by Ner Tamid | Apr 19, 2026 | Sermons
My favorite part of every Bar Mitzvah is what takes place in my office a week or two before the Simcha. I meet with the Bar Mitzvah boy and his parents to discuss the upcoming weekend, what their plans are, how things are going, and then, I ask the parents, “Please tell me all about your child.” And I get to listen as parents list quality after quality of their young man. I watch as the child, who until this moment was slightly checked out, perks up, and listens as their traits are shared.
Leiby, your parents did not disappoint. Your father told me about your love for family, your social skills, and your deep connection to Yiddishkeit. Your mother described your sense of humor, your musical talents, and your sensitivity. Of course, these are traits you acquired from them, each in their own way, giving you a shining example of what it means to be a contributing, community-centered, Jewish adult.
But my favorite-favorite part was when I asked you what you want to be when you grow up. Most kids hem and haw at this point. But you thought about it, you hesitated for a second, and then you blurted out – “I am going to be an inventor. I am going to invent a solution for pollution.” On Friday morning I checked it out – the name Pollution Solution was once trademarked by a linen company but their trademark expired in 1993. If anyone wants to get a great Bar Mitzvah gift for Leiby, all yours.
But what I didn’t tell you at the time was that that I had the same dream when I was around your age. That’s right. You see, there was a very popular television show when I was growing up called… Captain Planet. It told the story of these five kids who each had their own superpower, and “With the five powers combined they summon Earth’s greatest champion… CAPTAIN PLANET!”
Horrible graphics, plotlines that could have been written by a second grader, but for some reason it captured my imagination.
Admittedly, a lot has changed since then. Singlehandedly, over Pesach I threw out enough plastic plates and tin foil pans to kill off an entire species.
But as I told you, Leiby, in my office, pollution is actually the perfect metaphor for something that is found in our parsha that I have always struggled to explain. TUMAH. Tumah is translated as impurity but that really doesn’t capture its essence.
Tumah, Rav Yehuda Halevi explains, is rooted in death. But that doesn’t seem to match up with our day-to-day experience. One behavior that generates tumah, the tumah of tzo’ra’as is lashon hara, gossiping. I don’t know about you, but if I am being honest, I feel energized when I hear a juicy piece of gossip.
Don’t give me that look. This is biology. When listening to gossip, our brain gets a shot of dopamine, the ‘feel-good’ chemical that we all enjoy.
The question is why. Why does it feel so good to hear something scandalous when we know that it’s so wrong?
Rav Shlomo Freifeld has a brilliant take on Lashon Hara. He makes the following observation: If I were to tell you that in Raleigh, North Carolina, some dude named Bob did something wrong. Would you care? Not really.
But if I told you that it was someone who lives on this block, who is in this room, someone you know well, did something wrong, all of a sudden we get excited. Why is that?
Rabbi Freifeld explains that tragically most of us assess our self-worth relative to the people we know. We plot ourselves on a continuum with all the people we know. Am I a kind person? Well, let’s look around. If this friend is rude to everyone she talks to and this friend runs from chesed opportunity to chesed opportunity, and I, am sometimes rude and sometime engage in chesed, well then I suppose I am a moderately kind person.
But let’s say I find out that Mrs. Chesed-Chaser also is terribly mean to her children, guess what happens? Now she has gone down a few notches, which means that I am now a better person relative to the people I know.
This is why we don’t care if Bob from Raleigh is up to no good. He doesn’t affect my standing. This is also why the best type of gossip, the one that causes a massive flow of dopamine, is gossip about people who are supposed to be upstanding. Because when they go down, I go up. (Not in the Michelle Obama way. You know what I mean.)
The more gossip I speak, the more Lashon Hara I listen to, the less in touch I am with who I am and who I am meant to be. I completely lose sight of my own potential; I forget that my worth is intrinsic and that I will only be judged based on who and what I can be. What greater form of death can there be then living and breathing while being completely divorced from my own self-worth. Mi ha’ish hechafetz chaim? Who wants life? Who wants to really be connected to themselves and not live in a self-imposed delusion? Someone who abstains from gossip.
And this is where the Tumah-pollution analogy kicks in. Because in the short term, pollution is meaningless. It’s just one plastic plate. It’s just one puff of smoke. It’s just one factory. But it adds up. The smokers’ lungs eventually collapse, the inner harbor is eventually toxic, and the air in China, for example, is the direct cause of 2 million deaths a year. In the short term, if I know the hock, I am popular. If I know the latest community news, people gravitate to me, and as I put others down, I get lifted up. But in the longer term, it’s death. Who am I? I have no clue. I am so caught up in everyone else’s news, moving up and down on the superficial scale of relative worth, my own identity is buried in the rubble.
Mi ha’ish hachafetz chaim? If you want life, if you want your own life, stay away from gossip.
***
The fight against pollution has not been all that successful. TV shows like Captain Planet were successful in creating greater awareness, there have been some controversial pieces of legislation that have moved the needle, local efforts to encourage recycling have been a bit of a joke, for the most part, it’s not working.
The same could be said about the modern fight against Lashon Hara. Kickstarted by the Chafetz Chaim about a hundred years ago, it has also seen some success; learning the laws of Lashon Hara has become in vogue, setting aside time every day not to speak Lashon Hara is trendy. But like the fight against pollution, we’re just not there yet. If I were to tell you that I am going to now share with you a juicy piece of Lashon Hara no one would budge. (Should I?) If anything, the gossip industry is getting so much worse. What was once whispered between two friends is now posted publicly for posterity. Society-at-large has become a cesspool of takedowns and criticisms.
But the solution I believe is right in front of our eyes.
That famous passuk that describes Lashon Hara is well-known. Mi ha’ish hechafetz chaim? Who wants life?
N’tzor l’shoncha mei’ra. Restrain your lips from speaking evil. That we all know. But we forget that Dovid Hamelech has more to say. Sur mei’ra, stay away from evil. And this is the part people forget – Va’aseh tov, do good. Bakeish shalom v’radfeihu. Seek out peace and pursue it.
The best way to combat speaking lashon hara is not only to stop speaking negatively, it’s to speak positively, it’s to compliment, it’s to seek out opportunities to share kind words. And it’s magical.
“Leiby, you rocked your leining.”
“Jeff and Ayala Pensak, thank you for putting together this kiddush!”
“Jay, thank you for keeping me company!”
“Cerrill, I love your new glasses! Where’d you get them?”
“Thank you everyone for laughing at my silly jokes.”
Leiby, how did it feel when I complimented you? It felt good, right? But you know who else felt good? I did. Because when we speak positively about other people it demands confidence, it demands of us to stop judging ourselves based on others and to just lift them up. When we compliment people it gives us life. It trains us to connect to our true selves. Using our mouths for good is the greatest antidote to the death-inducing-tumah that is brought on by gossip.
And this is where you come in Leiby. One of the most beautiful traits that you learned from your parents is your kindness. And you express that kindness regularly by complimenting your friends, by sharing with them a word of comfort when they’re going through a difficult time. I don’t know if you’ll ever come up with a solution for physical pollution, but you’ve already made a real dent in the spiritual and verbal pollution that we are surrounded by.
