by Ner Tamid | Feb 15, 2026 | Sermons
Mazel Tov Sheina on your Bat Mitzvah! We are all so happy for you and excited for this new milestone in your life.
Anyone who knows Sheina’s family knows that they are Lubavitch. Like, very Lubavitch. So, you may be wondering what a Lubavitch girl is doing at Ner Tamid. Let me explain:
You may not know this, but Ner Tamid is actually a crypto-Lubavitch shul. It may look a little different than your typical Chabad house but dig a little deeper and you’ll see what I mean.
According to ChatGPT, in Lubavitch shuls there is a strong emphasis on children’s programming, a wide range of observance levels, and exceptional warmth. Is that not a good description of Ner Tamid?
There’s more.
In Lubavitch shuls the men farbreng. At Ner Tamid, the men go to Kiddush Club.
In Lubavitch shuls, davening on Shabbos morning starts at 10:30 AM. At Ner Tamid, most people believe that davening starts at 10:30 AM.
The Rebbe of Lubavitch lived on President’s street. The rabbi of Ner Tamid lives on Lincoln Ave.
In Lubavitch shuls they have a big picture of their former rabbi in the lobby. At Ner Tamid, we also have a big picture of our former rabbi in the lobby.
In Chabad, we all know the women run the show. And at Ner Tamid, yeah, that’s probably the case as well. Although the sheitels here, for those who wear them, do not reach the women’s ankles.
In Lubavitch shuls, the men look like they just rolled out of bed. Ner Tamid is the only shul where people will literally show up in pajamas.
So basically, this is a Chabad house.
There is actually real history connecting our shul to Chabad.
The very first Lubavitch minyan in Baltimore was established in 1896. They bought a building on 132 South Caroline street and called themselves Agudas Achim Anshe Lubawitz Nusach Ari Congregation. Until 1922, when Tzemach Tzedek opened, this was the only Chabad shul in town. In the 1969, with the changing demographics of downtown Baltimore, the shul merged with a newer shul in Pikesville known as Ner Tamid Greenspring Valley Synagogue. That’s right. Our shul is truly a Lubavitch shul.
For the vast majority of the time that Agudas Achim Anshe Lubawitz Nusach Ari Congregation was in existence the rebbe was the sixth rebbe of Lubavitch, Rav Yosef Yitzchak Schneerson. His son-in-law, Rav Menachem Mendel Schneerson, is the man we all know so much about. I’d like to spend a few minutes this morning talking about the sixth rebbe, Rav Yosef Yitzchak, otherwise known as the Rebbe RaYatz.
Rav Yosef Yitzchak was probably the most arrested Jew in history. He was sent to jail seven times in his life for his promotion of Judaism and support of the Jewish People. The first time was at the age of ten. A Jewish butcher was being beaten by a police officer and Rav Yosef Yitzchak stepped in to defend him, causing him to be thrown into a dark cell for the day. Future arrests would be far more serious.
Shortly after the Bolsheviks took over, they created a police force dedicated to eradicating Jewish life from the USSR. The saddest feature of this group was that it was organized and led by Jews. At the helm was a man Shimon Diamenstein. At one point he had studied in the great Eastern European Yeshivas and got ordained by Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzinksi, the leading Torah scholar of the time, but eventually he left his faith and became an enemy of the Jewish People.
Though the laws against the practice and study of Judaism were initially mild under Communist rule, Rav Yosef Yitzchak saw the writing on the wall, and decided to do something about it. The first thing he did was create very small networks of melamdim, teachers who would study with young children and adults in secret. By decentralizing the system, he ensured that if one person got caught, the damage would be limited. He would use trade schools or farms as a cover for these mini-yeshivas. He sent his followers to build underground mikvahs, baked matzah in secret that was widely distributed, and ensured that there would be shochtim, people able to slaughter meat so Jews could keep kosher.
If anyone was caught engaging in any of these activities, they would be sent to Siberia at best, very often, they would be executed. But Rav Yosef Yitzchak was not only a great manager, he inspired his followers, impressing upon them the importance of their mission, letting them know that the future of Jewry rested on their shoulders.
Most famously, in 1927, he was arrested and accused of espionage. At one point in the interrogations, a Soviet officer pointed a gun at him and threatened: “This toy has made many people talk.”
The Rebbe replied: “That toy can intimidate only a man who has many gods and one world. I have one G-d and two worlds.”
He was sentenced to death and only due to international pressure was he ultimately released and sent out of Russia, eventually immigrating to the United States. Though he was no longer living there, his network remained. Rav Yosef Yitzchak Schneerson’s passion, strength, and vision ensured the flame of Judaism would survive in the cold environs of communism.
Sheina, you were supposed to have your Bat Mitzvah last week, parshas Yisro. That is an exciting parsha – literally lightning and thunder and the greatest spiritual spectacle in history as the Jewish people gathered at the foot of Har Sinai. This week’s parsha is probably the most boring of all. Laws. A whole lot of laws. But that’s precisely the point. A people transformed by a single overwhelming experience can be inspired. A people shaped by daily law can endure. Parshas Yisro is the kumzits, the spiritual high, the euphoria. Parshas Mishpatim is where Judaism transforms from inspiration to implementation and becomes culture. Too many of us get burned out of Judaism because we don’t feel constant excitement. But constant excitement is not real. Har Sinai took place once in history; Mishpatim, the intricate laws of Judaism, is the vessel in which that fire can be contained.
