by Ner Tamid | Jun 21, 2026 | Sermons
In Parshas Korach, a portal to hell opens up in the ground. I could only imagine the shock of the onlookers, watching as this portal sucked in everything and everyone in its vicinity. The noise! The ground shaking, the screams; it must have been so frightening and unsettling for the Jewish People.
And then the sense of relief when it finally closed. It’s over. We’re done. We could stop clutching our children; we’re safe.
That’s an image that kept popping up in my head this week, but in the inverse:
About three months ago, a portal to Olam Habbah, to the Messianic Era, was opened in the heavens. When the American and Israeli governments attacked Iran at the end of February, killing the Ayatollah, severely damaging their weapons, and crippling their economy, peace and security for the Jewish People was finally in sight. Hamas was decimated, Hezbollah was shutting down, and now their great sponsor, the Iranian regime, was finally getting their due. This was how Mashiach was going to go down.
The portal cracked open 78 years ago, when the State of Israel was formed. Two decades later, the Har Habayit was back in our hands and that hole to heaven expanded, and now, after so much bloodshed, we were finally going to have peace.
I felt drawn into that portal in the most beautiful way. Mashiach was coming; you could just feel it. I would tell my kids every Friday night that I was nervous that Mashiach would come on Shabbos, just as a way to stick it to those of us who chose to live outside of Israel. All of us outside of Israel would be late to the party.
Either way, I could hear the intro music; we were really almost there.
And then, with the stroke of a digital pen on a pathetically weak Memo of Understanding, everything changed. Just like that, the Iranians were gifted billions of dollars which will end up arming Hamas and Hezbollah, they were given the green light to continue building “peaceful nuclear reactors,” and they were given permission to continue stockpiling missiles which will likely end up in Israel. Not to mention the heartbreaking infighting between Jewish brothers playing out on the streets and highways of Israel. And not to mention, the anti-Israel and antisemitic sentiment that exploded during these past months. JD Vance was right when he said no one likes the Jewish State right now. We are not back where we started. We have gone backward. The expanding portal of Olam Habah has slammed shut in our face. I imagine I am not alone in feeling this way.
The question is, what did we learn from this experience?
The first and most obvious lesson is “Al tivtichu bindivim.” King David warned us thousands of years ago not to place our trust in political leaders. For too long, way too many people in the Orthodox community have placed their faith in mortal man. On the streets of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, banners were raised with the words, “Thank you, G-d, and thank you, President Trump.” We forgot that “Man is like a fleeting breath, his days are like a passing shadow.” The early Zionists erased G-d from the Declaration of Independence and denied His existence; the later Zionists believed in G-d but equated Him to a man. I’m not sure which one is worse.
How did this happen?
In my opinion, we lost the script on politics.
Let me share with you a conversation I had with someone I love and respect. A few weeks ago, this person texted me with the following question. He understood that as a resident of Maryland for his vote to count, he had to switch parties and register as a Democrat. And he was really bothered. To quote: “I’m uncomfortable registering as a Democrat because many of the values associated with the party do not align with my beliefs. How can I switch parties when I don’t identify with the party?”
We could debate which party has more values that we do or do not identify with, but that is really not that point, and I beg you to not get distracted by his position. What I was troubled by was the notion of identifying with any party. No one here is a Republican and no one here is a Democrat. The party you vote for is not your identity.
By extension, our politicians are not our heroes; they are our public servants. You know who else is a public servant? The sanitation crew who picked up the recycling from in front of my house this morning.
Obviously, it would be ideal if the sanitation crew members were all outstanding citizens. An honest sanitation crew member would do a better job if he was a good person. But if my best option is a crook and he gets the job done, I will hold my nose and begrudgingly thank him for getting the job done. That is true for the president of the United States, and it is true for any elected official.
When the Orthodox community elevates public officials into gedolim, into heroes, when Orthodox magazines imply that one party is our identity, they are distorting Jewish values.
This is obviously a timely message for our community as elections are taking place this week. I urge you to vote; it’s critical that we have a large turnout. Who you vote for is obviously your choice. But when you vote, don’t forget that your only real identity is a Jew who lives in America. Full stop. You are not voting for a hero or even a role model and I do not believe that this is a sell-out of our values. On the contrary, I believe that thinking your representative is meant to be a role model is a sell-out of our values. Instead, you are essentially voting for the sanitation worker you believe will best represent the needs of the Baltimore community; the Jewish community, the Black community, the Baltimore community-at-large.
The second lesson I hope we can learn from the Messianic portal closing is that this is an opportunity for real growth.
It’s easy to believe in G-d when all is going well. It’s easy to believe in a positive future when our enemies are being bombed to smithereens. And right now, it’s hard to see the good, you might even feel that it’s hard to see G-d.
