by Ner Tamid | Sep 22, 2026 | Sermons
Ali and Matt were a Modern Orthodox couple living in the Five Towns. They were in their early 40s, raising four children, building careers, and sharing a beautiful, loving marriage.
And like all beautiful and loving relationships, they had their disagreements. There was one particular point of contention that would come up often. Ali would regularly urger her husband to go to minyan during the week. He was busy, he worked long hours, it was really difficult for him, he just couldn’t do it.
They tell you when you’re dating that you’ll never be able to change your spouse.
I don’t know who ‘they’ are. And thank G-d, neither did Ali.
Because marriage is a dance. Sometimes you’re perfectly in step and sometimes your dancing partner picks up the tempo. Do you slow them down? Do you check out because you signed up for slow dancing? Or do you say, this is my dancing partner, let me try my best to keep up.
After years of Ali trying to speed up the family’s dance, Matt gave in. It was when she finally said, “Do it for your children,” he stopped fighting her. Sometimes we need to view ourselves through our children’s eyes to remember who it is we really want to become. He realized it was time for a change.
Ali being the thoughtful person she was, wanted to keep her husband excited and motivated about his new commitment, so she went out and bought him a new tallis bag to use during the week. She gave it to him on Thursday, August 20th. He was now ready.
On Friday, August 21st, he went to shul. He looked at the tallis and he felt so grateful; grateful for his wife, for his children, for the amazing life that he had. He felt like he never felt before. He looked at the siddur and realized that the Hebrew words which he didn’t fully understand couldn’t capture his emotions. So – with some help from ChatGPT – he created his own prayer, a full-throated thank you to G-d, a sincere plea for continued clarity, and shared his yearnings of using this moment to catapult him into being the best version of who he could be.
He paused – he realized that the person who gets all the credit for making this happen was his wife. He took a quick picture of his Talis bag and texted it to Ali. She wrote back, LOL.
King Solomon writes in his poem Eishes Chayil how the woman of valor laughs until the last day, vatis’chak l’yom acharon. Little did Matt realize that just a few moments after sending that LOL, his beloved wife would have a medical emergency and return her soul to her Creator.
Rav Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, the great 18th century Jewish philosopher, describes how each person comes to this earth to fulfill an utterly unique mission (Derech Hashem). Unfortunately, a baby is not born with a little tag describing what that mission is. It’s up to each of us to assess what our unique mission is based on the unique traits of our personality, the needs of our surroundings, and the benefits and deficits of our life circumstances.
I don’t pretend to know Ali’s mission. None of us can know why a soul is sent into this world, or when that mission is complete. But I find it impossible not to be moved by the timing. In the final hours of her life, Ali succeeded in doing what she had been trying to do for years: she helped someone she loved become more of the person he wanted to be.
I’ve been wondering what would have happened if Matt had simply rejected Ali’s encouragement. Or maybe he would have agreed but then Friday morning, after a late night at work, he would have been too tired and left to work with that new Talis bag on the kitchen counter. And maybe – who knows – but maybe Ali would have passed away that morning, not having fulfilled her mission. And maybe Matt would never have had that epiphany at shul. Her entire raison d’etre and maybe his entire raison d’etre would never have been realized.
That thought haunts me. I come into Yom Kippur with some level of regret for what I did wrong this year, my sins of commission. But I have overwhelming regret for my sins of omission, the many things I could have and should have done but didn’t.
They used to say the humans only use 10% of their brain. It’s not really true. But what is true is that many of us only use 10% of our soul.
We are all capable of so much more.
About five years ago, I was driving with a close friend. I was working hard, teaching, getting increasingly involved in communal life, and feeling pretty good about how much I was accomplishing.
At the end of the drive, he turned to me and said, “Sruli, you’re not doing enough.”
I was ready to punch him.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Eventually I realized he wasn’t telling me to do more. He was challenging me to ask whether I was making the most of what I was already doing. Was I being strategic? Was I maximizing the gifts Hashem had given me?
That conversation literally changed the trajectory of my life.
You may say to yourself, “That’s very nice for Matt. He had an Ali. I don’t have someone in my life pushing me to become more. Or I don’t have a friend willing to look me in the eye and say, “You’re not doing enough.””
Yes, you do.
You’ll be talking to Him for the next 8 hours.
You want a special tallis bag?
We all get one every morning when G-d gives us the greatest gift, the gift of life. It’s His way of telling us I believe that you have more to do on this planet.
You want someone to believe in you that you have more to offer?
We all get that encouragement every time our legs, and arms, and mind, miraculously work. It’s G-d’s way of saying, “There is more to do here. Let’s go!”
If we properly repent – regretting what we’ve done wrong, acknowledging it, and trying not to do the same in the future, then by the end of the day, G-d will 100% forgive you. Clean slate. Those sins never happened.
But G-d can only forgive sins of commission, the things we did wrong.
The sins of omission? What we were supposed to do, and failed to do, that is entirely on us.
Perhaps this is why the Yom Kippur service in the Temple required two goats. One goat was sent away, carrying our sins into the wilderness. But the other was LaShem. Its blood entered the holiest place on earth. Because Yom Kippur asks us two very different questions.
The first is: What do I need to get rid of? What did I do wrong? Whom did I hurt? What habits, mistakes, and sins do I need to leave behind?