Your Rebbe, the sixth Rebbe of Lubavitch, understood this. When we think of Chabad, we think of the Shlichim who are willing to go to the farthest places on earth to inspire Jews and we give credit to the seventh Rebbe. I would argue that the culture of self-sacrifice really began with Rav Yosef Yitzchak. He understood that communism would last for decades, but that didn’t dissuade him. Because he also understood there needed to be a process, a difficult and long road, but eventually, there will be light. When one of the men he sent to start a small yeshiva complained to him that it was futile, he replied: “You dig a hole and plant seeds, and I will water it with my tears.”
Sheina, you have boundless talents, qualities, and skills. You are a musician, you excel at math, your siblings adore you. You have dreams of using those skills to help children in the future and I am sure you will. Those are all great. But you also have a legacy. You were brought up on a steady diet of perseverance, of overcoming obstacles, of the steady commitment to Judaism. Just last week, I saw your mother as she came into shul. The weather was freezing, your mother looked like she was travelling through the North Pole. But she was here; to daven, to connect, to grow. That was the Chabad legacy coursing through her.
Although we have a lot in common with Lubavitch, one area in which I hope we can grow as a community is the Lubavitch joy and passion. Walk into any Chabad school, shul, yeshiva, it’s in the air. It didn’t start with farbrengins. It started with the cold Russian soil. It continued with individual seeds. It was watered with an endless stream of tears. And today we see how those seeds have blossomed.
The seventh Lubavitcher Rebbe in his talks on Tu B’shvat would often quote the verse from Devarim, “כי האדם עץ השדה.” Man is like a tree. He would remind his followers that most of the tree’s development takes place underground, indiscernible to the naked eye. Sheina, you were born on Tu B’shvat. I hope you and all of us take this legacy, your legacy, our legacy, to heart.
by Ner Tamid | Jan 31, 2026 | Sermons
In honor of Jesse Sipple’s Bar Mitzvah, being that his family has Yekke minhagim, customs that are unique to Jews from German descent, I’d like to spend our time this morning discussing some of those customs with a brand-new gameshow. I am going to describe a custom and the ‘contestants,’ that’s all of you, are going to have decide if it is a genuine Yekke custom, or not. The game is called Yekke or… Shwekey.
Yes, Shwekey, as in the Jewish Orthodox singer, Yaakov Shwekey. Let me explain. You see, Yaakov Shwekey’s mother is Ashkenazi, just regular plain old Ashkenazi. His father is Sefardi, Syrian Jew, who grew up in Egypt. Yaakov Shwekey lived in Israel, went to a Chafetz Chaim school in Rochester, New York, then studied in the Lakewood Yeshiva and now lives in Deal. When he sings, he vacillates between sounding like an Israeli with a TAF and a yeshiva guy with a SAF. In other words, he represents all Jews that are not Yekkes. So yes, Yekke or Shwekey.
I know, it’s not great. But the alternative words that rhyme with Yekke that I could come up with were Becky, Techie, and Keki, which apparently is a Japanese cake. So I’m kind of stuck and we’re just going to go with it. Also, it’s cold outside, my family is in New York for Shabbos, and I’m trying to find any way to avoid talking about ICE on a Bar Mitzvah Shabbos, so cut me slack.
Let’s do a practice round –
Coming on time to a Jewish wedding. Yekke or Shwekey?
That was a trick question. Yekke’s actually come early.
But you get the point. Right? Here we go –
Wrapping the Torah with an oversized scrunchy and an impossible-to-link repurposed belt loop from the 19th century. Yekke or Shwekey?
You may have noticed, if you were actually inside during Hagbah and Glilah, that today, our Torah was wrapped with a very long linen cloth that was designed beautifully by Jesse’s cousins. This Yekke wrap is called a Wimpel.
The custom of the Wimpel is traced back to the Maharil, a 14th century German rabbi who the story goes, was once at a Bris when the Mohel realized he forgot to bring a cloth to wrap the baby’s wound. Whoops. Brace yourself – The Maharil, realizing the baby was in danger, instructed the Mohel to take the wrap from the torah scroll and use it as a bandage for the baby. This somewhat bizarre incident evolved into German Jews placing a linen cloth under the baby who is getting a Bris Milah. I kid you not.
Actually, this baby grew up and wrote a memoir about his experiences. He called it, Diary of a Wimpel Kid… Sorry.
After the bris, they beautify the cloth with all sorts of designs, and on the child’s 3rd birthday, the child is brought to shul wrapped in the wimple and together with his father, they use it for Gelilah. The wimple is then used for the child’s Bar Mitzvah, like we did today, and again, at his Aufruf, which we look forward to celebrating. Weird backstory. Beautiful minhag.