But what that means is that this is a real opportunity to deepen our faith; to be inspired by tens of generations of our ancestors who said Shema as they were burned in the auto-de-fe, who sang ani maamin in the gas chambers.
So let’s be honest and say out loud that it is hard to believe in a Messianic era; do we really believe in it?
Let’s be honest and say out loud that it comes across as naïve to talk about a new world order with open miracles; I am sure this whole conversation is making some of you a little uncomfortable.
And – let’s use this vulnerable opportunity to be honest and say that if we truly believe in G-d, if we truly believe in a good G-d, then a world of corruption, a world of dishonest political leaders, a world of pain, a world of hurt cannot be what He has in mind.
If we truly believe in G-d, in a G-d that created the world, then that G-d can just as easily snap His fingers and bring about a totally new reality.
Yes, a portal has closed, but a new one has opened. And this new portal that is opening before us is one that demands of us to strengthen our Emunah, to think about G-d more not less, to double our commitment to living lives that will contribute to a new world order, to believe in a Messianic era from a place of true faith, be’emunah sheleima.
The gemara in Sanhedrin tells us that the portal that swept up Korach into the depths of hell was left open a tiny crack. The gemara informs us that if you find that crack and put your ear to the ground you can hear Korach and his followers proclaiming, Moshe emes v’toraso emes, Moshe and the Torah he taught us are real. Korach learned his lesson and was able to declare his belief in G-d and in His torah.
Are we in heaven? Are we in hell? I don’t know. But let’s join them and proclaim from the depth of our hearts that we too believe.
by Ner Tamid | Jun 7, 2026 | Sermons
Everyone seems to be weighing in on AI these days. The Pope shared his view two weeks ago, l’havdil, the Satmar Rebbe spoke about AI this past week. It is most definitely an important topic but one that I do not yet feel qualified to share any thoughts on in a meaningful fashion. Today, I want to focus on one very limited element of AI and that is modality of speech; the way we talk to AI and the way AI can help us speak.
A little while ago, someone posted the following to X: “I wonder how much money OpenAI has lost in electricity costs from people saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to their models.” Every word we use adds to the cost of processing replies and this X-user was highlighting the potential waste of money to AI companies caused by our politeness.
The next day, Sam Altman, the CEO of OpenAI responded: “Tens of millions of dollars.” And then he added, “It’s tens of millions of dollars that are well spent.”
In Jewish tradition, our ability to speak is seen as the defining feature of humankind. When the Torah describes the soul blown into the nostrils of Adam, Targum Onkelos translates the word Neshama as ruach m’ma’l’lah, a speaking spirit. The ability to communicate is something we share with the animal kingdom, but refined speech, saying please, saying thank you, that is something that sets us apart. Tens of millions of dollars that are well spent.
I recently learned that AI is helping many people refine their language. I don’t mean the many rabbis who are using AI to write their sermons. I am referring to a number of divorcees I have heard from who tell me that when they need to communicate a message to their ex, they run their message through AI, instructing AI to write their message in a polite fashion and not passive-aggressively. They put in: “Are you kidding me?! What are you thinking?!” And AI rewrites that to: “That’s so interesting. I wonder if there is another way to think about this?”
That’s a good usage of AI.
It got me thinking and I realized that there may be a market for a chatbot called, KvetchAI. It would be used by virtually ever Jew:
You would say, “Rabbi, that sermon was way too long,” and KvetchAI would say, “You gave us a lot to think about this week.”
You would say, “Where is the guy davening Mussaf running to?” and KvetchAI would say, “Wow, he sure has a lot of energy.”
You would say, “My children only call when they need money,” and KvetchAI would say, “Thank G-d, my children remember my number.”
It would kill the comedy scene. Imagine Jackie Mason or Jerry Seinfeld would have nothing to kvetch about. That would be a disaster.
There is an entire episode of Seinfeld dedicated to a made-up-holiday called, Festivus (Festivus for the rest of us!). The main ceremony of Festivus is an opportunity to kvetch – to go around the table and air your grievances about others who are sitting with you.
If you were ever looking for a Biblical precedent for Festivus it would be this week’s Torah portion. It is by far the kvetchiest parsha of all. The Jews complain, Miriam and Aharon complain, and even Moshe complains. But there is a strange inconsistency in how G-d responds to kvetching. When the Jews complain, G-d punishes them, when Moshe complains, G-d listens and solves his problem. Why is that?
The answer, it would seem, is that kvetching is not all that bad. It depends on how you do it. There is constructive kvetching and destructive kvetching. Some people complain because they like to complain; they’re not looking for a solution, they’re looking to get things off their chest, they’re using a cheap tool to make conversation, they’re trying to be witty. There are others who complain because they’re looking to change a bad situation.