That is the Yom Kippur we know well. We beat our chests. We confess. We say Ashamnu, Bagadnu. And Hashem, in His extraordinary mercy, says: Salachti. I forgive you.
But there is another question, and perhaps it is even more demanding: What am I supposed to bring LaShem? What gifts have I been given that I am not yet using? What relationships could be deeper? What mitzvos could be richer? What person needs something that only I can give? What is Hashem still waiting for me to become?
So in addition to beating our chests today, let’s spend some time asking ourselves the following questions:
What part of my character have I known for years needs work, and I still haven’t confronted?
Which relationship in my life deserves more of me?
Which mitzvah have I been telling myself, “One day”?
What problem in my family or community am I uniquely positioned to help solve?
What gift did Hashem give me that I am still leaving in its packaging?
If G-d is giving me another year, what is my mission? What does He want me to do with it?
I mentioned earlier how on that fateful morning, Matt wrote his own prayer. Allow me to read a few lines of what he wrote:
“Help me succeed without losing sight of what truly matters… Give me the wisdom to know what deserves my attention and what I should let go of… Help me become a better Jew… Help me remember throughout the day that You are with me.” Matt concluded his prayer, rather hauntingly by saying, “Thank You, Hashem, for the blessings I already have. Help me recognize them before asking for more… I thank You for all that You have given me and all that You will give me.”
May G-d give Matt the strength to live up to the words he wrote that morning, and may Ali’s memory continue to inspire him and their children to become everything she believed they could become.
And may G-d give each of us the courage to ask not only, “What do I need forgiveness for?” but, “What am I still here to do?”
Because somewhere in each of our lives there is a tallis bag sitting on the kitchen counter.
Something we know we should pick up.
Someone we know we should call.
A mitzvah we know we should begin.
A relationship we know we should repair.
A part of ourselves we know we should finally become.
On Yom Kippur, G-d says Salachti – I forgive you for yesterday.
And then He gives us a tomorrow.
Let’s not leave it sitting on the counter.
by Ner Tamid | Sep 14, 2026 | Sermons
Out. Of. Control.
Those three words neatly sum up the state of affairs as we enter the new year 5787.
Let’s count the many ways –
Technology is out of control. Bill Gates and numerous others are sharing dire predictions about AI. “Even under the best circumstances,” Gates recently wrote, “the transition to this new AI era will be one of the most turbulent times in human history.”
The economy is out of control. Financial experts are sounding the warning bells that the 40 trillion dollars of national debt will likely soon be felt in higher interest rates and by extension, every single sector of the economy.
Antisemitism is out of control. According to the ADL, 46% of adults worldwide harbor antisemitic feelings. Very comforting, isn’t it. Antisemitism is no longer relegated to crackpots and the underworld; it has become the assumed position in all respectable circles of society.
Geopolitics is out of control. Bret Stephens just published an article, highlighting how numerous regional conflicts – Russia/ Ukraine, China/ Hong Kong, North and South Korea, Iran and Israel, are all intertwined. He suggested that World War Three may have already begun.
And it’s overwhelming us.
Our mental health is out of control. The number of Americans experiencing anxiety continues to climb. In 2025, 43% of Americans felt more anxious than the year before. In 2026, the number rose to 48%. Formal anxiety disorders increased by 10% in one year. Those are alarming statistics. Not only out of control but we are a mess.
Anyone else feeling anxious about the year ahead? We have a lot to pray for.
What to do when things feel out of control is a personal struggle. Beneath this sweet smile is an intensely uptight person who is a bit of a control freak. I cannot stand when things are not the way I think they should be.
For most of my life I could not figure out why I had such a hard time on vacation. I love my family, I know I need a break, vacations should be great. And yet, almost as soon as vacation begins, I am on edge. I also couldn’t figure out why I had stress headaches almost every Sunday, what is supposed to be the most relaxed day of the week.
Until one day, not that long ago, listening to an insightful podcast by Rabbi YY Jacobson, it clicked.
Six days a week, I am the master of my time. My calendar app, which will not surprise you to learn is my favorite app, tells me exactly what I am supposed to be doing and when. Every moment has its place. Meetings, classes, appointments, they all follow a structured schedule. Even the crises that come my way get processed in my head through some sort of reliable algorithm.
But Sunday? Vacation?! An amorphous day with one hour casually spilling into the next? (shudder)
Now throw five cute but rambunctious children into the mix. Five people with minds of their own, schedules of their own, and I lose it.
You may think I’m exaggerating for laughs. I am not. I’m embarrassed to say that this has been a genuine struggle for me my whole life.
Some of you, I am sure, can relate to these feelings; whether it’s an unstructured day or a world whose guardrails seem to have fallen by the wayside. You feel overwhelmed, stressed out, scared, when things appear out of control.
Some of you probably just think I’m crazy. That’s fine. You were blessed with a very different temperament and I am happy for you, I really am.
But the reality is that every single one of us, sooner or later, will run into a wall that refuses to move, a situation we cannot change, a situation we cannot control, no matter how much we try. Illness. Loss. A difficult relationship. A child making choices we would never have chosen. Financial uncertainty. A life that stubbornly refuses to follow the calendar we prepared for it. Or just an overarching feeling of emptiness that we cannot shake. We’ve all been there, right?
What do we do then?