I find it kind of poetic that the most famous Jewish German custom revolves around tying something up really tight. Sort of like the Jewish German personalities…
Fun fact: The name Motzen comes from a German village where my family probably originated from. Don’t kill me. I’m one of you.
Okay, here’s another one: Waiting 3 hours between a meat meal and a dairy meal. Yekke or Shwekey?
My daughters have already informed me that they will be marrying German Jews so they don’t have to wait so long between meat and milk. Where does this custom come from?
The Talmud tells us that after eating a meal of meat, you can only eat dairy at the next meal. Now for most people in the ancient world, they had two meals and there were approximately six hours between those meals. Hence, the six hour wait time that most of us Shwekey’s wait between meat and milk.
In Germany, they had different meal habits. In Germany, there were five meals a day. It would start with fruhstuck, breakfast. Continue with, please bear with me, zwischenmahlzeit, some form of an in-between meal. Then they’d have mittagessen, lunch. Then they’d have kaffe and kuchen, which is… coffee and cake. And then they’d have abendbrodt, dinner. Do the math. There were five meals with approximately three hours between each meal. This is why Yekkes only wait 3 hours.
While my ancestors were living in poverty, eating potatoes and meat for brunch and potatoes and milk for dinner, our German friends were eating like kings five times a day! And they’re the ones who get the 3-hour wait time. Talk about white privilege.
Next question – Not wearing Tefilin on Chol Hamoed. Yekke or Shwekey?
This one is fascinating and rather controversial.
There is a Biblical obligation for men to wear Tefillin every day with the exception of Shabbos and holidays. There is no Talmudic source that says Chol Hamoed, the days between holidays, is included in the no-tefillin days. On the contrary, it is quite clear that one should be wearing Tefilin on Chol Hamoed. But there is a book, one of the most influential books in Jewish literature known as the Zohar, and in the Zohar we are instructed not to wear Tefillin on Chol Hamoed.
What do you do when there is a contradiction between the Talmud and the Zohar?
It depends. It depends on how you perceive the Zohar. The Zohar is a book of Jewish mysticism. Its main thesis is trying to balance our belief in a G-d that is completely beyond our comprehension with a belief in a G-d who has a personal relationship with each and every one of us. It’s a beautiful, deep, and inspiring work.
The Zohar purports to be written by Rav Shimon bar Yochai, a student of the famous Rabbi Akiva, and who lived in the second century. And yet, it was only first published in the 13th century. The reason for this gap is that the Zohar was meant to be a secret collection of teachings that were passed on orally from teacher to student. It was deemed unfit for the masses as there are complicated ideas in the Zohar; ideas which flirt with heresy, and ideas that if misused can lead the masses astray. The most well-known example of this is the false Messiah, Shabtai Tzvi, who corrupted many ideas found in the Zohar to lend himself legitimacy, and caused an incredible amount of harm to the Jewish People.
The thing is that not everyone believed that the Zohar was written by Rav Shimon bar Yochai. Some argued that not only was it a forgery but many ideas found in the Zohar were incorrect and incompatible with Judaism. One such person wrote a book that analyzed the Zohar chapter by chapter, demonstrating how certain ideas could not possibly have been written in the 2nd century, could not have been written in Israel where Rav Shimon bar Yochai lived, and that many of the ideas found in the Zohar are just plain wrong. The author was a man by the name of Rav Yaakov Emden, probably the leading Torah scholars of the 18th century, and as you may have guessed by now, a German Jew.
And so, German Jews, do not adopt customs that are found in the Zohar, certainly not ones that contradict something found in the Talmud. German Jews will therefore wear Tefilin on Chol Hamoed. Most of the rest of us Shwekeys will not wear Tefilin on Chol Hamoed.
Last question – Overly serious, never smile, judgmental, and never exhibiting any emotions. Yekke or Shwekey?
They say Yekkes don’t bottle up emotions, they file them away in labeled folders.
And this is where Jesse Sipple and his family come along.
Jesse Sipple, who has a Wimple and waits three hours between meat and milk and will wear Tefillin on Chol Hamoed, he creates games. Fun games. Yes, they have a lot of rules. But there is a good chance sometime in the next decade you will be playing a game made by Jesse Sipple; you’ll be sitting around with family and friends and laughing and having a good time. And that’s exactly what goes on in the Sipple home all the time. If you ever see the Sipple children they always have a genuine joyful smile on their face because they live in a home with rules, yes, but also a beautiful sense of joy.
There’s more – Although the Sipple family, in good old Germanic fashion, had this Bar Mitzvah planned for quite some time, the entire plan was almost disrupted. Last week I received a frantic call from a family who often davens here, who were planning on having their Bar Mitzvah in Israel. Only that between the fear of an Iranian attack and an insane storm disrupting flights, it did not look like this would happen. They called me asking if they could have the Bar Mitzvah at Ner Tamid. I explained to them that we already have a Bar Mitzvah planned, but I offered to ask the Sipple family what they thought. I sent a message to Naomi and Ian and a little while later I got the reply: Jesse said that he would be very happy to split his Shabbos with this other boy to allow him to have a Bar Mitzvah.