Imagine a world where we all learn from Leiby. If instead of, or in addition to committing to not speaking Lashon Hara for an hour a day, we commit to complimenting one person each day. If when we go to kiddush today we compliment someone. If when we go home, we notice how a child or spouse did something nice and we let them know that we saw it. If in our next conversation with a colleague or friend, we seek out a way to praise them. Imagine how pure our world would be.
We don’t need Captain Planet. We need more Leiby’s. We need more positive speech to overcome the toxic pollution of Lashon Hara.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 10, 2026 | Sermons
I did it. I went to Seven Mile this year three days before Pesach. I had to buy four items – my wife would never ever ever trust me with an entire list of groceries. I avoided eye contact with the people I knew – I was on a mission (I’m sorry). I learned that the sun-dried tomatoes were not in the vegetable section. For some reason, I am pretty sure Seven Mile chooses the narrowest aisles to make into Pesach aisles. Right? You could barely squeeze two shopping carts in the aisle AND the Seven Mile worker decides that this would be a perfect time to start stocking the spices with a huge box and ladder.
By the time I was done, I was filled with gratitude to Hindy for doing this every other day of the year. To all of you grocery shoppers, especially for Pesach, you all deserve a round of applause.
Then, I tried to pull out of that parking lot. Wow. That parking lot was not made for fifteen-seater vans and hundreds of transplants from New York.
As I pulled out, I peeked at my receipt. And then I thought it might actually be a good idea to get my car hit by one those crazy drivers so I could have the money to pay for my shopping bill.
In short, it was stressful.
Later that day, I read a Facebook post from Shira Sheps, a woman who lives in Beit Shemesh. She too was shopping Erev Pesach. She was in line, ready to pay, when the sirens went off. Instead of pushing her way through a narrow Pesach aisle, she filed into a tiny room with 75 other people. Instead of navigating a parking lot with blaring horns, she stood, shoulder to shoulder, in a room filled with babies who were somehow not screaming. Though she didn’t mention it, the prices of her food were exponentially more expensive than mine, as grocery costs have sky-rocketed in Israel due to the war.
I’m embarrassed to say that in all my busy-ness in the lead-up to Pesach, I didn’t really think about what was going on in Israel. Yes, I woke up every morning to check the news. But I was reading about the bombs, about Iran, about the IDF. I wasn’t thinking about Shira and the millions like her. I wasn’t thinking about the thousands who have loved ones who could not be with them for Seder because they are on Miluim. I wasn’t thinking about the Seders that were interrupted constantly. Or the Seders in Israel that would be terribly lonely because a loved one’s seat will remain empty forever.
***
It’s Yizkor today, a time dedicated to remembering our loved ones. But sometimes I wonder, and I apologize if what I am about to say is insensitive – do we really need a day to remember a parent, a spouse, a child? Those who have experienced loss live with that loss daily. There is nothing that does not evoke a memory of a mother or father, of a spouse, a child or a sibling who is no longer with us. But there are others who we too easily forget.
Maybe it’s someone who sits in our row in shul but hasn’t been there in a few weeks. Maybe it’s a friend who is going through a hard time who would probably appreciate a call. And maybe it’s our family and friends in Israel, who are wondering if perhaps we have forgotten them.
***
One of the most haunting scenes in Eli Wiesel’s memoir, Night, takes place on a cattle car. He and his fellow inmates were on the death march, they were broken and starving. A soldier threw them a few scraps of bread, which were immediately pounced upon. Two people grabbed the same piece of bread and started fighting over it. One of them was a little stronger than the other – a tiny bit more flesh on his skeleton, and he started beating the other man viciously. When the other prisoners finally pulled them apart, they realized that it was a son beating his father.
Starvation saps the humanity out of us. Even those of us who are not starving, in times of distress, we easily forget about those around us.
***
Two weeks ago, I received a message from a friend in Israel:
“Hi,
I hope you’re doing well… Some of us here in Israel are sensing a certain amount of “Israel fatigue” compared to after October 7th. [We’re not hearing] from friends abroad or [seeing any] social media posts. I’m wondering if you have any thoughts?”
The only thought I had was, wow, how embarrassing.
Fatigue was a very generous assumption. If I’m being honest, in the hustle and bustle of pre-Pesach life, I simply forgot.
That man who texted me is not alone in feeling abandoned by American Jews; I have heard this sentiment numerous times from Israelis. “While you are making your Pesach plans around Kosher for Pesach food, we are making our Pesach plans around bomb shelters.” Or “We are living in two different worlds.” Or “You cannot possibly understand what we’re going through.” Israeli Jews have started describing Diaspora Judaism as a different form of Judaism.
That’s wrong, we are one people, and we always will be. But there is also some justice to their critique.
Maybe I cannot donate anymore to Israeli causes, that’s fair. But have I really spent time thinking about how difficult it must have been these past four weeks, preparing for Pesach with houses full of children, as missiles rained down? Have I spent any time this past month thinking about ways I can help?
***
We’ve been learning about the life and works of Rabbi Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal over Pesach. As I read about his life, I thought of the Elie Wiesel story. In the final section of his book, Eim Habanim Semeicha, a book that is ostensibly about building up the land of Israel, he shifts gears and starts talking about unity. He argues that the main reason building Israel is so important is because it’s a project that can bring all Jews together, and togetherness, unity, true care for a fellow Jew, is the most important value of all.
That is the final message of his book, and also the final message of his life. He too was on a train in occupied Europe, this one on the way to the Mathausen concentration camp. The German soldiers also played their sick games with him and the other Jews crammed into a cattle car. They threw some crusts into the car; one was grabbed by an old Jew. There was a Ukrainian prisoner in the same car, and he snatched the crust from the Jew. Rabbi Teichtal witnessed this and calmly walked over to the Ukrainian and demanded that he return the crust. The Ukrainian laughed at him. The Jews in the car who knew Rabbi Teichtal begged him to leave it alone. But he replied: “How can I stand by when the man’s life depends on this food?” He tried again to retrieve the crust, but this time the Ukrainian started beating Rabbi Teichtal. A Nazi officer stepped in and helped the Ukrainian. Rav Teichtal died with Echad on his lips, the oneness of the Jewish People.
***
We are all on a train together and we all face the same choice. Which of those two stories is ours?
Will we get swept up in our own stressors? Will we ignore the cries of our brothers and sisters in Israel? Will we go on our exotic vacations, sleep undisturbed through the night, and allow the bond between us to wither away?
Or will we feel their pain? Will we stand up for them? Will we do whatever we can to support them?
There is so much more to do, and I hope you can help me come up with ideas of how we can best give them strength. But at the very least, let’s let them know we care.
This Yizkor, let’s not only remember those who passed, let’s remember the living who need our attention. Let’s remember Elliot Heller, a young man who grew up in our shul who spent Pesach in Gaza eating out of cans. Let’s remember the tens of families who made Aliyah from our shul who spent Seder night running to and from their bomb shelters. Let’s remember Hodaya Harush and her kids whose husband’s picture we walk by every Shabbos in shul – I am sure she, who sat with no one at the head of her seder table, would appreciate being remembered. Let’s not just remember them; let’s send them messages after Yom Tov, wishing them a good Shabbos, thanking them for being in Israel on our behalf, letting them know we care.