Some people distract themselves. They attempt to overcome their lack of control and the deep discomfort that comes with it with substances, sex, or gambling. Unsurprisingly, addiction rates have surged among adults in the past year.
Others numb themselves with endless distractions like entertainment, travel, sports, social media, or whatever else allows them to not confront the fact that life is not behaving the way they think it should.
Some tell themselves a story to make all the chaos less chaotic and in doing so, gives themselves a sense of control. There is a correlation between the growing popularity of conspiracy theories and a society that feels on edge.
Some respond by trying to force the world back into a shape that makes sense to them. That’s what I do. When faced with chaos, I jump headfirst into solving the problem and doing everything I can to make things less chaotic. I am actually pretty good at it. Sometimes I even fool myself to think that I am so successful because I can control so much of my environment. But I am not really so successful. I’m just really scared.
In Kabbalistic literature there is a concept called bittul. It’s sometimes translated as nullifying oneself, making yourself into a shmatta, but that is not a Jewish idea. Bittul takes place when we encounter what we cannot change – which is so much – and we stop trying to bend our surroundings to conform to us. Instead, we proclaim, “I accept that I am not in control.”
Let me share with you two simple every-day examples:
- Your teenaged child makes a decision you think is a terrible mistake. Should you speak to them? Maybe. Should you advise them? Sure.
But eventually you’ve said what there is to say. And now you have a choice: keep pushing until the relationship itself is damaged – or say, I love you enough to accept that your life belongs to you, not me. That’s bittul. I accept that I am not in control.
Or,
- Someone thinks poorly of me. Maybe I should explain myself. Maybe I should apologize. But I cannot make another person understand me. I cannot force someone to like me.
At some point I have to say: I am responsible for my behavior. I am not responsible for your opinion of me. That too is bittul.
This idea is beautifully formulated in the famous serenity prayer that emerged from the philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous: “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Bittul is the muscle we use to stop ourselves at that fine line between the things we can change and the things we cannot, and it’s relevant to all of our relationships, all of our interactions, all of our experiences big and small.
This idea is not only the key to the sobriety of hundreds of thousands of addicts, it is not only emotionally healthy for all of us, it also has a profound impact on our spirituality. And that’s because underlying the notion of bittul is a deceptively simple concept that all of us, addict or not, struggle to embrace, the idea that we are not G-d.
As long as I insist that the world conforms to my will, as long as I am a control freak, I am effectively proclaiming myself to be a god. When I am finally able to accept that I cannot control it all, that’s when I let the real G-d in.
Let me explain how this works with a metaphor that may or may not be fictional:
Hindy and I both like steak, we both like Cabernet Sauvignon. If we go to Serengeti’s, order a steak and a bottle of Cabernet, have I expressed my love for my wife?
Not really.
I’m sure it would be a lovely evening, but I never had to move beyond myself. I got what I wanted.
Now imagine Hindy says, “I know we have fifty-three gift certificates to Serengeti’s thanks to your Rosh Hashana speech… but tonight I want to go to Tov Pizza.”
I can respond in one of three ways.
Option one: “That’s ridiculous.”
It is. But experience has taught me that saying that is not a good idea.
Option two: I can try to understand her. Why Tov Pizza? Why tonight? I can analyze her reasoning until eventually I say, “Oh! Now I understand. That makes sense. Okay, let’s go.”
That’s a little better. But I still only agreed once her preference made sense to me.
There is an even deeper possibility.
I can say to myself: I don’t understand why she wants Tov Pizza. It makes absolutely no sense to me. It may not even make sense to her. But I love her. And because I love her, I accept that I don’t need everything she wants to make sense to me.
“Sure, honey, let’s go to Tov Pizza.”
That’s bittul.
Because you see, that wall which so often stands before me, that immovable, annoying, painful, incomprehensible situation or person, it may be stressing me out and driving me crazy – that wall is getting in the way of what I want!
And precisely for that reason, that wall is where I encounter G-d most profoundly – because it is those moments of frustration, of feeling stuck, of not knowing how to move forward, it is then and only then, that I am forced to confront the fact that I am not in control, I am not G-d.
And just like when I accept my wife’s desire to go to Tov Pizza, when I am ready to accept G-d’s will, I have finally stopped serving myself, and I’m ready for a real relationship with Hashem, to submit, and to acknowledge Him.
This is something that took me 42 years to understand.
I wish I would have understood this earlier; I would have been so much healthier. But now that I have, and now that I work on this regularly – though I fail just as regularly – let me tell you, it is the most sublime, most incredible and most freeing feeling I’ve experienced in my lifetime.
On a good day, when I’m really living bittul, instead of being surrounded by frustrating situations and people, I am surrounded by opportunities to interact with G-d. As long as things are going my way, that’s great, but that’s me in the driver’s seat. When things go off the rails, instead of getting frustrated or flustered, I open my eyes and see that it’s not an annoying person or situation before me, it’s G-d. I can’t move forward because G-d is standing in my way. He’s in control; I’m not. And it’s beautiful.
Three-thousand-seven-hundred-and-two years ago to this day, G-d gave Avraham the challenge of a lifetime; the most irrational, illogical, backward directive imaginable – “Slaughter your beloved son.”
This was the ultimate challenge because Avraham had at this point, defeated all the idols of the world, but there was still one idol – himself. He still believed that he understood his place in the world, that he had some control. There was a plan and a promise and a child who would continue his legacy and receive his reward. And then G-d said, no.