It was beautiful but I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t surprised because anyone who knows Jesse knows that he is one of the most thoughtful, kind boys you will meet. But also because his parents are the most thoughtful and kind people you will meet. As one small example – whenever there is anyone looking for a meal for Shabbos or Yom Tov, I know I could always count on the Sipple’s to host them.
So thank you, Jesse and the whole Sipple family, for destroying those German stereotypes with your joy and warmth.
***
The Medrash teaches us that when the sea split, it actually divided into twelve separate lanes. Each tribe was given their own lane to travel. This wasn’t just done to enable better traffic patterns, it was done to symbolize that there is more than one legitimate path in Judaism. The Mei’am Loez adds a fascinating detail – the walls between the different tribes were translucent. What this teaches us is that each Jew recognized they had their own path in Avodas Hashem, and at the very same time, they saw and appreciated that other Jews had their own different path in serving G-d that was appropriate for them.
So whether you are a Yekke, a Shwekey, a Beckie, or a techie, there is a path for you, a path for each and every one of us.
Jesse, we hope and pray that you find yours, and that we all find ours, and that all of us to learn to appreciate the path of others.
Good Shabbos. Shabbat Shalom. And as they say in Germany, a guter Shabbis.
by Ner Tamid | Jan 25, 2026 | Sermons
I was going to talk about the upcoming storm, but it seems a little frivolous to discuss snow when the world seems to be going up in flames. Aside from the local unrest, which is worthy of its own analysis and drasha, our hearts and minds are always on Israel. Right now, there’s an American war ship making its way across the Atlantic to be stationed near Iran. A general in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard threatened that Iran has its finger on the trigger ready to attack the US and Israel if they are attacked first. And of course, every human being with half a heart, every person who cares about human rights, should be broken over the mass murder of anywhere between 5 and 20,000 Iranian protestors who just want to be free.
Prime Minister Netanyahu, who during past protests, was quite vocal in his support of the protestors, is noticeably silent. According to reports, he asked President Trump not to attack Iran as Israel is not ready for an Iranian assault. That is very unsettling news.
Over the years, when Netanyahu has addressed himself to the Iranian People, he almost always invokes the great historic relationship between Iran and Israel, between the great Persian Empire and the people of Israel. Netanyahu likes to place the blame for all of Iran’s antisemitism at the feet of the Ayatollah. I’d like to take a moment to set the record straight.
While it is true that the Ayatollah is probably the greatest living threat to both Israel and Jewish People, it is not exactly accurate to say that Iran, before the Revolution, was a safe haven for Jews, or that Persia was one of the greatest allies of the Jewish People. It is true, Darius, Emperor of Persia, who according to some traditions was actually the son of Queen Esther, granted the Jewish People the right to return to Israel and rebuild the Temple in the 6th century BCE, and for that we are eternally grateful. And it is true that over the next few hundred years, the Jewish community in Babylon, which was part of the Persian Empire, thrived, setting the stage for the development and recording of the Talmud. But the little love affair between the people of Persia and Jews was ultimately short-lived.
By the 4th and 5th century, Jews were being singled out by the ruler Yazdegerd II and persecuted across the country. From the 7th – 13th century, Jews in Persia were not allowed to ride horses, or bear arms, and had to pay extra taxes and wear identifying clothing. In the 14th and 15th century, not only did the government discriminate against Jews, but converts to Islam were often accused of heresy and killed at the stake. This is what one historian who visited Iran in the mid-19th century had to say about how the Iranians treated the Jewish People:
“The [Jewish People] are obliged to live in a separate part of town … for they are considered as unclean creatures. … Under the pretext of their being unclean… should they enter a street, inhabited by Muslims, they are pelted… with stones and dirt. … For the same reason, they are prohibited to go out when it rains (or snows); for it is said the rain would wash dirt off them, which would sully the feet of the Muslims… Sometimes the Persians intrude into the dwellings of the Jews and take possession of whatever please them. Should the owner make the least opposition in defense of his property, he incurs the danger of atoning for it with his life. … If … a Jew shows himself in the street during the three days of the Katel… he is sure to be murdered.”
During WW2, the Nazis established an informal alliance with Iran and helped the Iranians publish antisemitic textbooks to be used in the schools. After the Six-Day War, all shuls were kept closed for two months for fear of retribution. And even under the rule of the Shah, while the Jewish community prospered, the Shah had Jews executed for conspiring with Israel and he believed that the Jewish community as a whole were trying to have him killed.
With friends like these…
Despite this very dark history, I’d like to believe that the people on the streets of Iran would love to be friends of the Jewish People. And even if I’m wrong, even if the long history of antisemitism is in the blood and soil of Iran, there is still something I believe that every Jew should do for them based on a fascinating insight found in our parsha:
We are all well-acquainted with the image of Pharoah running around the streets of Egypt on the night of Pesach. We know that he finally finds Moshe and begs him to take the Jewish People and leave Egypt immediately. Though in the past he refused to allow the Jews to take their children and cattle and sheep, now, Pharoah tells them that everyone and everything must go. What we often miss is one request that Pharoah makes of Moshe.
