by Ner Tamid | May 24, 2026 | Sermons
For over a decade, every Simchas Torah, a small yeshiva in Petach Tikvah, Orot Shaul, would send its students to the colorful streets of Tel Aviv to bring joy and unity to the masses. One year, the Rosh Yeshiva, Rabbi Tamir Gronat, was troubled by a number of high-profile incidents that took place in Tel Aviv – street-fights between Orthodox and secular Israelis, and he felt that more had to be done. He printed shirts that said, “Harei ani mekabel alai le’ehov/ I accept upon myself to love,” and told his students that instead of their white Yom Tov shirts they should wear and hand out these shirts as they dance in the streets.
That year was 2023, and those shirts never saw the light of day. Instead, the majority of this Hesder Yeshiva geared up and went into battle. This would not be the only setback Rabbi Granot would face that year.
On October 13th at 4 AM, Rabbi Granot’s son, 24-year-old, Amitai called his fiancée from the Northern border of Israel. They had been engaged for two weeks and were not planning on getting married for a while. But war has a way of forcing people to prioritize what is truly important, and so Amitai decided he couldn’t wait any longer. “Roni,” he told his fiancée, “Next time the army lets me go home, even for a day, let’s get married. Small wedding, just our families. Roni, you are the only thing that’s important in my life.” By 11 AM that day, Amitai had been killed by Hezbollah.
At the funeral of his son, Rabbi Granot got up to speak. He had prepared remarks reflecting on the all-too-short life of his son. He had prepared remarks for his family, his beloved wife and children, who were reeling from the loss. But then he went off script. In Rabbi Granot’s broken heart, he realized there was someone else who was also in pain. “Roni,” he said to his son’s fiancée, “choose life.”
He was trying to give her permission to move on. But frankly, it was an absurd comment.
How does one choose life when G-d has stacked everything against you? How does one choose life when all of your careful planning has been undone? How does one choose life when life is the one thing that is so clearly out of our hands and entirely in the hands of G-d?
Of course, this absurd directive did not originate with Rabbi Granot. He was quoting a verse in the Torah, something Moshe Rabbeinu taught us on the last day of his life. “Uvacharta bachaim.” We, who believe that G-d controls the world, are faced with a paradox. If He is really in control, then where does that leave us? If G-d placed me in a dysfunctional home, if G-d created me with a physical or mental disease, if G-d put me in this horrific situation, that is His will. And yet, Moshe protests, without giving us any explanation as to how this actually works, we are told to choose our own destiny. “Uvacharta bachaim.” How?
Less than a month ago, Dr. Edith Eger passed away at the age of 98. She grew up in Slovakia, was an exceptionally talented ballet dancer with a promising career ahead of her, but the Holocaust shattered her dreams. She was taken to Auschwitz where Mengel y’s regularly made Edith dance for him. She somehow survived physically but the emotional toll was immense. At the age of 50, she went to college. She was trying to heal her own trauma but, in the process, her innate therapeutic skills emerged. She became Dr. Eger, a world-renowned expert in trauma, treating war veterans and others who endured the most horrific of circumstances. At the young age of 89, she published a book that I imagine many of you read called, The Choice. If you haven’t read it yet, you should.
Allow me to read a short passage from the book: “…(S)uffering is universal. But victimhood is optional. There is a difference between victimization and victimhood. We are all likely to be victimized in some way in the course of our lives. At some point we will suffer some kind of affliction or calamity or abuse, caused by circumstances or people or institutions over which we have little or no control. This is life. And this is victimization. It comes from outside. It’s the neighborhood bully, the boss who rages, the spouse who hits, the lover who cheats, the discriminatory law, the accident that lands you in the hospital.
In contrast, victimhood comes from the inside. No one can make you a victim but you. We become victims not because of what happens to us, but when we choose to hold on to our victimization. We develop a victim’s mind – a way of thinking and being that is rigid, blaming, pessimistic, stuck in the past, unforgiving, punitive, and without healthy limits or boundaries. We become our own jailors when we choose the confines of the victim’s mind.”
This was an elaboration on the philosophy of her mentor, Dr. Viktor Frankl, another Holocaust survivor who wrote: “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
Both of them, these two Jews, Frankl and Eger, were helping us understand what Moshe was trying to teach us when he said, “uvacharta bachaim.” So much of life is beyond our control. But within those confines, as dark and limiting as they may seem, we have the ability to choose. We always have the ability to choose.
***
On Shavuos, we celebrate the giving of the Torah. On the one hand, we chose to receive the Torah. G-d asked us, invited us, and we replied ‘Naaseh v’nishma,” we choose to accept our mission. And yet, the Talmud famously describes the moment before Hashem gave us the Torah: Kafah aleihem har k’gigis. G-d lifted the mountain of our heads and threatened us. Take it or die. You must accept the Torah.
Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm explains: Every Jew is chosen; a Jewish baby boy, just eight days old, “feels the pain of cold steel cutting into his flesh,” we are marked for hatred and persecution no matter what we do, and we are given an overwhelming number of commandments. Some Jews try to escape their fate; they pander to antisemites by going to receptions in Gramacy Mansion or they try to hide their Jewishness. But wherever we go, G-d still holds that mountain over our head casting in inescapable shadow.
In Rabbi Lamm’s words: “But when the Jew, chosen by G-d, forcibly throughout history, turns to G-d and now, out of his own free will and with the total commitment of a free personality, chooses Him – his life is transformed, filled with the beauty of meaning and purpose. If a Jew is only chosen and not choosing, then Mt. Sinai crushes him. But if he turns about and decides to choose G-d, then Mt. Sinai becomes a lofty summons…”
“At a time of Yizkor,” we “remember parents and grandparents, and through them the link of every generation with the one that preceded it, all the way up the chain of time… If our link to the past is merely biological, simply a matter of heredity,” of culture, of Jewish food, of Jewish friends, “then we are merely chosen Jews.” It’s a fate that has been chosen for us. And that’s not a life. To live is to choose, to live is to recognize our limitations, what has been given to us, and in that space, climb higher and higher. We need to be Jews who proactively chose to live a life of Torah and spirituality.
***
On August 15, 2025, Roni, Amitai Granot’s bereaved fiancée, got married. She asked Rabbi Granot, her almost-father-in-law to officiate. He refused but she insisted. Under the chuppah, Rabbi Granot used the opportunity to speak of his son and his dashed dreams. He then sang, “Zeh hayom asah Hashem, this is the day that G-d made, Nagilah v’nis’m’cha bo, let us rejoice.”
He later told a friend that the cup of wine he held during the ceremony was literally filled with tears; tears of a fate he did not choose, mixed with the wine of a choice to live.
Roni chose life. Rabbi Granot chose life. We can choose life as well.
Every year on Shavuos, we can look up and see a daunting mountain, a life forced upon us filled with restrictions and hate. Every year on Shavuos, we are given the opportunity to say, Naaseh v’nishma once more. How am I choosing to be Jewish? In what way am I elevating my Jewishness beyond what was forced upon me, beyond what I inherited from my parents? Is my prayer more meaningful or am I just copying whatever I saw in my home? Am I studying my Jewish heritage or am I content with Jewish culture? Is my relationship with G-d one of hiding under the mountain, or am I trying to climb it, and reach Him?
“Uvacharta bachaim.” It doesn’t always feel like it, but we always have a choice.
by Ner Tamid | May 10, 2026 | Sermons
The Jewish poet, Achad Ha’am, famously said, “More than the Jewish People kept Shabbos, Shabbos kept the Jewish People.” Today, I’d like to suggest that Shabbos not only kept the Jews, but Shabbos kept the American People.
In President Trump’s declaration announcing May as Jewish Heritage Month, he wrote: “This month, we celebrate the contributions that Jewish Americans have made to our way of life, we honor their role in shaping the story of our Nation.” While there are many Jewish values and Jewish People that have been pivotal in the American way of life, I’d like to argue that Shabbos has played an outsized role.
In that declaration, President Trump dedicated next Shabbos, May 15-16, as a time to reflect on American Jewish history. But if I were to dedicate next Shabbos to this theme, 50% of you would be upset that I listened to President Trump. If I were to skip it entirely, the other 50% of you would be furious that I ignored the President. As a compromise, we’ll dedicate this Shabbos to American Jewish history… In all honesty, I read the proclamation quickly and I got the date wrong. I suppose you could say, we’re doing early Shabbos… So here goes, “More than the American People kept Shabbos, Shabbos kept the American People.” (And you’re welcome to all the rabbis who want to use this drasha next week…)
In 1752, a bell was commissioned by the Pennsylvania Provincial Assembly. On July 8, 1776, the bell was rung to inform people of the Declaration of Independence. Years later, it became a symbol for the Abolitionists who dubbed it the Liberty Bell. The inscription on the bell is a verse from this week’s parsha, “Proclaim Liberty thro’ all the Land to all the Inhabitants thereof.” It refers to Yovel, the ‘super-Shabbos.’ Every seven years, the land has its own Shabbos and following every cycle of seven years, there is an additional year of Shabbos. In other words, Shabbos was part of the nation’s ideological fabric from before its inception.
In 1793, Jonas Phillips, a Revolutionary War Veteran, was called to testify in court on Shabbos. He refused – he argued that it infringed upon his religious practices. He was fined, he appealed, and the fine was waived. Legal experts consider this the first recorded case of religious liberties being tested in the United States of America.
In 1849, a judge by the incredible name, Judge Lawless, ruled that those who observe Saturday as a day of rest would be allowed to work on Sunday. Until this time, Jews were at a disadvantage, unable to work on Shabbos and prevented by the law to work on Sunday. This groundbreaking ruling was welcomed by Quakers, Mennonites, and other minority groups who wanted to not just be tolerated but welcomed into American society as equals.