Somehow Avraham found it within himself and stepped up to this impossible challenge. As the Medrash Tanchuma relates: “G-d,” Avraham said, “I do not understand what You want from me. But my relationship with You is not limited to what I can understand. I am willing to accept it.” That was bittul at its finest.
And for the thousands of years that followed, his descendants encountered realities they could neither understand nor control, and somehow continued to say: “I don’t understand You, Hashem, but I will not abandon You.”
But in 2026, precisely because we have so much and precisely because we understand so much, when we face those walls, we can too easily sidestep them, avoiding bittul entirely.
We are educated enough to ask penetrating theological questions – why would you do this to me, G-d? It doesn’t make any sense. And instead of engaging G-d, we walk away from Him.
We all have friends who have given up on religion or have created their own version of Judaism when Judaism stopped conforming to their feelings. Instead of grappling with our tradition, we allow our observance to slip.
We are psychologically-savvy enough to diagnose every family member and friend – they’re all crazy, I’m the only rational one, I can’t give in to them, they don’t know what they’re talking about. When we face a wall in a relationship, we ask ourselves, why should I give in? Why should I accept? And we sever countless relationships.
Today, we come face to face with the challenging walls of life and too often we refuse to budge; we are too strong, too bright, too sophisticated for bittul.
Only that bittul, at least in Judaism, was never about weakness. Hineni, Avraham declared. “Here I am!” I am not a pushover. I have stood up to great kings, debated the greatest thinkers, I am the most influential man in history. Bittul is not negation, it is an expression of strength. I choose to submit, I choose to accept, I choose to love.
It is a scary world out there; I wish I could tell you that it will all be good. It’s not looking like it. As individuals, we are going to face hardships in the year ahead. It is inevitable. And when we do, I hope we can ask ourselves two simple questions:
What do I need to do? What do I need to accept?
I hope to do a lot this year, to change a lot, to push a lot. But when I’ve done what I can and I reach that wall, I want to be able to stop pushing and say:
I don’t understand, I don’t even approve, but I’ve tried my utmost, and I will stop demanding that life conform to my plan.
I now know that it is not a wall before me, it is You, G-d. And I choose to accept that You are the One in control.
Yes, we have a lot to pray for this year, but let’s add one prayer to our list; that we are able to be at peace even when we don’t get what we want, that we can remain devout even when G-d seems so hard to connect with, that we can be calm even when the world around us spins so fast, that we can hold on to relationships and love even when we don’t understand.
I hope and pray that I, and all of us, can take this life-changing idea of bittul to heart this year, and learn to live with faith, with inner peace, and with joy.
Even on a Sunday.
by Ner Tamid | Sep 14, 2026 | Sermons
Who here has FOMO for Israel?
I regularly experience a deep Fear Of Missing Out as it relates to Israel.
When I get ready for Shabbos here in Baltimore, I feel like I am missing out on Friday afternoons in Jerusalem, where not only the smell of fresh challah fills the air but you could feel Shabbos itself slowly descending onto the streets.
When I am travelling in some American city not known for its Jewish population and get so excited when I see one Jew, I feel like I am missing out, not only on bumping into old friends everywhere I go in Israel, but being part of the greatest ingathering of all stripes of Jews to have ever taken place in history.
When I see police cars driving through our streets, I feel like I am missing out, not only on feeling secure with fellow Jews ensuring my safety, but of that sense of deep pride and strength that swells up inside me every time I see a young man or woman in green fatigues.
When I read news items that question the ethics of a Jewish state, I feel like I am missing out on living among people, where even the most peace-leaning citizens understand that the question of a Jewish state is not an academic question, it’s existential.
FOMO for Israel.
Before I go on, allow me to dispel any rumors. No, I am not making Aliyah anytime soon.
Also, I am not applying to become the rabbi of Suburban Orthodox…
So now that we cleared the air…
I could retire to Israel and eventually take part in the magic of Shabbosos in Jerusalem and the experience of being a part of history. I could put some of these feelings on hold. I know many of you plan on doing exactly that. But there is something that has no replacement, something that by living here, right now, I, and my children, will miss out on indefinitely –
Living as a part of the Jewish nation. Existing, not as Yisrael, the individual, but as a small part of Am Yisrael.
Let me share with you an example that will illustrate what I am talking about:
How many of you have ever heard of Shannon Lee Potter? How about Telethia Good? No, you did not. These two Baltimore girls have been missing since 1982. Allegedly, every once in a while, a police officer is expected to reopen their file and do a little digging. I’d be shocked if our ever-strapped police force has done so in the past two decades.
Contrast that with the story of Yehuda Katz. I never met him, but I, like many others, know his story well. Yehuda Katz studied in my alma mater, Kerem B’Yavneh, a yeshiva near Ashdod. He was a diligent student, beloved by those who knew him. Being a member of a tank crew, he was sent to fight in Lebanon. The day before his troop was sent into battle, he noticed that his fellow soldiers were scared. He gathered them around him, studied some sections from the Rambam’s Laws of Battle and then led them in song, singing “Gam ki eilech b’gei tzalmovet, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, lo ira ra ki ata imadi, I will not fear evil because you are with me.” The soldiers relaxed.
The next day, his tank was attacked, and he went missing.