In chapter 12, passuk 32, Pharoah says, “Take your sheep, take your flock, like you said, and go!” And then he adds: “וּבֵֽרַכְתֶּ֖ם גַּם־אֹתִֽי” please pray for me. Pharoah asked Moshe to pray for him, for his wellbeing and for his success.
The Ramban writes that of course, Moshe ignored him. There is no way that the Jewish People were going to pray for their arch enemy. That makes a lot of sense.
However, Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin writes, I disagree. אלא ודאי התפללו עליו. “He most certainly prayed for Pharoah.” Meaning, at the same moment that Moshe was holding his hand over the sea, causing the waters of the Yam Suf to drown Pharoah, he was also praying for Pharoah’s wellbeing. How? Why?
The answer can be found in a Gemara in Berachos. Rabbi Meir, the Gemara tells us, had some people in his neighborhood who made his life a living hell. They harassed him and they threatened his life. He had little political power but he was a holy rabbi with spiritual power and so he decided to pray for their demise. However, his wise wife Beruriah, heard him praying and told him that he was mistaken. “Don’t pray for their death,” she said. “Pray for them to change.”
What stands at the core of these two stories is a belief in the ultimate goodness and value of every human being. Yes, someone may be acting in a despicable fashion, someone may be making your life miserable, but they are still a person created b’tzelem Elokim. When we need to, we will fight; we will drown you in the Yam Suf to protect ourselves and we will bomb your headquarters to stay safe. But the Torah is teaching us that at the very same time, we are expected to see the humanity behind even of our greatest enemies.
Daven for the Ayatolah? I don’t know. That’s not something I can bring myself to do. But daven for the people of Iran, even if they aren’t really our friends? Yes. That is something that we can and must do.
As I mentioned this is the approach of Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin. He believed that Moshe was supposed to daven for Pharoah. And yet, the Ramban disagrees. He did not believe we need to go this far. However, there is another current event in the Middle East where I am confident that even the Ramban would agree that we should all be praying for.
This past week, a terrible tragedy took place in Yerushalayim at an illegal Charedi daycare. It’s still not clear exactly what happened, but it seems like there was overheating in this facility and it caused 53 children were admitted to the hospital, and 2 children, one 3 months old and one 6 months old, died.
The tensions in Israel between the Charedi community and the rest of the population are at an all time high. People are understandably furious at this community’s lack of public service, especially after October 7th, when so many soldiers have been killed and so many more have had their lives disrupted due to endless time spent in the reserves. Many people in Israel accused the Charedi population of an overall lack of responsible parenting and saw this tragedy as a result of a culture of lawlessness.
One such person who felt this way is a man by the name of Chaggai Luber. Chagai, a religious Zionist, lost his 24-year-old son, Yehonatan, in Gaza last year. Chaggai has been an outspoken critic of the Charedi world. He has written in the past of his extreme discomfort saying Kaddish for his son in a Charedi shul surrounded by young men the same age as his son who are not serving in the army. And so this past week, Chaggai joined the many Israelis who felt disgusted and, in some ways, smug about the daycare tragedy.
But then his wife, perhaps following in the footsteps of Bruriah, brought something to his attention. Chani Katz, the mother of one the children who died in that daycare, had visited the Luber’s during shiva. Not only that, when she came to the shiva house, she brought with her a heart-shaped necklace bearing Yehonatan’s image — part of a jewelry project she launched after October 7, to commemorate those killed in the war.
Chaggai, in a Facebook post, wrote how in that moment everything changed. The Charedim were no longer a faceless foe. These were people, brothers and sisters, and heartbroken mothers. He writes:
והיא עמדה לפני, אמא במלא כאבה,
במלא צערה.
במלא אובדנה.
“And I saw her standing before me. A mother filled with hurt. Filled with pain. Filled with loss.”
ומה קרה לי, אב שכול שהצטרפתי לחגיגה
ונסחפתי, אפילו במחשבה, לאותו מחול האשמות נורא.
כשהמתים עוד מוטלים לפנינו, עוד לפני הקבורה.
“What happened to me, a bereaved father, that I joined in the celebration [against the Charedim]? I got carried away, even though it was just in thought, to that demonic dance while the dead were still before us, still unburied?”
והתחרטתי וכמעט שקרעתי קריעה
“And I regretted it. And I almost tore my clothes in mourning.”
If the Netziv says we should be praying for our enemies, then we should be praying and most certainly not celebrating the downfall of our brothers and sisters even if we may be ideologically opposed. If the Netziv says we should be praying for our enemies, we most certainly should not be vindicative to those in our own lives who may make our lives difficult and even miserable. They are people. Jews. Brothers and sisters. We must protect ourselves and fight for what we believe in, but we cannot lose sight of their humanity.