When Moshe kvetches about his inability to lead the people on his own, he cares deeply about the Jewish People and he wants to see them succeed. In response, Hashem provides him with 70 helpers, an entire staff of qualified managers who can help him lead. When the Jewish People kvetch they do so because they like to kvetch. The Kotzker points out that the Torah describes the Jewish People’s kvetch in a telling fashion: Vayehi ha’am k’mis’onenim, literally, the nation acted like complainers. It doesn’t say they complained; complaining was their identity.
The litmus test of a good kvetch vs a bad one is whether you are willing to do something about it. Every shul leader knows the best way to respond to a kvetch is to acknowledge and offer the complainer the opportunity to fix it. What happens next is the ultimate tell; if they roll up their sleeves to help, they are a mench. If they stare at you blankly, they’re just a kvetch.
But there’s a level beyond kvetching like a mench and that brings us to the Bates family.
I don’t know if the Bates family uses ChatGPT, but if they did, they would probably cost the company millions of dollars on their own with all their ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous.’ I have never met a more refined, polite, and kind group of people.
On Thursday, I sat down with Abby, who is celebrating her Bat Mitzvah today and I learned about all of her skills; she is athletic, energetic, and in the words of her parents, “will do anything for anyone.” I am looking forward to all of you hearing her beautiful D’var Torah and learning about the very special chesed project she did for her Bat Mitzvah.
What really struck me though is when I asked Abby about school. Some kids love school, some kids don’t. When I asked Abby about school, it became clear that she was probably in that second camp. But instead of telling me what she doesn’t like about school, she kind of smiled.
When you say something to AI, it says something back. Every time. It doesn’t know how not to respond. But the greatest, most refined, most G-dly mode of speech, is having what to say and saying nothing at all. In the words of Rumi, the Sufi mystic, “Silence is G-d’s first language. Everything else is bad translation.”
The Alshich writes that Moshe was present when Aharon and Miriam spoke about him. This is why the Torah tells us that ‘Moshe was the most humble of all.’ When he heard his brother and sister disparage him, he had the best possible defense available to him – he knew his level of prophecy was radically different than theirs. And yet, he chose to bite his tongue. Abby, you exemplify the highest form of human speech.
I want to share with you a story I recently heard from my friend, Rabbi Avi Goldstein: There was once a yeshiva student who came to take a farher, an admission test, at the Philadelphia Yeshiva. Philadelphia Yeshiva is very hard to get into and the person delivering the exam was a great Sage and torah scholar, Rav Elya Svei zt”l.
The exam typically focuses on what the student studied the year before. This boy just had learned Meseches Chulin in his school, a difficult tractate that deals with ritual slaughter amongst other things.
Rav Elya asked him which chapter in Chullin did you learn this past year? The boys father was there and he replied, “My son learned the chapter of HaKol Shochtin.” The father left the room and the exam began.
Question after question and the boy did not do well. He couldn’t answer anything. After twenty minutes, Rav Elya Svei called the boy’s father in and informed him that his son would not be accepted into the school.
The drive home was tense, as you can imagine. At one point the father turned to his son and asked him: “I’m just confused. You did so well last year in school. What happened at the exam?”
And the son explained to his father that last year in school he learned the chapter called HaShochet, not HaKol Shochtin. His father turned pale. “I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I told Rav Svei the wrong chapter. But why didn’t you speak up? Why didn’t you tell him that you learned a different chapter? Why didn’t you correct me?!”
And the son sheepishly replied, “I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of such a great Torah scholar.”
The father pulled over to the side of the road, called Rav Svei and told him what happened. Rav Svei was so impressed with this boy’s middos that he accepted him on the spot.
Kvetching is not all that bad, but we cannot allow it to become our identity. If you need to kvetch, kvetch like a mench; kvetch with kind words and kvetch constructively, be ready to not only identify the problem but solve it. But most refined of all is the golden silence of this young boy, of Moshe Rabbeinu, and of Abby Bates.
Abby, may you continue to walk in the beautiful path of your parents and may you continue to use your many talents to make the world a little brighter and kinder. May you always have the wisdom to know when to complain – and how, and in a world filled with noise, the strength to remain silent when silence is the noblest response. Mazel Tov.
by Ner Tamid | May 31, 2026 | Sermons
Ari, I am going to present to you a scenario about a particular person and you’re going to let me know what you think of him. Okay?
Imagine a Chassid, with long peyos, streimel, a bekeshe, the whole nine yards. He wakes up one day and decides to travel to South Dakota. Do you know how many Jews live there? Let’s just say it’s not the best place to find a nice Jewish wife. Sure enough, he meets a young Protestant woman and decides to marry her on the spot. His parents are understandably appalled. They try to dissuade him. “What do you see in her?” they ask him. And he replies, “She’s pretty.”