Every day after, in our Yeshiva, a prayer was said for his safe return. Every few months, the Yeshiva would host a class in his merit. His picture was put up on a wall so all could see him every time they stepped into the Yeshiva’s library. It was not only in his yeshiva. The same picture hung in the office of Israel’s President, Isaac Herzog.
Yehuda Katz went missing in 1982. Nobody forgot him for 44 years.
Just under a month ago, Yehuda’s body was found. The Mossad and special forces from the IDF, after decades of painstaking research, during one of the most precarious times in Israeli history, tracked him down and in a secret mission, brought him home.
His funeral procession, which started at the yeshiva near Ashdod, concluded on Har Zeisim in Jerusalem. All along the road, men, women, and children, stood in respect for their brother they never gave up on.
That’s what it means to be part of Am Yisrael; you are not an individual, you are part of one big family. And that is something that really only exists in Israel.
In 2000, Robert Putnam wrote the classic book, Bowling Alone, describing the aloneness that is the new norm in America in the year 2000. In 2023, the Surgeon General declared loneliness a national epidemic.
But in Israel, no one bowls alone. Israelis don’t just live on top of one another, they live for one another. Israel is the land in which young men and women, before going into battle, leave notes behind stating how proud they are to have given their life for their nation.
In America, we dream and worry of our family’s future; Israelis dream and worry of the future of their nation.
The reason Israeli boys and girls can go into battle with such confidence, the reason parents are willing to sadly but proudly accept those sleepless nights is because they believe they are part of something bigger than themselves.
Ram Dass shares a beautiful parable about two waves making their way toward the shore. One wave is terrified. It sees the beach ahead and knows that within moments it will crash into the sand and cease to exist. The other wave is smiling, humming a tune as it travels through the ocean. “How can you be so calm?” the first wave asks.
The second wave replies, “You’re frightened because you think you are a wave, and in a few moments your short life will come to an end. I am calm because I know that I am part of the ocean. And the ocean lives on.”
Moving to Israel in retirement, never having served, never having spent sleepless nights not knowing which enemy my son or daughter might be facing, never huddling in a safe room in the basement of my apartment building with my neighbors, means that I would come to Israel as an individual, not as a part of the nation. And that’s something I fear I am missing out on.
One solution, of course, is to make Aliyah.
But for those of us who are here, at least for the time being, I have a different solution. It’s not perfect, it’s not complete, but I believe it could still be a very meaningful way to connect ourselves deeply to Am Yisrael, to transcend our Western identity of ‘me’ to a Jewish identity of ‘we.’ I’d like to make a book recommendation. You may have heard of it, it’s called, Nach. The Prophets and the Writings, Neviim and Kesuvim, some people call it the Bible. This book is the key to bringing us and holding us together.
With the establishment of the State of Israel, Ben Gurion faced many challenges. Security was, of course, the prime concern. The economy followed closely. But he also understood that the Jews streaming into this new country had little in common. How do you create a nation out of Sefardim and Ashkenazim? Chassidim and secularists? German Jews and Polish Jews? It was not an easy task. His solution? Neviim and Kesuvim, the Bible.
Historian, Anita Shapira, describes Ben Gurion’s conception of Jewish identity consisting of The People, the Land, and the Book. In 1953, Ben Gurion wrote: “Only with the renewal of the homeland and Hebrew independence have we been able to reassess the Bible in its true, full light.” He saw these holy books, which for so many years, collected dust on the shelves of our homes and shuls, as finally coming back to life.
He established, on the tenth anniversary of the State of Israel, the Chidon HaTanach, a national and eventually international Tanach competition for youth. Two of this year’s US finalists are members of our shul – Moshe Lewin and Tamar Levy. The Chidon wasn’t just a cute gimmick; he was trying to build a nation, and for all its shortcomings, he was wildly successful.
Ben-Gurion himself would gather Bible scholars and intellectuals for regular Tanach study in the prime minister’s residence, it was known as the חוג התנ״ך בבית ראש הממשלה. The subjects weren’t abstract. They discussed questions of conquest and settlement, the kingdoms of David and Shlomo, and the return to Zion under Cyrus and Darius – biblical episodes that resonated with the astonishing national events they were themselves living through. He sought out military strategies from the book of Joshua that were then implemented in the IDF.
Ben-Gurion was hardly an Orthodox Jew. Yet he understood something that many observant Jews too often forget: Tanach isn’t simply another area of Torah knowledge. It is our national memory. Avraham, Moshe, Yehoshua, Devorah, David, Eliyahu, Yeshayahu, Yirmiyahu, these aren’t disconnected personalities whose stories appear in different books. Together, they tell our story.
Yes, we are undoubtedly missing out by not living in Israel; there is no way around it. But it’s not an all-or-nothing. There is a recipe for success that helped reconstitute Am Yisrael, and we have an opportunity, even here in Baltimore, to become true members of our beloved nation.
I usually like to speak about a particular value and then suggest a number of practical applications of the value. Especially on Rosh Hashana when so many different types of people crowd into our shul, I try to be sensitive to the fact that we all have different backgrounds and capabilities. But I am not going to do that today. I am going to make one suggestion – learn Tanach. I believe that the study of Tanach is something that every single one of us has the ability to engage in. It’s your story; every single one of you. You don’t have to miss out on it.