***
The Medrash tells us that Moshe’s prayers were successful. Pharoah survived the drowning at the sea. He saw the light; he realized he was wrong, and he became an outspoken advocate for morality, for truth, for all that is good. May goodness prevail, and may our enemies, both nationally and personally, all see the light.
by Ner Tamid | Jan 11, 2026 | Sermons
Throughout our history, some Jews have run from danger and others engaged in battle. Some Jews have built towering walls and others built sturdy bridges. Some Jews lived a life of fear and others lived a life of courage. In this era of extreme unrest in which world order and Jewish order seem to be built on the quicksand of Pisom and Ramses, our community, people like us, have an incredibly important role to play.
Allow me to explain.
This past Sunday, Nicolas Maduro stood in a packed courtroom. The question of whether or not he should have been captured was not up for discussion. The only question was whether or not justice could be served. Who could be trusted to not be swayed by politics in a climate of extreme partisanship? Who has proven themselves able to not settle until justice is served?
92-year-old, Alvin Hellerstein, was chosen as the judge – and for good reason. Despite being a Columbia Law School graduate with impeccable credentials, most firms refused to hire him. After all, he was a Jew, and this was the 1950’s. But he didn’t run away; he engaged, finally finding a place to work and quickly moving up the ladder. In the 70’s, he was an active participant in the fight to free Russian Refuseniks. After 9/11, he presided over all the numerous hearings between victims of the attacks, airlines, and New York City, balancing empathy and justice like no other. He had Harvey Weinstein thrown into jail and Michael Cohen released. Most impressively, he managed to annoy both former President Obama and President Trump.
He is also an Orthodox Jew. He once told an interviewer that he likes to schedule difficult sentencing hearings on Fridays so that he could use Shabbos to reflect on the case. And although he acknowledges that religion has no place in a courtroom, he admits that his Torah values are a part of who he is and make their way into his rulings. In his words, “Part of my accountability is to the Court of Appeals, where I can be reversed, and I often am. Another is my account to the individuals involved directly in the process. And third, I have to account to G-d. My purpose in life is to be as good a judge as I can be, and I have to ask [G-d] for strength and wisdom in performing that job.”
He believes, like we claim to, that Jews should be out and proud in the public square, that Judaism has what to say about every complex issue, and that in a morally-bereft world, it is our responsibility to be in the fray, navigating good from bad. He is a Jew who does not run from danger, but engages in battle, who lives not with fear, but with courage.
On Sunday, while Judge Hellerstein was presiding over this case in New York City, a few miles away, in Lakewood, New Jersey, a group of rabbis were gathering to discuss AI and its impact on the Jewish Orthodox community. They highlighted the fact that AI in particular and technology in general can foster dependency and addiction, can negatively impact human relationships, and can lead people to serious Torah transgressions. I don’t think there is any room to argue with those conclusions.
However, they then unanimously agreed that they have to work harder on eliminating all usages of AI. Unlike Judge Hellerstein, their approach to challenge is to create better walls, and honestly, I do not fault them at the slightest.
Who could deny the terrible impact social media has had on our youth’s self-esteem and well-being? Who could argue that the internet has taken a vice which necessitated going to a convenience store and slickly hiding a magazine under a newspaper, to unfettered access, causing immeasurable damage to the intimate lives of our entire society? The internet is a cesspool of toxicity and immorality. And these rabbis chose to stay away from it.
The question of how to deal with such dangers goes back to the early days of our peoplehood. Egypt was the mecca of corruption and decadence, and our ancestors took two very different approaches in dealing with it. Eleven of the tribes chose to hide far away from the center of Egyptian culture in a city called Goshen. There was no WiFi in Goshen, they dressed differently than all of society, they built their own self-imposed ghetto. And then there was Yosef. He was an Egyptian and dressed the part. He lived in the capital and interacted with the men and women of Egyptian culture. Two models – two legitimate models, for the ages.
I think it’s safe to say that if you are in this room, you identify with Yosef and his attempt to navigate a complicated world. You too want to take the best of American culture and bridge it with the Torah. You too want to engage in technology but expertly separate between the holy and the impure.
Unfortunately, too often that attempt at nuance translates into watering Judaism down. Too often, those of us who try to walk the tightrope end up lazily taking some of Halacha seriously and disregarding the chapters that don’t fit our lifestyle comfortably. Too often, I hear variations of the following type of question: “Rabbi, I don’t want politics. I don’t want stringencies. Is this allowed? And by the way, I’m not really asking for myself, I’m asking for a friend.” You know, just in case the answer’s no. And that only includes the people who are even asking the questions.
What we too often fail to realize, is that to be Yosef Jews, to be Jews who engage in battle, we can’t have less convictions, we must have more.
What those rabbis gathering in Lakewood may not have noticed is that the walls of Goshen have fallen; the ability to separate yourself from society is a farce in the 21st century, whether you live in New York City or Lakewood. But what that means is that we, the Yosefs of the Jewish People, have a greater responsibility to the Jewish community than ever.
We do not agree that our children should not go to college, fine. But that means that we must be preparing our teens to go out into the world and have such strong Jewish convictions that nothing will faze them.