It gets worse. Much worse.
This Chassid meets a bunch of good old South Dakotans who are friends of his bride’s family. They get to talking and eventually they decide to make a bet. The friends cheat on this bet. The chassid finds out and murders 30 of these young men.
How are we doing with this guy, Ari? Thumbs up or thumbs down?
He then gets into a fight with his fiancée and so she decides to marry someone else. As soon as the Chassid hears that she got married to another guy, he lights a fire which destroys a significant section of this city’s business sector.
Should we keep on going?
He’s now a convict. He goes into hiding. And one day he is tracked down by representatives from major Jewish organizations and they confront him. “What are you doing? You’re making us all look bad?!” He replies, “They messed with me. I mess with them.”
These Jews do the right thing and bring him to the authorities – this Chassid is a danger to society. When he gets to the police station, he manages to break free and starts attacking the police officers.
Ari, what’s the verdict? What do you all think? It’s a good thing it’s not a real story; this would be the Chillul Hashem of the century. Right?
Only that it is a real story, and the “Chassid” is a Jewish hero.
We read in today’s Haftorah how over three thousand years ago, there was a young man by the name of Shimshon. He travels to a neighboring non-Jewish town inhabited by Pelishtim. He finds a beautiful non-Jewish wife, makes a bet with her friends, they cheat, he kills them, she marries someone else, he lights the Pelishti fields on fire. The people of Yehuda turn him in to the Pelishtim, and then he kills more Pelishtim.
What a bizarre story. Shimshon seems deeply unwell. How do we celebrate this person’s life and accomplishments?
The Malbim makes the following amazing observation: The Pelishtim were terrorizing the Jewish People during this era. They were also far more powerful than the Jewish People. If the Jews chose to fight against their enemies, they’d be decimated. In steps Shimshon with a brilliant plan.
As long as his attacks on the Pelishtim are a personal vendetta, as long as everything that Shimshon does are the actions of one lunatic seeking his own vengeance, the Pelishtim will not take out their anger against the Jewish People because he’s not representing them.
And so Shimshon is not a raving psycho; he is a brilliant strategist. He creates personal arguments and uses them as a pretext to fight and defeat the enemies of the Jewish People. By making it personal, he protects the Jewish People from any retribution.
But in the process, Shimshon becomes the most misunderstood Biblical character. Not only misunderstood by us, but even in his lifetime, in order to not blow his cover, he has to pretend he is someone he is not. The community does not understand him – “What are you doing?” they ask him. His own parents don’t understand him. At every turn, he is hiding, he’s literally hiding on his own from the Pelishtim, but he’s also hiding his true self from everyone around him.
Do you know what type of strength of character that takes – to do what you know is right even when the whole world doesn’t understand you?
In Chabad literature, they characterize people in three categories – a chitzon, one who is superficial and are easily swayed by what others say and think, a penimi, one who strives to be real to themselves, and an atzmi. An atzmi is completely independent of others. The atzmi is not swayed by criticism or even compliments. The atzmi is entirely self-motivated, doing what’s right because it’s right. The whole world may point and laugh, but the atzmi does not care. Shimshon was an atzmi. He did what’s right because it was right, even when no one saw it and even when no one understood.
Let me tell you a story about an atzmi. A number of years ago, a fire broke out in an apartment in Baltimore in the early morning. If I was driving by, I would call 911 and wait. But Ari, your father, Moshe Topas a’h, was driving by and he realized time was of the essence. He pulled over, ran into the burning building and started knocking on doors. He woke people up who would have otherwise been stuck inside. They all escaped. Now if I had the bravery to do that, I would probably stick around until the news showed up and would happily give an interview to the local news station. Moshe jumped back into his pickup truck and drove off before anyone even knew who saved them.
The Rambam (Makkos, Peirush L’mishnayos) writes that most of us go through our whole lives doing Mitzvos for ulterior motives; to fit in, to look good, so we don’t get zapped by G-d. He explains that G-d gave us so many Mitzvos so that if we do Mitzvos every day, maybe, maybe, we will end up doing one Mitzvah with no ulterior motive. That one pure Mitzvah is our ticket to Olam Haba. Ari, your father was an atzmi, he did what’s right for no reason other than the fact that it was right. You’re your father is looking down from Olam Habah right now and shepping so much nachas from you.
Another story – I remember years ago having a conversation with your mother, Esther, about your schooling. She was thinking of switching you out of the school you were in, but all her friends sent their kids to the school you attended. The school she wanted to send you to wasn’t the best for her socially. But she realized that it would be good for you in this new school. So she made the switch lishma, for the right reason, ignoring all those around her. Thank G-d, she made the right choice.