Over the past years, many Jews have adopted a daily study regimen of one chapter of Nach a day. There is an official schedule that they follow. Following that schedule, today, the book of Jeremiah begins.
Jeremiah, Yirmiyahu, lived through a time that has haunting resonance today. It was a time of over-confidence in military might; he warned what would happen but no one listened, leading to disaster. It was a time of extreme internal division; where the greatest threat to the Jewish People most often lived next door. He lambasted the fake news that spread through the country at lightning speed. He also spoke to the many Jews who lived in the diaspora; letting them know that there was still great value in their Jewish existence. Most importantly, despite all the Jeremiad gloom and doom, he painted a picture of hope. עוֹד יִשָּׁמַע בַּמָּקוֹם הַזֶּה… קוֹל שָׂשׂוֹן וְקוֹל שִׂמְחָה קוֹל חָתָן וְקוֹל כַּלָּה. There will be a time, he promised, of great joy. If we live our lives the way we should, our story can change for the good.
I will be recording a daily five-minute-class on each chapter. There are also tens of wonderful classes on the daily chapter of Tanach that you can found online. We’ll be handing out bookmarks in a few minutes with all this information. I invite you to learn your story and become a part of our nation.
In a moment, we will hear the Shofar. Rav Yehuda Leib Alter, otherwise known as the Sefas Emes, a man who lived at the height of the Golden Age of Polish Jewry, a time in which communities outside of Israel were thriving, recognized something was amiss. Our daily prayers, our yearnings, they were all personal; they reflected the needs and wants of our family and maybe our immediate community. As heartfelt as those prayers may be, they are fractured, divided into millions of individual parts.
The Shofar, he writes, is a moment of unity. The shofar is a prayer, but it is a collective prayer, the ultimate collective prayer, when all our deepest yearnings meld into one powerful and singular cry. We all hear the same sound, an expression of our collective soul, of Am Yisrael. There is nothing more precious to our Father in heaven then the Jewish People uniting as one.
After those 100 sounds go silent, we don’t have to go back to living lives as individual Jews.
We can take that collective voice with us.
Tomorrow morning, we can open the first chapter of Yirmiyahu and begin learning our story. Not his story. Not ancient history. Our story.
We can hear the debates that once divided our people and recognize the debates dividing us today. We can listen to the warnings that our ancestors ignored and ask whether we are making the same mistakes. We can hear Yirmiyahu speak to Jews living outside of Israel and discover that he is speaking to us. And we can read his promises of return and redemption and realize, astonishingly, that we are watching some of those words come to life before our very eyes.
I still have FOMO for Israel.
I imagine I always will.
But perhaps the greatest fear should not be that we are missing out on Friday afternoon in Jerusalem, or on bumping into old friends at the Shuk, or even on the extraordinary experience of living in a Jewish state.
The greatest fear should be that the most remarkable story in human history is unfolding before our eyes – and we don’t realize that it is our story.
So this year, starting tomorrow, let’s stop living in fear of missing out.
Open a Nach. Five minutes a day. One chapter at a time.
Learn where we came from. Learn who we are. Learn what our people have dreamed about, fought about, cried about and prayed about for thousands of years.
And then perhaps, when the shofar sounds and millions of individual Jewish voices merge once again into one great cry, we will hear something more than the sound of a shofar.
We will hear the sound of Am Yisrael.
And we will know that we are part of it.
by Ner Tamid | Sep 6, 2026 | Sermons
People like to say that being a rabbi is not a job for a good Jewish boy. It’s obviously a joke, but the underlying message is that there is something horrible about being a rabbi. I could not disagree more.
I get to teach Torah every day. I get to try to help people navigate the highs and lows of life. I get to be involved in projects that have the potential of impacting hundreds of people.
But perhaps the greatest perk is that I’m expected to be a role model – which forces me to try to become a better person myself.
If I am driving a little too quickly, there is this little rabbi voice in my head that says, “Nu, vat vould the congregants say?” and I slow down. (Naturally, it has a thick Eastern European accent.) Or if I am thinking of getting upset at one of my children, the rabbi voice says, “Dis is how a rabbi speaks to his children?
Also, von of your congregants is at the door. Don’t yell so loudly.”
It’s a really great job. I love it. And I love it here.
As our shul grows, a number of people have brought up the idea of getting an assistant rabbi. I am a big fan of hiring from within, so would anyone here like to be my assistant rabbi?
Here are some of the perks of being an assistant rabbi:
- You get a parking spot, though it’s usually taken by a Montessori mom.
- You are close enough to all the action to know what’s going on, but if anything goes wrong, just far enough to plausibly deny involvement.
- We’d get to hang out a lot. It would be great.
Who’s in?
The truth is, I already have an assistant rabbi. Not one, not two, but tens and tens of assistant rabbis. They may call themselves volunteers. I think a more accurate term is assistant rabbi. And there are many.
I was once out for a coffee with a rabbi from a different denomination. She told me how few volunteers she had in her shul. And I told her, I hardly know anyone in our shul who is not a volunteer in some fashion. The amount of people who assist me in one way or another is too long to list.
If my job is to make sure people feel connected, I have dozens of assistant rabbis inviting people for Shabbos and Yom Tov.
If my job is to make sure Torah is being learned, I have assistant rabbis who cover my classes and women who gather every week to teach one another.