We don’t agree with segregated kiddushes, fine. But that means that we must show the world how people of the opposite gender can interact, being friendly not flirty.
We don’t agree with all-out-internet bans, fine. But that means that we must be honest with ourselves, not just children but as adults, about the internet’s dangers, and take responsible steps to curb them.
We don’t agree with running away from society, fine. But that means that we must be more confident in what it means to live the life of a Torah Jew.
To be a Yosef is awesome. But it necessitates not watering down but being on fire.
Judaism was almost lost on the slave-fields of Egypt. Apathy had set in. Our ancestors were overwhelmed by the stress and were seduced by the pleasure that Egyptian life had to offer. (See Mesilas Yesharim Chapter 2 and Rashi on the “free fish” Bamidbar 11:5). Our Sages teach us that what kept us alive was the nashim tzidkaniyos, the righteous women. You know what they did?
They harnessed the sexuality that was rampant in Egypt and used it for holiness. They met their husbands in the fields, they aroused them and ensured that there would be future generations of Jewish children. They were Yosef Jews who expertly distinguished between the holy and impure and we are here today because of them.
So once again, throughout our history, some Jews have run from danger and others engaged in battle. Some Jews built towering walls and others built sturdy bridges. Some lived a life of fear and others lived a life of courage.
The world today, with its revolutions, unrest, political violence, and extreme moral confusion, needs us Yosefs more than ever. To succeed, the Yosefs of the world do not need less, they need more. More passionate prayer, more fidelity to Jewish Law, more Torah knowledge, more fire. Let’s lead the way.
by Ner Tamid | Jan 3, 2026 | Sermons
They say a story of a small town in Eastern Europe in the 19th century in which a child’s body was found in a lake. The Jewish community gathers in the shul to discuss what they should do. Blood libel charges were certainly going to arise, and they had to plan on how to protect themselves from the inevitable violence that would follow.
As they argue back and forth, a man bursts into the room, and with a smile on his face says, “I have wonderful news! We don’t have to worry!” They all look up, puzzled, and he explains, “Baruch Hashem! The child in the lake – it turns out she was Jewish!”
Jews are known to have a really dark sense of humor. Many see it as a defense mechanism for all the anxiety we’ve experienced over the ages. Laughing about antisemitism and death give us a much-needed release for all our pent-up fears.
Another story, this one of a man on his deathbed, surrounded by his family. Everyone’s crying, holding his hand, and trying to give him comfort as his soul starts to slip away.
Suddenly, he breathes in heavily through his nose and opens his eyes. “What’s that smell?” he asks. His children tell him that their mother baked some cinnamon rugelach. He whispers to his son, “Please, go to the kitchen, and get me one. I would love to have Mama’s delicious rugelach just one more time.”
A moment later, the son returns to his father empty-handed. “I’m sorry. Mama said they’re for shiva.”
While some of us, myself included, like to talk and joke about death, there is also a Jewish trend to not mention death at all. There is a custom brought down in the Kol Bo, a 14th century legal work, how when someone passed away, they would take all the water in the home outside and pour it out. They did this was to inform the neighbors that someone inside the house had died without saying those words. Many Jews will not say the word cancer, they will say yenneh machalah, which is Yiddish for, that disease. This follows the Talmud’s practice of not saying leprosy, which was a fatal disease in their day, but rather say, “davar acher,” something else.
So, should we be joking about death? Should we never say the word death? What’s the right approach?
The Sefer Hachasidim says it best, when the author writes, “Do not believe in superstitions, but still it is best to be heedful of them.” In other words, likely nothing will happen to you for making a dark joke or saying the word cancer, but it’s not a bad idea to not do so.
But while there is ambiguity around talking about death, there is consensus that we should be thinking about death. The ability to think about our mortality is one of the greatest gifts that G-d gives us for a host of reasons:
First of all, it reminds us to plan for our death. Unfortunately, I have officiated too many funerals in my life and there are two types of scenarios that play out. One, a person dies and the family in a state of grief and shock have to scramble and make decisions for funeral arrangements. Option two, the deceased, at some point in the years prior, spoke to their family or a lawyer or even went to Sol Levinson’s and made plans for the funeral. It is so easy to give one’s family the gift of one less stressor on the most difficult day of their lives.
A second benefit of thinking of death is that it can remind us to fill out a medical directives form. Too often, a patient is incapacitated and unable to make decisions for themselves. The family is left with the impossible challenge of trying to do what their sick relative would have wanted. Reminding ourselves that we will all die is also a reminder that we may possibly be ill before we die. Again, it is so easy to give one’s family the gift of one less stressor during one of the most difficult periods in their lives.
But it’s not just for those around us that remembering death is valuable. It’s valuable for ourselves. There is a shocking Medrash on a passuk in Bereishis: “And G-d saw that all that He had created was tov me’od, very good.” Says the Medrash, ‘Good’ refers to life; ‘very good’ refers to death.
Why is it good? Very simple. Here’s another story. This one is not a joke. It’s a fictitious story by therapist, Lauren Slater:
“The patient was depressed. He was a wet rag. He was suicidal. The psychiatrist had tried every pill and combination of pills he could conceive of, you name it. And still the man was depressed.