But being an atzmi is not easy. It could be very lonely constantly swimming against the tide. Shimshon, the quintessential atzmi, can’t handle living on his own and being misunderstood, and he eventually crumbles. Because even the most independent person needs a sense of belonging, a sense of connection to a community.
Over the years, your mother, Ari, has contributed greatly to our shul. She’ll tell you she does nothing, but it’s not true. Despite having her hands full as a single mother, she has used her talents and wisdom to help the shul, most recently serving as an officer on our board and has made Ner Tamid her community. We all need to find a balance between not being swayed by the community on the one hand and finding our place within a community on the other.
Ari, you have been blessed with many talents and a powerful legacy of atzmiut. But you have also demonstrated that you understand the importance of connecting to others. Whether it’s your younger sister who you care for, or whether it’s your friends who you spend endless hours not only hanging out with but helping, you are deeply connected to others.
The story of Shimshon is a cautionary tale; yes, those of us who are swept up by the trends and approval of our surroundings risk a life of superficiality. But those who are not swayed in any way by their surroundings risk a life of utter loneliness. It takes courage to be misunderstood but it also takes courage to be connected. Ari, may you find the balance between being true to thyself while feeling connected to a community that cares about you ever so deeply.
by Ner Tamid | May 24, 2026 | Sermons
For over a decade, every Simchas Torah, a small yeshiva in Petach Tikvah, Orot Shaul, would send its students to the colorful streets of Tel Aviv to bring joy and unity to the masses. One year, the Rosh Yeshiva, Rabbi Tamir Gronat, was troubled by a number of high-profile incidents that took place in Tel Aviv – street-fights between Orthodox and secular Israelis, and he felt that more had to be done. He printed shirts that said, “Harei ani mekabel alai le’ehov/ I accept upon myself to love,” and told his students that instead of their white Yom Tov shirts they should wear and hand out these shirts as they dance in the streets.
That year was 2023, and those shirts never saw the light of day. Instead, the majority of this Hesder Yeshiva geared up and went into battle. This would not be the only setback Rabbi Granot would face that year.
On October 13th at 4 AM, Rabbi Granot’s son, 24-year-old, Amitai called his fiancée from the Northern border of Israel. They had been engaged for two weeks and were not planning on getting married for a while. But war has a way of forcing people to prioritize what is truly important, and so Amitai decided he couldn’t wait any longer. “Roni,” he told his fiancée, “Next time the army lets me go home, even for a day, let’s get married. Small wedding, just our families. Roni, you are the only thing that’s important in my life.” By 11 AM that day, Amitai had been killed by Hezbollah.
At the funeral of his son, Rabbi Granot got up to speak. He had prepared remarks reflecting on the all-too-short life of his son. He had prepared remarks for his family, his beloved wife and children, who were reeling from the loss. But then he went off script. In Rabbi Granot’s broken heart, he realized there was someone else who was also in pain. “Roni,” he said to his son’s fiancée, “choose life.”
He was trying to give her permission to move on. But frankly, it was an absurd comment.
How does one choose life when G-d has stacked everything against you? How does one choose life when all of your careful planning has been undone? How does one choose life when life is the one thing that is so clearly out of our hands and entirely in the hands of G-d?
Of course, this absurd directive did not originate with Rabbi Granot. He was quoting a verse in the Torah, something Moshe Rabbeinu taught us on the last day of his life. “Uvacharta bachaim.” We, who believe that G-d controls the world, are faced with a paradox. If He is really in control, then where does that leave us? If G-d placed me in a dysfunctional home, if G-d created me with a physical or mental disease, if G-d put me in this horrific situation, that is His will. And yet, Moshe protests, without giving us any explanation as to how this actually works, we are told to choose our own destiny. “Uvacharta bachaim.” How?
Less than a month ago, Dr. Edith Eger passed away at the age of 98. She grew up in Slovakia, was an exceptionally talented ballet dancer with a promising career ahead of her, but the Holocaust shattered her dreams. She was taken to Auschwitz where Mengel y’s regularly made Edith dance for him. She somehow survived physically but the emotional toll was immense. At the age of 50, she went to college. She was trying to heal her own trauma but, in the process, her innate therapeutic skills emerged. She became Dr. Eger, a world-renowned expert in trauma, treating war veterans and others who endured the most horrific of circumstances. At the young age of 89, she published a book that I imagine many of you read called, The Choice. If you haven’t read it yet, you should.