If my job is to create uplifting davening, I have musical assistant rabbis who lead the davening – and many more who sing loudly enough to help fill this room with the sounds of tefilah.
And if my job is to keep this place running, I have a president, chair, board, CSS members, gabbaim, Kiddush crews, people fixing chairs and cleaning the shul – a whole fleet of assistant rabbis.
Thank you, all of you, for being my assistants!
Though I should probably clarify, this position does not come with health insurance.
What goes on in this shul really speaks to one of the core ideas of Judaism – Judaism does not believe that religion is a spectator sport, that one person gets up to speak and everyone listens, or that only the elite are meant to be educated or teachers, or that only one person is responsible. Not at all.
When Moshe addresses the people in this week’s parsha, he gathers them all, the men, the women, the children. Many ancient tribes had mass gatherings made up of men, but Judaism was the first to introduce the notion that all members of society play an integral role and therefore they all needed to be present.
When Moshe, in the last days of his life, gives a Torah scroll to the tribe of Levi, telling them that since they are the teachers of the Jewish People, they should hold onto it, the people protest; What about us? Are we not part of the Jewish People?!
Moshe is thrilled. According to the Medrash, he writes 12 additional Torah scrolls, one for each tribe, and then he proclaims, “Today, you have become a nation.”
To be part of the Jewish nation means you are responsible, not to be a recipient, but to be a giver. Not to be a consumer, but a creator.
If you are not yet an assistant rabbi, now’s a really good time to sign up.
Years ago, I was working for an organization in Washington DC, and I had to speak a couple of times over Yom Kippur. I was quite annoyed. I loved sitting in the back of shul on Yom Kippur, covered in a talis, not talking to anyone all day except G-d. And I was going to be in DC, with the expectation of shmoozing with people, many of them who didn’t take Yom Kippur very seriously, perhaps being distracted by the speeches I had to give. I was really not looking forward to it.
I was speaking to a rabbi of mine, Rabbi Eliezer Breitowitz, and I was complaining, and he said, “Are you out of your mind?!” By the way, until you have a rabbi who can tell you, you’re out of your mind, you don’t have a rabbi…
He explained: It’s the holiest day of the year. It’s the day on which you’re being judged. As long as you sat in the back of the shul with a talis over your head, G-d judged you as a guy in the back of shul with a talis over his head. But this year, this year, G-d says, “Whoa! Look at this! We need to assess this person not only as an individual, but as someone who is helping my children.” That’s a whole new judgement.
For every person you assist, for every person you inspire, for every person you make more comfortable, your spiritual net worth goes up exponentially. As Rav Chaim Volozhin used to remind his son constantly, “You were put into this earth to help others.” Every person you assist, every person you inspire, every person you make feel that they belong does not only change their Yom Tov. It changes your Yom Tov. It changes who you are as you stand before G-d.
As this year comes to an end, I just want to say thank you to every single one of you for making this Ner Tamid community the warm, growth-oriented, community-minded place that it is. We need every single one of you, your insights, your contributions, your participation, to make this community whole.
And especially at this time of year, I really need the assistance of all of my assistants.
If you see a face you don’t recognize, I may not get to him or her. Please say hello on my behalf. And then, say hello on your behalf.
If the person sitting next to you over Yom Tov is flipping helplessly through the machzor, help them find the page.
If you know someone who might appreciate an invitation, there are a lot of meals coming up over the next few weeks. See if you can fit one or two more people around your table. I am confident they will add far more to your meal than they take from it.
And when the chazzan begins a tune, sing. Beautiful davening doesn’t come from one person standing at the amud. It comes from an entire room deciding that this is our tefillah.
So yes, I love being your rabbi. It really is a great job.
But the truth is, the greatest privilege of being the rabbi of Ner Tamid is that I don’t have to do it alone.
I have a shul full of assistant rabbis.
May Hashem bless each of us with a year in which we don’t merely ask what our community can give us, but recognize how much we have to give one another. And in that merit, may Hashem look at all that we do for His children, hear all of our tefillos, and bless us all with a Shanah Tovah, a gut genbetched yur.
by Ner Tamid | Aug 30, 2026 | Sermons
Tucked into a mountainside in the Shomron lives a community of about a thousand Samaritans. Their exact origin is a matter of dispute but we do know that when they were looking for a place to settle, they deliberately chose Har Gerizim for its significance. Though not very well-known to us, it’s a mountain that plays a dramatic role in this week’s parsha.
As soon as the Jews crossed over the Jordan, they were told to divide in two groups, one on Har Gerizim and one on the neighboring Har Eival. Then, in a highly orchestrated fashion, a list of curses were to be uttered, highlighting a number of immoral behaviors that the Jews were warned not to engage in, to which the people would say Amen.
It’s a puzzling ceremony, which is why many of us gloss over it. Did the Jews not already accept all the Mitzvos at Mt. Sinai? What unique lesson is being taught here?
There are many explanations, but I’d like to focus on one. Rav Ovadya Seforno says something that when I read, I had to read twice to make sure I was reading it correctly. He observes that although much of the Torah is written in the plural, the curses are directed to the individual – arur ha’ish, cursed be the man. He suggests that the individuals being cursed in this passage are not the regular Joe’s of the nation. The people being cursed are the leaders of the Jewish People. As made clear by our prophets, the worst offenders during Biblical times were the most powerful men and women of Jewish society. The function of this ceremony is this: Though we have a concept of arvus, of being responsible for one another. There are limits to this responsibility. When powerful people commit crimes, being that they are so powerful, being that they are so well-connected, G-d said, I recognize that you, the masses, may not be able to stop them, and because of that, you are not responsible. Arur ha’ish; I, says G-d, will curse the sinful leader. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.
