year you could start by saying one bracha a day, slowly with intention and with awareness that He is indeed standing before you.
One year, my commitment for the entire year was that the first time every day I would say Asher Yatzar, that exquisite blessing we say after relieving ourselves, I would say it slowly and with the simple thought that I am standing before G-d. It was transformative; it impacted my entire day.
I hope to do so again this year because it is so easy, despite living an observant life, to not live a life in the presence of G-d.
Lo tov heyos ha’adam l’vado, it is so bad for us to be alone. But it is so good to be lonely.
Imagine a year in which we embraced the loneliness of being a Jew by being proud Jews AND also recognizing our role among the nations, with the simple phrase, “G-d bless you,” to all those we encounter.
Imagine a year in which we were not feeling so estranged from our true selves? A year in which we spent some time – maybe just ten minutes a day – by ourselves and gave ourselves an opportunity to meet and get to know the real me, the soul bursting and bubbling inside. Or at the very least a year in which we silenced the great distractor buzzing in our pockets so we could at least acquaint ourselves with the people around us.
Imagine a year in which we got to know G-d. A year in which we remind ourselves at least once a day how He is always standing over us. Baruch Ata – You, Hashem, are right here.
Let’s stop imagining. Let’s stop being so alone.
Let’s embrace the mission-filled loneliness of being a Jew, the incredibly vibrant loneliness of being a person with a soul, of being a part of an army, and the soothing loneliness of having an utterly unique relationship with Hashem.
Kein y’hi ratzon.