I have spent the past week talking about Israel and making Aliyah. It is a beautiful Mitzvah to live in Israel, but it’s also not for everyone. But unity, true care and connection with one another, that is something we are all obligated in. As Rav Teichtal observes, when faced with the decision of staying in Israel or reuniting his family in Egypt, Yaakov Avinu was told that unity is more important; keep the family together.
At 120, we will not be asked why we did not reach out to say hello to a Charedi we never met or a secular Jew in Tel Aviv we never crossed paths with. But we will be asked why we did not remember those we know, those whose phone numbers are in our phones. Those people are in our train, and right now, they need us.
We cannot allow the divide of the ocean or differing life circumstances divide us any further. Let’s remind them and remind ourselves that we are one. And in that merit, may G-d bring us all to Israel speedily in our days.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 6, 2026 | Sermons
I’d like to tell you about a man whose name many of you likely never heard, whose influence was quite limited, but whose life story is exceptionally relevant in April of 2026. Rabbi Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal was born in Hungary in 1885. He studied in Pressburg, today is known as Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia, in the same yeshiva my grandfather learned. His early years followed the typical trajectory of a bright and precocious young man.
In the introduction to a widely acclaimed book that he wrote on Halacha, Mishnas Sachir, he relates the following episode from his youth. He woke up one morning hungry and asked his mother for something to eat. She was baking but the food was not yet ready and instead his mother gave him advice, which he said, stuck with him his entire life: “I will give you advice,” she said, “to quiet your hunger: Know, my son, that the holy Gemara has the effect of quieting hunger and satisfies living beings just like bread. Take you Gemara and review what you studied this week, and you will be full. You will not feel any hunger. On the contrary, you will taste honey sweeter than from the comb, a taste even sweeter than the cake.”
His mother’s loving message guided him as he developed into a true Torah scholar. At the age of 36 he was appointed the head of the Beis Din of Pishtian. It was a wealthy city in Czechoslovakia, known for its mineral baths and it attracted an endless stream of visiting rabbis with whom developed deep relationships. Three years later he published Mishnas Sachir, a book of Halachic responsa that was widely-acclaimed. He was living the Rabbinic dream.
A year later Rabbi Teichtal published a book of his sermons. Many of the sermons were directed against Orthodox Jews who were Zionists. This was not surprising. Anti-Zionism was a given among the leading Orthodox rabbis of the time.
Rav Yosef Ber Soloveitchik, the namesake of the Rav Soloveitchik that we all know, described Zionism as the false Messiah of their times. The Chofetz Chaim stated that the fate of Jews was to remain in exile until the coming of Mashiach; to emigrate to Israel early was a denial of Mashiach.
There was more than just theological arguments, there was a practical reason many rabbis opposed Zionism. The vast majority of those leading the Zionist movement were anti-religious. Ben Gurion described his vision of a new Jew who was devoid of any connection to religion. To him, and to many others, religion kept the Jewish People intact in exile, but now that a homeland was available to them they could maintain Jewish Peoplehood simply by living in the land.
Additionally, there was political concerns. Many Jews, regardless of their faith, were concerned that this nationalist movement would cause their host countries to see them as unpatriotic and they feared that Zionism would cause them to lose their newly acquired rights as full-fledged citizens. The first Zionist congress was supposed to take place in Munich but the local Jewish population was so scared of the political impact that Herzl was forced to move the congress to Switzerland.
Rabbi Teichtal was a devoted follower of the Rebbe of Munkacz, one of the fiercest anti-Zionists of the time.
In 1938, the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia. Rabbi Teichtal was given an opportunity to escape but he refused to do so as there were people there who needed his support. As the Nazis got closer, he and a number of others hid in the attic of the local Bais Medrash where they miraculously went undetected. He relates how he watched through the cracks in the walls how the Jews were gathered up and deported. He watched in horror as many Jews were killed on the spot.
While he remained in hiding, he had plenty of time to think and he started wondering why. Why was G-d allowing for these terrible atrocities to take place? His community was a devout one, they dedicated their lives to Torah and Mitzvos. They were generous with the poor; they were good people. Why would G-d bring such a terrible fate upon the Jews?
And in that attic, he underwent a transformation. Drawing on his encyclopedic knowledge of Torah that he memorized he started reviewing sources that described why bad things happen to the Jewish People. And he came to a conclusion that I am sure shook him to the core; they should not have been living in Europe. G-d had given them the ‘medicine before the affliction,’ He had given them the opportunity to come back home, to return to their Promised Land, and they rejected that gift. (To be very clear, his view was not, as some mistakenly attribute to him, that the Holocaust took place because they did not live there – he couldn’t begin to fathom why the Holocaust took place. But) he believed that G-d had given them an opportunity to escape the inferno of the Nazis and they simply ignored this Divine present.
In that attic he started writing his ideas on scraps of paper, scraps of paper that became his most prized possession.
In 1942, he escaped to Budapest, which was still safe from the Nazis. Being that he was held in such high esteem, he was invited to give lectures in the community, which he did. The theme that he spoke of was this one – we rejected G-d’s gift; we should be in Israel. Unfortunately, no one listened. Worse, they mocked him. They assumed that he had a nervous breakdown in that attic; what he saw must have caused him to snap. But that didn’t stop him. With the war raging all around him he went about to publish a book, titled, Eim Habanim Semeicha, in which he outlined his newfound philosophy of Zionism.
Pesach is known in Kabbalistic literature as the holiday of faith. Through the ten plagues, the Jews in Egypt were given a masterclass on G-d’s existence and power. It is meant to be a time during which we strengthen our faith. The way we do that is by asking hard questions about what we do and why.
In the Pesach story, the Jewish People’s newfound faith is contrasted with the stubbornness of Pharaoh. No matter what he saw and experienced, he refused to change his way of thinking. The Torah describes his stubbornness as a ‘heavy heart.’ Historians point out how meaningful that term was in Egyptian culture. In the ancient world, when an Egyptian would die, they would put his heart on a scale. On one side was the deceased’s heart and on the other was a feather. If the heart was heavier than the feather, the individual was depicted as evil. So when G-d describes Pharaoh’s heart as heavy, He was conveying a message. You know what evil is? Evil is the inability to change your mind.
We are all brought up with ideas shaped by our parents and society; we can’t be blamed for having certain ideas in our youth. But when we face challenges, when we encounter experiences that are out of the ordinary, and we don’t reexamine our beliefs, that is evil. וַיַּכְבֵּד פַּרְעֹה אֶת־לִבּוֹ גַּם בַּפַּעַם הַזֹּאת Even after seeing the miracles of the plagues, Pharoah did not change, he hardened his heart, that is the definition of evil.
And that begs the question. I imagine everyone in this room considers themselves to be a Zionist. We believe in the value of a Jewish homeland and we support in many ways. But we are living through incredible times; times of upheaval but also times of incredible miracles. Are we reexamining our beliefs? Are we really justified in living in Baltimore? Are the excuses that were perhaps valid in the past still valid today? As more and more Jews make Aliyah, as living in Israel is getting easier and easier, as the people of Israel are experiencing daily miracles while we read them in the news, is it time to challenge our beliefs? Or are we simply walking in the footsteps of Pharoah?