Allow me to read a short passage from the book: “…(S)uffering is universal. But victimhood is optional. There is a difference between victimization and victimhood. We are all likely to be victimized in some way in the course of our lives. At some point we will suffer some kind of affliction or calamity or abuse, caused by circumstances or people or institutions over which we have little or no control. This is life. And this is victimization. It comes from outside. It’s the neighborhood bully, the boss who rages, the spouse who hits, the lover who cheats, the discriminatory law, the accident that lands you in the hospital.
In contrast, victimhood comes from the inside. No one can make you a victim but you. We become victims not because of what happens to us, but when we choose to hold on to our victimization. We develop a victim’s mind – a way of thinking and being that is rigid, blaming, pessimistic, stuck in the past, unforgiving, punitive, and without healthy limits or boundaries. We become our own jailors when we choose the confines of the victim’s mind.”
This was an elaboration on the philosophy of her mentor, Dr. Viktor Frankl, another Holocaust survivor who wrote: “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
Both of them, these two Jews, Frankl and Eger, were helping us understand what Moshe was trying to teach us when he said, “uvacharta bachaim.” So much of life is beyond our control. But within those confines, as dark and limiting as they may seem, we have the ability to choose. We always have the ability to choose.
***
On Shavuos, we celebrate the giving of the Torah. On the one hand, we chose to receive the Torah. G-d asked us, invited us, and we replied ‘Naaseh v’nishma,” we choose to accept our mission. And yet, the Talmud famously describes the moment before Hashem gave us the Torah: Kafah aleihem har k’gigis. G-d lifted the mountain of our heads and threatened us. Take it or die. You must accept the Torah.
Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm explains: Every Jew is chosen; a Jewish baby boy, just eight days old, “feels the pain of cold steel cutting into his flesh,” we are marked for hatred and persecution no matter what we do, and we are given an overwhelming number of commandments. Some Jews try to escape their fate; they pander to antisemites by going to receptions in Gramacy Mansion or they try to hide their Jewishness. But wherever we go, G-d still holds that mountain over our head casting in inescapable shadow.
In Rabbi Lamm’s words: “But when the Jew, chosen by G-d, forcibly throughout history, turns to G-d and now, out of his own free will and with the total commitment of a free personality, chooses Him – his life is transformed, filled with the beauty of meaning and purpose. If a Jew is only chosen and not choosing, then Mt. Sinai crushes him. But if he turns about and decides to choose G-d, then Mt. Sinai becomes a lofty summons…”
“At a time of Yizkor,” we “remember parents and grandparents, and through them the link of every generation with the one that preceded it, all the way up the chain of time… If our link to the past is merely biological, simply a matter of heredity,” of culture, of Jewish food, of Jewish friends, “then we are merely chosen Jews.” It’s a fate that has been chosen for us. And that’s not a life. To live is to choose, to live is to recognize our limitations, what has been given to us, and in that space, climb higher and higher. We need to be Jews who proactively chose to live a life of Torah and spirituality.
***
On August 15, 2025, Roni, Amitai Granot’s bereaved fiancée, got married. She asked Rabbi Granot, her almost-father-in-law to officiate. He refused but she insisted. Under the chuppah, Rabbi Granot used the opportunity to speak of his son and his dashed dreams. He then sang, “Zeh hayom asah Hashem, this is the day that G-d made, Nagilah v’nis’m’cha bo, let us rejoice.”
He later told a friend that the cup of wine he held during the ceremony was literally filled with tears; tears of a fate he did not choose, mixed with the wine of a choice to live.
Roni chose life. Rabbi Granot chose life. We can choose life as well.
Every year on Shavuos, we can look up and see a daunting mountain, a life forced upon us filled with restrictions and hate. Every year on Shavuos, we are given the opportunity to say, Naaseh v’nishma once more. How am I choosing to be Jewish? In what way am I elevating my Jewishness beyond what was forced upon me, beyond what I inherited from my parents? Is my prayer more meaningful or am I just copying whatever I saw in my home? Am I studying my Jewish heritage or am I content with Jewish culture? Is my relationship with G-d one of hiding under the mountain, or am I trying to climb it, and reach Him?
“Uvacharta bachaim.” It doesn’t always feel like it, but we always have a choice.
by Ner Tamid | May 10, 2026 | Sermons
The Jewish poet, Achad Ha’am, famously said, “More than the Jewish People kept Shabbos, Shabbos kept the Jewish People.” Today, I’d like to suggest that Shabbos not only kept the Jews, but Shabbos kept the American People.
In President Trump’s declaration announcing May as Jewish Heritage Month, he wrote: “This month, we celebrate the contributions that Jewish Americans have made to our way of life, we honor their role in shaping the story of our Nation.” While there are many Jewish values and Jewish People that have been pivotal in the American way of life, I’d like to argue that Shabbos has played an outsized role.