He underwent a series of six shock treatments, lying bound on a bed while they juiced his brain, waking up in a fog, his eyes burning. And still the man was depressed. He tried to hang himself, to slash his wrists, to overdose on pills; he even tried to shoot himself but missed and survived without so much as a scar. And now the psychiatrist had grown bored with him. Three times a week, the man came in and either said nothing or talked about his failures. The clock ticked away. The man began to complain of headaches. He felt physically ill. The psychiatrist suspected it was psychosomatic. He paid little attention to the man. Still, his complaints grew louder. At last the psychiatrist referred the man to neurologist, who could see inside his skull using instruments. Three days later, the neurologist called the psychiatrist. “There is nothing wrong with him,” the neurologist said. And the psychiatrist sighed, almost disappointed.
When the man came in for his next appointment, he asked, “Did you speak to the neurologist?” The psychiatrist nodded gravely and said, “Yes, I did.”
The man leaned forward in his seat. His dull eyes flickered — with terror. “And?” he said. “Well,” said the psychiatrist, drawing it out, with no plan or premeditation. “I’m sorry, but the neurologist says you have only three months to live.” The man shot back in his seat, stared for a long time at the ceiling, and then left abruptly.
The man was now in a rush. He booked a flight to Greece, and travelled to Crete, and saw dazzling white sand, he ate from a big buffet in the Caribbean. He sent his psychiatrist postcards from countries all around the world. Here I am in Russia, he wrote. I was in a bar all night, he wrote. I am taking cooking classes in Taiwan. I swam in the Dead Sea. Eventually, though, the months passed and the man did not die. Nor did he seem to be dying.
The man, of course, doesn’t die. He keeps burning brightly. Eventually he goes back to the psychiatrist who tells him his disease is in remission. And a year later he goes back again, only to find the office door open and the psychiatrist away. He takes the opportunity to open the filing cabinet and read his own file. He flipped to the end of his chart and read: Tried to inject some existential urgency into the Man’s condition. Ethically questionable. Radical intervention. Told patient he was dying. Three months to live. Patient’s affect changed considerably. And the next note said: Postcard from patient. Depression in complete remission. Will continue with intervention. Benefits outweigh risks.
The man slowly closed his folder. On the doctor’s desk, he saw the American Journal of Psychiatry. Next to an advertisement for Effexor was an article written by his doctor. He looked at its title: “Mortality Therapy: A Case Study.”
“‘Good’ refers to life; ‘tov me’od, very good’ refers to death.”
We are celebrating an Aufruf today. About a year ago, Rabbi Seth Phillips joined our shul. His outgoing character, menchlichkeit, and kindness made him an immediate friend to so many in our shul and in the community-at-large. We were all so thrilled for him when he met and got engaged to Joanne O’Connor. The other day I was meeting with this lovely couple and Seth mentioned to me what motivated him to find love later in life. And he quoted a verse from Hallel, Lo hameitim y’hal’lu Kah, the dead do not give praise to G-d. What he was saying is that as we age, death hovers us. Some are debilitated by fear of death, but others allow their mortality to motivate them to live every day of their precious life to the fullest. We hope and pray that Seth and Joanne live a full and long life full of blessing and joy.
Egyptian culture was notoriously anti-death. The tombs filled with the deceased’s belongings was a way of saying, “Don’t worry about anything. We are here forever.” Even the hairstyle of the Egyptians, a shaved head, not letting people know if you are greying or balding is an expression of this ignore-death culture. But it’s not just a relic of the past. When Jeff Bezos shaved his head, that was his way of saying, I’m not going anywhere. When the market for anti-aging products is at 80 billion dollars and projected to grow to 120 billion dollars in the next few years, that is our society’s way of ignoring the inevitable reality of our demise. We do so at our own peril.
Yaakov Avinu recalls the day of death and makes burial instructions so his family can know exactly what to do when he dies. Yaakov Avinu recalls the day of death and uses it as an opportunity to speak to his children and share the many messages he had held on to for way too long.
Someone recently shared with me a story of a survivor of Auschwitz who was on the train to the camps, separated from her parents and alone with her eight-year-old younger brother. She looked down at his feet and noticed that he wasn’t wearing shoes. “What’s wrong with you?” she creams. “How could you be so stupid to not wear shoes?” In the commotion and crush of bodies they were separated. Her brother didn’t make it out of Auschwitz. Those were the last words she ever said to him.
She committed, after liberation, to remind herself in every conversation with a loved one that it just might be the last. The petty fight that you don’t even remember how it started dissipates in the face of death. The estrangement of friends, of family, is so obviously unwarranted when we remind ourselves of our demise. “‘Tov’ refers to life; ‘tov me’od’ refers to death.”
So talk and joke about death or don’t talk and joke about death – whatever makes you comfortable. But let’s do ourselves and those around us a favor and think about death. The key to a good life is not shaving our head and having less wrinkles. It’s remembering that every day and every conversation just may be our last.