Rabbi Teichtal writes the following in the early pages of his book:
I must confess the truth and declare my sin. I, too, despised the rebuilding of the Land, because I heard unqualified statements made by many Orthodox Jews, which became firmly implanted in my heart. I did not concern myself with this matter at all, because I was preoccupied with learning, teaching, and writing volumes on the Talmud and its commentaries, as well as responses to questions regarding the word of HaShem. I only delved into this halachah after we suffered afflictions in this bitter exile. HaShem enlightened me, and I saw that I and all those who opposed this movement were mistaken. I admit and say, “That which I previously told you was mistaken.” … Thank God, I have no qualms about publicly expressing the truth that is in my heart. I am not afraid of any man… I will not revoke my Torah opinion because of any gadol or rebbe or our generation, unless he debates the issues with me in the manner of Torah dialogue, using proofs from the words of Chazal. I will then concede to his words, if they are correct, but not if they are unfounded. (Em ha-Banim Semekha, p. 28 in the M. Lichtman translation).” This is the legacy of Rabbi Teichtal – the ability to ask tough questions, the strength to overcome our naturally hard hearts.
Over Pesach, in the evenings, I will be teaching selected pieces of Eim Habanim Semeicha, to give us some food for thought, to encourage us and to encourage me personally to look in the mirror and to make sure I do not have a hard heart.
There are no simple answers to these questions. I do not believe that everyone should or could make Aliyah. But if there is any holiday, in any era, in which we should be asking these tough questions, it is this one.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 6, 2026 | Sermons
Forty-two years ago, there was a family in Bnei Brak. They were a loving family with many children, all of them doing well, except for one child, Avrami. Avrami was struggling. At home, in school, with his friends and with his teachers. Erev Pesach could be a tense time in many homes, and this household was no exception. There was some argument over something silly, but it quickly escalated. Avrami got upset, really upset, turned to his family and said, “That’s it. I’m done!” He quickly packed a bag and stormed out of the house.
The family assumed he’d be back after an hour or two, but they were wrong. The rest of the day flew by, showers, setting the table, naps for the young children, all with an eye to the door, but Avrami did not return. Throughout the day, the parents kept looking out the window to see if maybe Avrami was outside. He wasn’t.
With a heavy heart, Avrami’s family went to shul Pesach night. They davened at the Lederman shul where the rabbis was Rav Yaakov Kanievsky, otherwise known as the Steipler, one of the great Torah leaders of his time. After davening, the father went to wish the Steipler ‘a good Yom Tov,’ and then told him what was going on with Avrami. “What should I do?” asked the concerned father. “Techakeh, wait,” the Steipler. “Just wait.”
The family came home, the table was set, the children were hungry, but the father told them what the Steipler had instructed him to do, and so they waited. An hour went by, two hours went by. They could hear their neighbors singing Hallel already. But the family just waited.
Finally, as it was getting close to midnight, the father decided he would go visit the Steipler and ask him what to do. He opened the door and there, standing in the doorway was Avrami. Looking sheepish, with tears dripping down his cheeks. Without any words, he walked into the home.
Avrami came in, took a look around and was shocked. His siblings were reading on the couch, sitting on the floor playing games. He looked at the table, and it was perfectly set, not a drop of wine in the cups.
“You waited for me?” asked Avrami. “I can’t believe you waited.”
“Of course, we waited for you,” said his father, as they embraced. And Avrami never looked back.
This is the Pesach story. G-d promised Avraham that the land of Israel would be theirs and that He would live lovingly with his children. But we ran away. We fought with our brothers, selling one of them down as a slave. We moved to Egypt where we adopted their pagan customs and lost all connection to our Father in Heaven. And yet, as Rashi writes, we call Pesach the ‘night of watching,’ as it represents G-d, who was watching and waiting for the Jewish People to turn things around, to realize that they strayed, to come back home. Until we did.
And when we did, G-d embraced us. He showed us that He was waiting all this time. He demonstrated to us that He loves no matter how far we stray. (Heard from Rabbi Yechiel Spero)
This story of Avrami, the story of Pesach, was the story of the Jewish People throughout all of history; we would turn away and eventually we would come back home. And each time, G-d would be waiting for our knock, waiting for us at the door, to welcome us back with open arms.
But today, in Shir Hashirim, we read of a different reality. Today in Shir Hashirim, we read how our loving Father in heaven doesn’t just wait for us to knock at his door, sometimes he comes knocking on our door.
In 1956, Rabbi Yosef Soloveitchik delivered a speech built around a few verses from Shir Hashirim. In one of the most evocative scenes, the male lover, a representation of G-d, comes knocking on the door of his maiden, representing the Jewish People. Kol dodi dofeik.
Rav Soloveitchik suggested that in 1956, after two thousand years of G-d waiting for us to knock on His door, started knocking on ours. Rav Soloveitchik described six “knocks,” six new historic realities that were so clearly Hashem knocking our collective door, letting us know how badly He wants to connect with us.
There was the political knock, how the Western Powers and the Soviet Union somehow both agreed to vote on the partition plan.
There was the military knock, how Israel defeated six Arab armies in the War of Independence.
There was the theological knock, how Christians could no longer point to the Jewish People being in exile as a proof of G-d rejecting us.
There was the psychological knock, how the State of Israel injected pride into the Jewish psyche.
There was an ethical knock, how self-defense became a renewed value. Thanks to the IDF, Jewish blood was no longer free.
And finally, there was a practical knock in that every Jew now had a place to flee.
These knocks were G-d’s way of saying, I want you, please let me into your life. Let’s reunite. Let’s start again. I am tired of waiting for you to come to me; I’m here and I miss you. 1956, Rav Soloveitchik was saying, was the dawn of a new era for the Jewish People. All we had to do was listen, hear Him, get up from our slumber, and let Him in to our lives.
Seventy years have passed since that talk. In that time, some of those knocks have become muffled, but others have only gotten louder.
For example, in 1956, when Rav Soloveitchik gave this talk there were approximately 1 million Jews living in Israel. Today there are roughly 8 million. In 1956, 50,000 Jews from Arab states made Aliyah to escape persecution. Since October 7th, with rockets raining down, over 50,000 Jews made Aliyah, not to run away from anything, but because they wanted to come home. The number of Arab countries who are at peace with Israel, officially or unofficially, is staggering. Imagine telling Rav Soloveitchik in 1956, that Jordan, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia would be working with Israel to fight a common foe. The message that Jewish blood is not cheap, and the military knock –You’d have to deaf and blind to not feel the power of this G-dly knock.
If I were to tell my great-great-grandfather that there was a Jewish army, he would say, “Oh, Mashiach came.”
If I were to tell my great-grandfather that there was a State of Israel, he would say, “Oh, Mashiach came.”
If I were to tell my grandfather that Israel was decimating its Arab foes and that Israel was the strongest most sophisticated army in the region, he would say, “Oh, Mashiach came.”