In that declaration, President Trump dedicated next Shabbos, May 15-16, as a time to reflect on American Jewish history. But if I were to dedicate next Shabbos to this theme, 50% of you would be upset that I listened to President Trump. If I were to skip it entirely, the other 50% of you would be furious that I ignored the President. As a compromise, we’ll dedicate this Shabbos to American Jewish history… In all honesty, I read the proclamation quickly and I got the date wrong. I suppose you could say, we’re doing early Shabbos… So here goes, “More than the American People kept Shabbos, Shabbos kept the American People.” (And you’re welcome to all the rabbis who want to use this drasha next week…)
In 1752, a bell was commissioned by the Pennsylvania Provincial Assembly. On July 8, 1776, the bell was rung to inform people of the Declaration of Independence. Years later, it became a symbol for the Abolitionists who dubbed it the Liberty Bell. The inscription on the bell is a verse from this week’s parsha, “Proclaim Liberty thro’ all the Land to all the Inhabitants thereof.” It refers to Yovel, the ‘super-Shabbos.’ Every seven years, the land has its own Shabbos and following every cycle of seven years, there is an additional year of Shabbos. In other words, Shabbos was part of the nation’s ideological fabric from before its inception.
In 1793, Jonas Phillips, a Revolutionary War Veteran, was called to testify in court on Shabbos. He refused – he argued that it infringed upon his religious practices. He was fined, he appealed, and the fine was waived. Legal experts consider this the first recorded case of religious liberties being tested in the United States of America.
In 1849, a judge by the incredible name, Judge Lawless, ruled that those who observe Saturday as a day of rest would be allowed to work on Sunday. Until this time, Jews were at a disadvantage, unable to work on Shabbos and prevented by the law to work on Sunday. This groundbreaking ruling was welcomed by Quakers, Mennonites, and other minority groups who wanted to not just be tolerated but welcomed into American society as equals.
Despite these rulings, there was still plenty of tension around religious freedoms. In 1851, a case was heard by the Philadelphia court concerning the conversion of Warder Cresson. Warder Cresson was no ordinary man, he was a wealthy farmer, who was appointed as the US consul to Jerusalem. Jerusalem at the time was a backwater and didn’t really need a consul, but using his wealth and influence he persuaded the government to create the position and appoint him. Shortly after arriving in Palestine, he converted to Judaism. When he returned home from Palestine, he found out that his wife had taken over his entire business enterprise claiming that Warden was insane and that he should be committed to an insane asylum. Her argument? Anyone who chose to convert to Judaism must be crazy (not entirely wrong, by the way).
The local sheriff ruled in her favor, but they quickly found themselves in court where Cresson appealed the ruling. One of the star witnesses brought forward by Cresson was a naturalist by the name Peter Browne who proved to the audience and jury that Cresson was not insane by examining specimens of Cresson’s hair roots and contrasting them with his specimens he obtained at a Virginia insane asylum. The court ruled in his favor. In the United States of America, one could proudly choose to identify with a minority group and not be considered crazy. The First Amendment would be upheld.
Despite these rulings, it was still exceptionally difficult to keep Shabbos. The many Jews who immigrated to the United States at the turn of the 20th century were faced with an impossible decision, work on Saturday or keep Shabbos and live in poverty. Many Jews could not withstand the challenge.
Even those who did observe Shabbos were impacted. There is a famous story of a man who visited Rav Moshe Feinstein. He complained that he kept Shabbos and nonetheless his children did not. Rav Moshe suggested that maybe it was the way he kept Shabbos that prevented his children from following in his ways. “When you came home on Friday after being fired from yet another job,” asked Rav Moshe, “did you sigh or did you celebrate? If your children heard you say, ‘shver tzu zayn a Yid/ it’s hard to be a Jew,’ then of course, they didn’t follow you.” It would take years until Jews could proudly sing and proclaim, ‘Gehsmack to be a Yid/ it’s awesome to be a Jew.’ It’s a mindset we still struggle with.
In the 1920’s, a Jewish group known as the Sabbath Alliance started advocating for a 5-day work week. Initially, they were unsuccessful. Eventually, they joined forces with the labor unions, who brought industries to a standstill with their strikes. Historians suggest that the turning point took place in a Jewish-owned mill in New England, where the business owners instituted a 5-day week to allow their Jewish and Christian workers their own respective day of rest. By the 1950’s, the five-day work week became the norm across the country and eventually, the Western World.