This commentary by the Seforno is so instructive. Notice how he does not say that leadership is inherently corrupt, and should therefore be abolished (this is not Woke 1.0).
Torah Judaism is built around leaders – kings, Kohanim, prophets, judges, rabbis, parents and teachers. We need people to guide us and inspire us. But needing leaders is not the same thing as believing leaders are infallible. The ceremony at Har Eival and Har Gerizim was to convey to the Jewish People that as integral as leadership is, leaders should never be fully trusted.
About a month ago, a film was screened in California, called The Darkest Light. It tells the tragic story of the legendary musician, Shlomo Carlebach and highlights the many allegations of sexual abuse that were made against him.
I apologize if this comes as a shock to any of you, that this man, whose tunes are embedded in our davening and whose legacy looms large over all of Judaism, is also accused of engaging in horrible behavior. I know I was taken aback when I first learned about these allegations. You may or may not have noticed, our shul has not had a “Carlebach Minyan” for the past decade. Though we still sing his tunes, once I became aware, I refused to call any of our Friday night minyanim in his name.
As you can imagine, this movie has caused quite a stir.
Since 1998, when some of these allegations became public, there has been pushback. Carlebach had died four years earlier, in 1994, and therefore, had no ability to reply to the claims made against him, which is an important point to ponder. It is undoubtedly appropriate and necessary to report on any living person who is abusing others so as to prevent others from being harmed. But it is a fair question if one should be reporting on those who are deceased and can no longer do any harm. People of good faith can debate this point.
But there are arguments being raised that I believe are not debatable.
There are those who say, “But Carlebach did so much good. Do you know how many people he brought back to Judaism? How many lost souls he gave life to?”
I’d like to remind those people of what was said on Har Eival and Gerizim: “Arur ha’ish,” Great people can do terrible things. As Carlebach’s daughter has written, her father was an incredibly complex man; genuine greatness in one realm does not guarantee goodness in all realms.
There are those who say, “I knew him personally, there is no way he could have done such horrific things.”
I’d like to remind those people of what was said on Har Eival and Har Gerizim: “Arur ha’ish asher yakeh es rei’eihu basaser,” We never know what is in someone’s heart and what someone can do behind closed doors.
There are bad actors who get into jobs of authority that give them access to vulnerable people. There are also good people in such positions who become corrupt over time. There are even good people in positions of power who do not become corrupt, but allow poisonous power to get to their head. I was speaking to a rabbi from a different city this summer who told me he could not go on vacation because his congregants needed him to always be around. That may not be criminal but it is wildly unhealthy. My rebbi used to remind us constantly how the cemetery is filled with indispensable people. Any rabbi that enmeshed in their congregant’s life is not building people; he’s controlling them.
The blessings and curses at Har Eival and Gerizim remind us not to be seduced by charisma, not to be deceived by what may be some truly redeeming qualities, and to recognize that in Judaism we believe that infallibility is reserved for G-d.
How do we do this? How do we balance turning to rabbis for Halachic rulings and advice with the appropriate caution?
Three words – Trust. Your. Gut. #TYG.
This is probably one of the most important messages we need to teach children and remind ourselves, especially as Orthodox Jews.
Because on the one hand, the Torah makes demands on us; though shall, thou shall not. When it comes to Halacha, Jewish practice, our gut doesn’t really matter. I feel bad for you that the laws of Shabbos don’t resonate, I really do, but G-d said so. Our fidelity to the structure of Halacha is an exercise in obedience, submission, humility, all critical qualities in our spiritual development.
But when a rabbi makes a comment that makes us uncomfortable, when a leader does something that doesn’t feel right, or encourages us to do something that doesn’t make sense to us – Trust. Your. Gut.
And I want to be abundantly clear – That doesn’t necessarily mean that our gut is right; but it just might be right for us.
One of the critical elements of sexual abuse prevention is teaching children to trust their instincts. To be able to share with a parent that someone or something makes them uncomfortable. If something feels wrong, children need to know that they could tell someone they trust and they don’t need to prove that their discomfort is justified.
And this is why immediately after crossing the Jordan, the Jewish People gathered at Har Gerizim and Har Eival – to be taught some of the most fundamental lessons of Judaism.
They would need leaders. They would need Kohanim and judges, prophets and teachers. We still do. The Torah asks us to hold our cynicism about leadership at bay and appreciate its value.
But the Torah does not ask us to surrender our judgment to our leaders in the process.
Arur ha’ish. A person can be important and still do something terrible. A person can inspire thousands and still hurt an individual. A person can be a brilliant teacher, a gifted musician, a respected rabbi – or any other admired figure – and still be deeply flawed.
Our children need to know that. And so do we.
Trust your gut does not mean that our gut is always right. It means that when something feels wrong, we don’t silence that feeling simply because the person on the other side is powerful, charismatic, learned, or beloved. We ask. We tell. We take the discomfort seriously.
Judaism demands humility before G-d, submission to His Torah, respect for Torah leaders, but infallibility, that belongs to G-d alone.