These are not normal times! I know I say it often, but how can I stop saying it? G-d is not just knocking on our door; those are the sounds of a battering ram smashing the door to smithereens. We are living through the greatest era in Jewish history in at least 2500 years. And I’ll keep on saying it until it sinks in. Maybe it has sunk in for some of you, but for me, I know it, but I still don’t feel the way I should.
For 2500 years, no matter how assimilated we became, no matter how far we strayed, G-d waited for our knock at the door. But in 2026, G-d is knocking our doors, G-d is banging away, hoping that we finally learn and that we finally truly believe how precious we are to Him and how much He loves us. Let’s open the door and let Him in.
by Ner Tamid | Mar 30, 2026 | Sermons
One morning, in a certain yeshiva that will not be mentioned, at some point in my teenage years, I was in middle of shacharis when my Judaic teacher, my rebbi, came storming into the Bais Medrash. To paint a picture, the Bais Medrash had roughly 150 people there at the time and I was sitting all the way in the front. My rebbi rushed over to me in a huff, at this point, the whole room was watching him. He looked me in the eyes and said, “Oysvorf!” Yiddish, for degenerate, “Aroys! Get out!” And he kicked me out of the Bais Medrash in front of the whole school.
About a year ago, the Orthodox Union published the findings of a study on attrition. They were trying to understand why some people stay within the fold of Orthodox Judaism and others leave. One factor that came up over and over again was the impact of good and bad rebbeim on a person’s religious trajectory; Judaic teachers who either kind to their students or those who called them an ‘Oysvorf’ in front of the whole school.
Despite having no shortage of negative interactions with rebbeim, and I’ll admit, some of that was my fault, I had far more positive ones over the subsequent years. A few years later I has a rebbi, Rabbi Motti Rappaport, who walked in the first day and put his number on the chalkboard telling us that if we ever needed anything at all – even to get bailed out of jail, we could always call him (I never took him up on that particular offer). Another rebbi, Rabbi Eliezer Breitowitz, encouraged me to question and to think, and exposed me to the grandeur and profoundity Torah learning. I studied in Israel under Rav Mendel Blachman at KBY, who despite giving one of the most difficult Gemara classes in the world, of which I told him numerous times I did not understand, he always encouraged me to stay in his class until I eventually I did understand – some of what he taught. I studied at Ner Israel where Rav Ezra Neuberger helped me appreciate who I was and what I was capable of. I spent some more time in Israel where I studied in the Mirrer Yeshiva under Rabbi Yosef Elefant who dedicated time almost daily to discuss with me the fine points of the Gemara we were learning and the fine points of life. Thank G-d, for me, the good rabbis far outweighed the bad ones. The positive impact these people had on my life is immeasurable.
But the common denominator of all of these rebbeim is that they impacted me during my high school and yeshiva-college years. And that is fairly typical. When people hear the word rebbi, which literally means, my teacher, rav sheli, they think of a teacher during high school or yeshiva. And that’s a pity. Yes, having positive role models and teachers during those formative years is critical, but I’d like to argue that in many ways, having such role models and teachers as we leave the cocoon of school is even more important. If I had the money, I’d commission a new study, tracking the religious connection of adults who have a rebbi vs. those who do not. My conjecture is that those who have a connection to a rebbi in adulthood are far more connected to G-d, to their community, and to their family.
So let me lay out my objective before I even begin. I’d like us all to walk away from this talk with a greater appreciation of what a rebbi can do for us in our current stage of life. I’d like us all to walk away from this talk with an interest in maybe finding someone who can fill that role. I also want to clarify that this is not one long plug to call me more often. I’m good. Trust me. As we will discuss, your shul rabbi is not necessarily your rebbi. And with that let’s begin:
What is a rebbi? How do you choose a rebbi? Can you have more than one rebbi? What kind of questions do you ask a rebbi? And a pressing question for our times, how does AI impact the need for a rebbi?
As you know, I recently lost my rebbi, Rabbi Moshe Hauer zt”l. He was someone I met when I was starting to leave yeshiva. I continued my relationship with him after I left yeshiva and college, and over the past five years my relationship deepened significantly. My relationship with him was probably the most transformative relationship I ever had. I will be using my relationship with him as a springboard to help explain what a rebbi is and why I believe having one is so valuable.
In the first chapter of Pirkei Avos it says, “aseh lecha rav” not once but twice, in the sixth and sixteenth mishna of the first perek. The Maharal (1:16) explains that this directive is repeated because one can have different rabbis for different needs. For me, I did not ask Rabbi Hauer my Halachic questions. He knew Halacha far better than I could ever dream, but that wasn’t his expertise. And so instead I turned and turn to many others when I have a Halachic question I do not have an answer for; Rav Notta Greenblatt Zt”l, Rav Dovid Cohen, Rav Willig, and others.
I actually almost didn’t get my job here at Ner Tamid because of this. During my interview process in a Q and A with the congregants someone asked me who my rabbi is. I didn’t know how to answer this question. Rabbi Hauer was the person I would turn to to discuss life questions, but the person I turned to the most for Halachic questions at the time was Rabbi Yosef Berger. And so, I said, “Rabbi Berger.” Needless to say, I scared a few people here. I was the only candidate who was given the “honor” of a follow up Q and A session where I was asked questions like, “Will you ban television at Ner Tamid?” “Will you tell the congregation that we cannot use the internet?” (No and no.)
There are different roles that a rebbi plays; one of them is to address Halachic questions. It is critical to have someone who knows you and who knows Halacha who can address your Halachic questions. Can AI do this? To a certain extent but not really.
I once spent time in Rabbi Berger’s office as he was fielding Halachic questions. In the course of an hour, he received the same question about ten times. So I asked him, as a joke, “Why don’t you just get a touch tone service set up? ‘If you washed your dairy dish with a meat sponge press 1. If the water was hot press 4.’ You would save yourself so much time!” I thought it was a cute suggestion. Instead of smiling, he got really serious and said, “Sruli, when two people ask me the same question about a dish they washed, one of them has tears in his eyes and one does not, do you think I answer the question the same way?” AI cannot do that.
But it’s deeper than that.
I recently saw a clip of Yuval Noah Hariri, my least favorite intellectual. Aside from other intellectuals questioning his methodologies, his understanding of religion is extremely cynical and betrays real ignorance. It was an interview in which he was asked how AI impacts the need for a rabbi. He explained that since Judaism is a text-based religion and we now have machines that know all the texts, there is no longer a need for a rabbi to answer our questions. His answer is predicated on a completely incorrect understanding of Judaism. A rebbi, be it someone you could turn to for guidance on how to live your life or someone you ask your Halachic questions, is not just using their wisdom or knowledge to assist you, they are connecting you to G-d. One person who explained this better than anyone else was Rav Yosef Soloveitchik.