And then there is the modern Shabbos. In our hyper-connected and never-off digital world, the notion of a digital Sabbath, going off electronics for 24 hours and the value of dedicating a day to family and faith has become trendy. Charlie Kirk, who observed Saturday as his day of rest, concludes his book, Stop in the Name of G-d, with the following passage: “Imagine if America began to honor the Sabbath again—not merely as a personal spiritual practice, but as a national cultural rhythm. Picture Saturday once again becoming a time of collective pause. … Our frayed, fractured society would begin to knit itself back together, not through government programs or corporate initiatives, but through G-d’s design: one day in seven set apart for healing, remembering, and being human again. … The Sabbath would become not just a private act of worship, but a public act of restoration.”
First Amendment rights, religious freedoms, the five-day work week, digital detox, and a desperately needed time for family. More than the American People kept Shabbos, Shabbos kept the American People.
What I find beautiful about this historic overview is that in each generation a new element of Shabbos was discovered and appreciated. In one generation, it represented First Amendment rights and religious liberties, in another the importance of taking a break in our work, and in another the value of family and looking up from our screens. I wonder what value of Shabbos will be discovered in fifty years from now.
But no matter how deep we go, no matter how many universal values we mine from Shabbos, there will always be an element of Shabbos that is relevant to us, the Jewish People, and us alone. There is a well-known Halacha that it’s forbidden for a non-Jew to fully observe Shabbos, but it’s very hard to understand. Considering all the great benefits that Shabbos brings to those who observe it, why does G-d not allow non-Jews to observe Shabbos? The Medrash Rabbah explains this strange law with a parable of a king and queen alone in their bedroom who are interrupted by a stranger. Shabbos is an intimate rendezvous with G-d, who on Shabbos, is described as Yedid Nefesh, my lover.
It sounds lofty, and I struggle to convey what this means in practical terms, so allow me to describe a little bit of my inner experience of Shabbos, and I hope it will allow us to appreciate what Shabbos is meant to be.
By the end of the week, I am tired, physically and emotionally, after six days of giving it my all. More than being drained, I feel distant from myself, from who I know I could be. Despite my title as rabbi and despite dedicating my waking hours to what I believe to be a G-dly mission, I’m embarrassed to say, I often don’t feel G-d. I am usually so consumed by the task at hand that I cannot feel anything beyond. I imagine I am not the only one who feels this way on a regular basis.
I come to shul on Friday night and start Kabbalas Shabbos and it’s just regular praying; I try to pay attention, but often find myself distracted, having finished a passage without really knowing how I got there. And then we get to L’cha Dodi. It doesn’t matter who the chazzan is, it doesn’t matter what tune is chosen, it doesn’t matter if I’m davening by myself, there is something about the words, the message, that grabs me almost every week: “Hisna’ari mei’afar kumi, get up from the dirt! Livshi bigdei tifarteich ami, put on your royal clothes!” I am reminded that I am not the sum total of my struggles; I am royalty in a loving relationship with Hashem, I have more to offer. “Uri, uri, shir dabeiri, wake up, wake up, sing your song!” “K’vod Hashem alayich niglah!” There is a personal mission, a song that only I can sing; G-d is hovering over me.
Sometimes that feeling lasts through the night, sometimes it stays with me through Shabbos morning, and sometimes I even hold on until the end of Shabbos. And sometimes, it’s just a fleeting moment of connection. But it’s worth it. All the restrictions, all the rushed preparation, all the sacrifices of the week, for a moment of closeness with G-d. This is what our broader society does not and cannot understand. Shabbos is not a means to an end – rest so you’ll be recharged for next week, turn off your device so you’ll have the mental energy for tomorrow, spend a moment with family so you could drown in work all week – no! Shabbos is the goal. Shabbos is the sum total of our efforts. Shabbos is so much bigger than 250 years of incredible American history. Shabbos is the weekly opportunity to merge heaven and earth, our yearning soul with its lover, Hashem. L’cha dodi is my opening into the beauty of Shabbos, but each of us can find their own way of tapping into the G-dly intimacy that Shabbos has to offer.
And so yes, President Trump is right. We should be grateful to this country, and we should be proud of the impact Judaism has had on its ethos. But we can’t stop there.
Can we put our phones down for 25 hours and recharge our soul? Can we take our Shabbos meals seriously and fill them with meaningful conversation, a weekly opportunity to strengthen our family values? Can we look into the eyes of our loved ones for a few moments a week and connect ever so deeply? Can we lose ourselves in a book for a few hours, preferably a Jewish book, and allow our minds and aspirations to soar? Can we take advantage of the magical atmosphere on Shabbos and pray, slowly, thoughtfully? Can we sing – here at shul, at home, yes, song – the ultimate spiritual tool to bring people together that allows us to feel the edges of our soul? And can we try to soar above this physical world and lovingly connect with Hashem?
Not just this Shabbos, not just next Shabbos, but every Shabbos.
Good Shabbos, Shabbat Shalom.