In 1975, Rav Soloveitchik gave a talk on the topic of Mesorah, tradition, to the Rabbinic alumni of Yeshiva University. There was a certain rabbi who was attempting to institute a loophole that would solve once and for all the agunah problem. Finding a way to alleviate the suffering of an agunah was of the utmost importance to Rav Soloveitchik and really to any self-respecting rabbi. However, Rav Soloveitchik took issue with this particular rabbi’s approach. While the topic is fascinating and timely, we don’t have the time to properly analyze it. Instead, I’d like to share with you some quotes from that talk:
“Talmud Torah is more than intellectual performance. It is a total, all-encompassing and all-embracing involvement — mind and heart, will and feeling, the center of the human personality — emotional man, logical man, voluntaristic man — all of them are involved in the study of Torah. Talmud Torah is basically for me an ecstatic experience, in which one meets G-d…. American Orthodox Jews have encountered Judaism in the modes of Talmudic analysis through intellectual cognition and cold logic. However, they have not merited to its living ‘sensual’ revelation; shaking and gladdening hearts.”
In his book, The Lonely Man of Faith, Rav Soloveitchik described his experience of learning in the following evocative fashion:
“When I sit to ‘learn’ I find myself immediately in the fellowship of the sages of tradition. The relationship is personal. Maimonides is at my right. Rabbenu Tam at the left. Rashi sits at the head and explicates the text. Rabbenu Tam objects, the Rambam decides, the Ra’abad attacks. They are all in my small room, sitting around my table.”
In other words, learning Torah and ruling on Halacha is more than putting pieces of information together. It is a meeting with G-d. It is the opportunity to sit at a table with people, human beings, with all their greatness and all their limitations, as they analyze Halacha and apply it to our lives. No machine can recreate that experience. No system, no matter how sophisticated, has a right to be at that table.
Rav Soloveitchik continued:
“That is why Chazal stress so many times the importance of humility, and that the proud person can never be a great scholar, only the humble person. Why is humility necessary? Because the study of Torah means meeting the Almighty, and if a finite being meets the infinite, the Almighty, the Maker of the world, of course this meeting must precipitate a mood of humility.”
(https://www.torahmusings.com/2016/05/masorah-teachings-rabbi-joseph-b-soloveitchik/)
Rabbi Hauer was a paragon of humility and yiras shamayim, fear of Heaven. I have never met a person who knew so much, who was so bright, who was brimming with self-confidence, and at the same time, could listen to others with such focus and humility.
A few years ago, a group of young rabbis came to meet with Rabbi Hauer. They didn’t like the way Rabbi Hauer was leading the OU. They took issue with his decision-making process. The meeting was tense. The way they spoke to him was inappropriate. My blood was boiling.
When the meeting was over, I came into Rabbi Hauer’s office to vent and saw him scribbling away on a pad of paper. I asked him what he was writing.
“Their delivery was wrong,” he said. “But they made some very good points. I am going to make some changes on how I do things and I want to organize my thoughts.”
The Gemara in Moed Kattan says that you should only learn Torah from someone who is like an angel. Rabbi Hauer’s ability to override his ego, to separate the garbage from the substance, to have the intellectual honesty to say, I was wrong, I need to change what I do; in that moment I realized that I was working with an angel.
Judging someone’s fear of heaven is a risky business. Only G-d knows what people truly think. But you could learn a lot about a person’s relationship with G-d by watching them pray. In Rabbi Hauer’s davening, there was focus, there was sincerity, there was softness, there was strength. Watching him daven was a masterclass in “shifchi kamayim libeich, pouring one’s heart out like water.” It wasn’t dramatic but it oozed with authenticity. You could also learn a lot about one’s deference to Mesorah in how one relates to Torah scholars. While Rabbi Hauer was a scholar in his own right, while he had opinions that at times would conflict with some of the leading Torah voices, something we’ll talk about soon, when he sat before a Torah scholar, he sat like a thirsty child at the foot of a fountain, he sat with koved rosh, with reverence.
A machine can amass insane amounts of information, it can process questions in lightning speed, but that is not Torah Judaism. Bringing a machine into the Torah conversation is as nonsensical as using a psychological insight to upend a mathematical equation. Torah Judaism, our mesorah, our tradition, is built upon the human wisdom of scholars who are imbued with humility and yiras shamayim. When we think of Mesorah, when we think of how Jewish Law makes its way into Jewish practice, the only people who have the right to be at that table are humans with yiras shamayim and humility. There are many rabbis out there who are brilliant. There are many rabbis who are phenomenal speakers and inspiring. But those are not the qualities we are looking for when we look for a rebbi. What we are trying to find is someone who seems to possess those rare traits of humility and fear of heaven.
***
My relationship with Rabbi Hauer started about seventeen years ago. I was living on Park Heights in a place called the Blair House. My wife and I would call it the Blair Witch Project house. It was section-8 housing, otherwise known as the projects and some of our neighbors were scary as witches. The upside of living there was that it was not too far from Bnai Jacob Sharei Zion, Rabbi Hauer’s shul, where we started davening. I had heard that a few years earlier he would get together weekly with a group of students from Ner Yisroel to share insights about what it means to be a rabbi. At the time I was not yet sure that I wanted to become a rabbi, but I thought it would be a great opportunity to spend time with him. I asked him if he would be open to starting a new chabura and he quickly agreed.
There was one theme that came up many times in our discussions with him, Daas Torah. Daas Torah is usually understood to mean that you are meant to ask rabbis questions about anything and everything. And that you are expected to listen to whatever they say. But this was not Rabbi Hauer’s view of how to live a Torah life.
When asking a question on Jewish law, one is not allowed to ‘shop around.’ But that is not the case when it comes to asking questions about how to live one’s life. When discussing this second category of seeking Rabbinic guidance, Rabbi Hauer would often quote a comment by Rav Chaim Volozhin, the primary student of the Vilna Gaon, on Hillel’s teaching in Pirkei Avos that marbeh eitzah, marbeh tevunah. Rav Chaim writes: “She’al eitzah va’aseh k’chochmosecha, seek out advice and use your own wisdom.” Yes, there is immense value in seeking out the opinions of people who are immersed in Torah, they have a G-dly worldview that illuminates every aspect of life. But at the end of the day, the only person who could really decide what is best for you is you.
The Vilna Gaon writes (commentary to Mishlei, 16:4) that in the times of prophecy, prophets could see deep into your soul and tell you exactly what you should do. But we don’t have prophecy and so although we are all filled with biases and blind spots, we are the only ones who really know what we should do.
This is why whenever I did ask Rabbi Hauer a personal question the first thing he would ask me is, “What do you think?” If I pushed him, he would share his thoughts which were always deep and thoughtful, and then he would say, “aseh k’chochmosecha, follow your own wisdom.”
***
But a true rebbi is not only someone who encourages you to do your own thing. A true rebbi is someone who cares deeply about you and wants you to do what’s right. A true rebbi is someone who takes the time to listen to your point of view, but if they feel that it truly wrong then they let you know.
In all my years having a relationship with Rabbi Hauer there was only once that he firmly told me he disagreed with something I did. I had written an article that was fairly controversial. He saw the piece, called me, and asked me if we could speak in person.
Ler me pause here. This was a signature move of his. Whenever he had to have a difficult conversation with someone, he never wrote it out or even spoke by the phone. He wanted to convey his warm feelings of love and the only way that could take place is by looking someone into their eyes.
It’s important to add that I published it right after I was hired by the OU but before I started working for him. He was encouraged, I found out later, not go through with the hiring. However, he never made any mention of that. Though he felt strongly that I misspoke, he never held the job over my head. Instead, he patiently explained why he thought that some of the things I wrote can be misunderstood and encouraged me to correct them. I wrote a follow up piece. He still felt like it wasn’t enough. A day later, he called me again. Again, asking for an in-person meeting. And explained why he thought I made a mistake.
Humiliating? Yes. But also, the deepest expression of someone who cared so deeply about me, who wasn’t willing to do what I too often do when someone says something I disagree with – “Oh, that’s interesting. Thanks for sharing.” And move on. I treasure that experience with him more than any other. In doing so, he also conveyed to me that every other time he did not voice his displeasure, though I knew he did not agree with everything I did or said, he was implicitly telling me, “It’s okay. You do you. It’s your path and you need to follow it.”
Rabbi Hauer was allergic to people blindly following him. Though he would patiently address any question that came his way, it bothered him when people would ask him questions that he felt they should be figuring out on their own. Rabbi Sacks once said that “Good leaders make followers, great leaders make leaders.” He filled me with confidence, but the only way that confidence meant anything was because I knew he was willing to rein me in. That is a rebbi.
***
What if you can’t find anyone to be a rebbi? What if you know more than everyone else? What if you cannot find someone that you truly respect?
First of all, if you really believe that you are wiser than everyone else, if you really believe that there is no one out there that you can respect, you’re probably just plain arrogant.
But let’s just say it’s true. There is no one that you could really look up to. What to do then?
If I had to pick the brightest of all the rabbis in our history, I would have to pick the Rambam, Maimonides. What he accomplished, what he wrote, what he organized, what he explained, it’s breathtaking. If there is anyone who justifiably struggled with this challenge of finding someone to look up to, it was probably him.
This is what he writes in his commentary of Avos. He is addressing why the Mishna does not say ‘find a rebbi,’ instead it says, ‘make a rebbi.’ Says the Rambam: “[Make for yourself a teacher] means [make him play that role] even if he is not fit to be your mentor. Place him upon you as a mentor, so that you can discuss and argue with him. As a result of this, wisdom will come into your hand. If a man studies on his own, it is good; but if he studies with someone else, the teaching will be better established in his hand and it will be clearer — even if his partner is like him or even below him in wisdom.”
Rabbi Hauer, in a shiur he gave on Pirkei Avos, suggested that this is why the next phrase in the Mishna is ‘judge people favorably.’ He explained that no one is perfect and you will never find a perfect rebbi. He said about himself that he did not have any rebbeim of whom he had no issues or questions. But without judging favorably, without choosing to see the good, we’re left all alone. We’re left thinking everything we say and do is brilliant. We’re left with our egos intact and our character severely flawed. “Make for yourself a rebbi,” even if he or she is not worthy.
***
Rabbi Hauer had an uncanny ability to see a person’s flaws or to disagree vehemently with someone and see the value in who they were and what they were doing. Nothing brought this home to me like the following episode:
Last year, a few days before Purim a certain Orthodox organization wrote a message to its followers that completely ignored and minimized the sacrifice of the soldiers of the IDF. Rabbi Hauer was troubled that this statement of theirs would be seen as representing all of Orthodoxy. A day letter Rabbi Hauer wrote a piece that spoke of the importance of unity and then he wrote:
“The Torah scholars and leaders who guide … speak with their voice, while other great Torah scholars and leaders speak with a different voice. So often and on so many fundamental matters those voices are in harmony, but regarding Israel-related issues those voices are frequently in severe conflict. Especially during the past year and a half, the gedolim who set the tone for us at the OU have spoken with a very different voice about everything from the holiness of the chayalei Tzahal and the victims of 10/7, the obligation to physically defend our land, the efforts of many who deeply value Torah to find a solution for the draft law, and the value of religious partnership in the Zionist movement.
We draw great strength and direction from the beautiful voice of the gedolim that guide our OU community, dedicated without compromise to Torah and to the entirety of Klal Yisrael.”
Though he wrote in a measured fashion, some saw his message as an attack on this organization. A week later he got a call from someone affiliated with that organization letting him know that he was upset. Rabbi Hauer, in his signature style, asked that they meet in person. The individual offered to come to the OU. Rabbi Hauer insisted on going to this person’s office. They met, in person, and with love and respect had a constructive dialogue.
Rabbi Hauer later told me one thing that he shared in that meeting. He told this person that from the beginning of our nationhood there has always been a Beis Shammai and Beis Hillel; one group of leaders who take a hardline approach and another that takes a softer more humanistic approach. Which one is right? Elu v’elu divrei Elokim chaim. They each play a role and, in many ways, balance each other. “You keep being Bais Shammai,” Rabbi Hauer told him, “And we’ll be Bais Hillel.”
I’m profoundly jealous of Rabbi Hauer’s ability to respect people he disagreed with. I am a product of this cynical generation. I struggle mightily to look up to people who I see flaws in. It was not coming from a place of naivete, he was one of the most astute people I ever met, and yet, he was able to see the good everywhere he looked. “Judge favorably” or else you will not have the gift of role models and people to look up to.
***
This ability to see the value in other ways of thinking uniquely positioned him as a bridge builder. His dream was to reunite the Jewish People. He worked tirelessly to connect with Jews who were not Orthodox. One of the first assignments he gave me was to find projects that we can work on with non-Orthodox Jews. I found a coalition of Jews working on renewable energy in Jewish institutions, which he was thrilled about. He developed deep and real relationships with Jews who he could not be more different than. This is what Sheila Katz, a Reform Jew and a self-proclaimed feminist, wrote after Rabbi Hauer’s passing:
“After October 7, we found ourselves advocating side by side at the Department of Education and Department of Justice, in Congress, in the White House, and in the Knesset, determined to show what Jewish unity could look like. It wasn’t unity for its own sake, but unity in service of the Jewish people, to advocate together for Jewish women, for the Orthodox community, and for all of us. Him, an Orthodox male rabbi. Me, a Reform Jewish progressive woman. Together, we were an unlikely duo that came together to advocate against antisemitism, to promote safety in Israel, and for the return of the hostages.
On a bus ride in Israel that lasted more than an hour, we chatted about life and legacy. He talked about his family and his hope to be remembered through them. We exchanged pictures of family members, discussed books we were reading, had a friendly debate on the Torah of reproductive freedom, and genuinely connected. When I mentioned that I sometimes relax by watching Survivor, he reminded me that he doesn’t watch television, but he asked why I loved it and what about it helped me to relax. He always showed genuine interest in the things that animated others.
We learned Torah together. Debated each other. Disagreed often. But agreed even more when we took the time to hear each other. We always came back to our shared Jewish values and our deep love for the Jewish people. What began as simple coalition work became a true partnership and a profound friendship.”
(Facebook post)
These relationships ensured that the rally in Washington conformed to all aspects of Halacha and paved the way for thousands of Orthodox Jews to attend. The organizers had a partner in Rabbi Hauer who they trusted. That said, when he felt he could not partner, he put his foot down. In the lead up to the second rally in Washington, the organizers were getting some pressure to not “capitulate to the Orthodox” and wanted to have women singing at the event. Rabbi Hauer firmly and politely informed the organizers that if they do so the OU would not participate.
I had the pleasure of accompanying him on meetings and trips. He was often the only person in the room with a yarmulka. It seemed to me like many of these leaders were a little intimidated of the man who was so principled. But there was also respect and friendship between Jews of all stripes. That was his dream.
He attempted to use his broad array of relationships to make inroads in Israel between the Charedim and the Daati Leumi community. Unfortunately, that was one area in which he felt like he failed in. He felt like no matter how hard he tried, he could not bring the sides to appreciate one another.
Though I have to add a postscript – he had an idea of bringing Daati Leumi rabbis to America to better appreciate American Jewry; he felt like that too was a divide that needed to be remedied. The trip took place a few weeks after he passed away. The delegation from Israel met with a wide variety of communal leaders and made a stop at Ner Israel where they met with Rav Aharon Feldman. Rav Aharon Feldman has in the past shared views that have not been very positive about serving in the army. I was quite nervous about this meeting as this group of rabbis, all affiliated with communities that send their boys and men to serve in the IDF. I am not going to lie, it got a little heated. But it was also an incredibly fruitful conversation that ended with Rav Shapira, the Rosh Yeshiva of Merkaz HaRav embracing and asking for a bracha from Rav Aharon Feldman.
I left the meeting, sat in my car, and I cried. I so wished for Rabbi Hauer to see the fruit of his labor start to blossom.
***
Herein lies Rabbi Hauer’s greatness. He was one of the most broad-minded people I knew. He cared about the Jewish People. He cared about the human race. He had a schedule that would put any ironman to shame. Somehow he manage to care about Am Yisrael and at the same time, he cared about every member of Am Yisrael, he truly cared for every single person.
After his passing I went into his outbox to see who he emailed on Hoshana Rabbah. Remember, this was one of the most joyous days for the Jewish People. The last of the hostages were returned! People were dancing in the streets. But Rabbi Hauer being Rabbi Hauer knew that for some people the release of hostages would bring immeasurable pain. And so on the last day of his life while he was undoubtedly elated, he sent a short message to Jon Polin, the father of Hersh Polin, Hy”d: “Wishing you much strength. With deep love, Moshe Hauer.”
He would often share a Chassidic thought on why Moshe was chosen to lead the Jewish People. It was the Medrashic episode describing Moshe shepherding his sheep in the desert when one sheep ran off. Moshe was faced with a dilemma. If he chases that one sheep then all the other sheep will have no one watching them. Logic would dictate that he should just let that one sheep go. But logic did not dictate Moshe’s decisions. He was dictated by love. And so Moshe ran off, illogically caring for the single sheep because he cared. It was only then that G-d appeared to Moshe at the burning bush.
This is why Rabbi Hauer answered every single email that came his way. It didn’t matter who it was from, if they had a title or it was just a nudnik asking him silly questions. No person was too small.
This is why in Rabbi Hauer’s office at the OU, though there were very few things hanging on the wall, mostly pictures of his family – I could dedicate an entire talk to that topic, but there was one letter he had pinned over his computer and it read as follows:
Rabbi Hauer,
I read your recent article, Invisible People, with great interest.
As a widow in… a large orthodox community, I was shocked to become invisible with the death of my husband. 8 out of 10 families removed me from their Simcha list. Shabbos invitations became rare.
My single daughter & I spend most shabbosim alone, making our own kiddush, hamotzie, havdalah. I understand that this is not personal. Most widows report the exact same experiences. I have mentioned this to local congregational rabbonim, who express genuine shock & dismay. But there is no initiative to remediate this situation.
Now you have publicly acknowledged this issue. Does it end there? Or will the OU reach out to congregational leaders to include their invisible congregants?
He hung this over his computer to remind him that inasmuch as he had the weight of Klal Yisrael, the Jewish nation, on his shoulders, he could not allow that to cause him to lose sight of a single precious sheep.
***
You may have noticed that all these stories I just shared with you did not involve me asking Rabbi Hauer any personal questions. I could probably count on one hand the number of personal questions I asked him over the past five years. And yet, he impacted me profoundly. And that’s because the value of a rebbi, to me, is to be in the presence of someone who inspires you to grow and to always strive to be the best version of yourself.
For the past five years, I had the opportunity to regularly interact with a person who never ever rested on his laurels. He mobilized the entire Orthodox community to deliver 180,000 letters to the White House and then turned to his team and said, “Nu, what’s next?” That energized me to give as much as I can to the Jewish community.
For the past five years, I had the opportunity to regularly interact with a person who dropped everything for his family because they were the most important people in his life. That reminded me that no matter was I was doing, nothing was more important than my spouse and kids.
For the past five years, I had the opportunity to regularly interact with a person who passionately loved Torah, loved G-d, loved the Jewish People and that infectious love rubbed off on me.
For the past five years, I had the opportunity to regularly interact with a person who represented the greatness of our Mesorah and it deepened my faith in Torah Judaism and in G-d.
For the past five years, I had the opportunity to regularly interact with a person who elevated me, who pushed me, who broadened my horizons, not by telling me what to do, but by allowing me to be in his presence.
Do you need to have a rebbi, a man or woman who inspires you, who could be honest with you, who could lift you up? You don’t need to. Pirkei Avos is not a book of Jewish Law. There is no Halacha to make for yourself a teacher. You don’t have to. But you’d be crazy not to.
***
We live in cynical society unwilling to see the good in people, unwilling to be inspired. We live in a confusing time for the Jewish People and for all of humankind. Pesach reminds us of the importance of tradition, through parents but also through teachers. The one seder depicted in the entire Haggadah involves not parents and children but Rabbi Akiva and his students. Our Torah teachers are the bearers of our rich past, and without a connection to the past we have no future.
In the week of Shiva for Rabbi Hauer’s rebbi, Rav Yaakov Weinberg, Rabbi Hauer went over to a certain rabbi and asked him to study with him on a weekly basis. Rabbi Hauer had the utmost respect for Rav Weinberg, he was dust at his feet, this rabbi he turned to was a gadol, but he was not Rabbi Weinberg. Nonetheless, Rabbi Hauer felt, very much like the Rambam, that every person needs to have a rebbi.
I thought about finding someone to turn to during shiva. I knew the experience I had of such close proximity to greatness was unique, but I also knew that I could still find someone to speak to from time to time. I could still find someone that I might be able to watch from a distance and grow from. I could still find someone who I could develop relationship with who could be honest with me. I thought about it but I didn’t do so and I still have yet to do so.
All of us have the ability to find someone, a man or woman who has yisras shamayim and humility, with whom we could talk to from time to time. All of us could find someone who we could watch from a distance and be inspired to be better. All of us could find someone who could be honest with us and guide us through the challenges of life.
If I am being honest, I shared these thoughts with you today selfishly, to remind me of the importance of having a guiding light in my life, to remind me to keep looking. If Rabbi Hauer felt that he needed a rebbi, then what does that say about me and you? I hope and pray that we each find a rebbi to call our own.