Despite these rulings, there was still plenty of tension around religious freedoms. In 1851, a case was heard by the Philadelphia court concerning the conversion of Warder Cresson. Warder Cresson was no ordinary man, he was a wealthy farmer, who was appointed as the US consul to Jerusalem. Jerusalem at the time was a backwater and didn’t really need a consul, but using his wealth and influence he persuaded the government to create the position and appoint him. Shortly after arriving in Palestine, he converted to Judaism. When he returned home from Palestine, he found out that his wife had taken over his entire business enterprise claiming that Warden was insane and that he should be committed to an insane asylum. Her argument? Anyone who chose to convert to Judaism must be crazy (not entirely wrong, by the way).
The local sheriff ruled in her favor, but they quickly found themselves in court where Cresson appealed the ruling. One of the star witnesses brought forward by Cresson was a naturalist by the name Peter Browne who proved to the audience and jury that Cresson was not insane by examining specimens of Cresson’s hair roots and contrasting them with his specimens he obtained at a Virginia insane asylum. The court ruled in his favor. In the United States of America, one could proudly choose to identify with a minority group and not be considered crazy. The First Amendment would be upheld.
Despite these rulings, it was still exceptionally difficult to keep Shabbos. The many Jews who immigrated to the United States at the turn of the 20th century were faced with an impossible decision, work on Saturday or keep Shabbos and live in poverty. Many Jews could not withstand the challenge.
Even those who did observe Shabbos were impacted. There is a famous story of a man who visited Rav Moshe Feinstein. He complained that he kept Shabbos and nonetheless his children did not. Rav Moshe suggested that maybe it was the way he kept Shabbos that prevented his children from following in his ways. “When you came home on Friday after being fired from yet another job,” asked Rav Moshe, “did you sigh or did you celebrate? If your children heard you say, ‘shver tzu zayn a Yid/ it’s hard to be a Jew,’ then of course, they didn’t follow you.” It would take years until Jews could proudly sing and proclaim, ‘Gehsmack to be a Yid/ it’s awesome to be a Jew.’ It’s a mindset we still struggle with.
In the 1920’s, a Jewish group known as the Sabbath Alliance started advocating for a 5-day work week. Initially, they were unsuccessful. Eventually, they joined forces with the labor unions, who brought industries to a standstill with their strikes. Historians suggest that the turning point took place in a Jewish-owned mill in New England, where the business owners instituted a 5-day week to allow their Jewish and Christian workers their own respective day of rest. By the 1950’s, the five-day work week became the norm across the country and eventually, the Western World.
And then there is the modern Shabbos. In our hyper-connected and never-off digital world, the notion of a digital Sabbath, going off electronics for 24 hours and the value of dedicating a day to family and faith has become trendy. Charlie Kirk, who observed Saturday as his day of rest, concludes his book, Stop in the Name of G-d, with the following passage: “Imagine if America began to honor the Sabbath again—not merely as a personal spiritual practice, but as a national cultural rhythm. Picture Saturday once again becoming a time of collective pause. … Our frayed, fractured society would begin to knit itself back together, not through government programs or corporate initiatives, but through G-d’s design: one day in seven set apart for healing, remembering, and being human again. … The Sabbath would become not just a private act of worship, but a public act of restoration.”
First Amendment rights, religious freedoms, the five-day work week, digital detox, and a desperately needed time for family. More than the American People kept Shabbos, Shabbos kept the American People.
What I find beautiful about this historic overview is that in each generation a new element of Shabbos was discovered and appreciated. In one generation, it represented First Amendment rights and religious liberties, in another the importance of taking a break in our work, and in another the value of family and looking up from our screens. I wonder what value of Shabbos will be discovered in fifty years from now.
But no matter how deep we go, no matter how many universal values we mine from Shabbos, there will always be an element of Shabbos that is relevant to us, the Jewish People, and us alone. There is a well-known Halacha that it’s forbidden for a non-Jew to fully observe Shabbos, but it’s very hard to understand. Considering all the great benefits that Shabbos brings to those who observe it, why does G-d not allow non-Jews to observe Shabbos? The Medrash Rabbah explains this strange law with a parable of a king and queen alone in their bedroom who are interrupted by a stranger. Shabbos is an intimate rendezvous with G-d, who on Shabbos, is described as Yedid Nefesh, my lover.
It sounds lofty, and I struggle to convey what this means in practical terms, so allow me to describe a little bit of my inner experience of Shabbos, and I hope it will allow us to appreciate what Shabbos is meant to be.
By the end of the week, I am tired, physically and emotionally, after six days of giving it my all. More than being drained, I feel distant from myself, from who I know I could be. Despite my title as rabbi and despite dedicating my waking hours to what I believe to be a G-dly mission, I’m embarrassed to say, I often don’t feel G-d. I am usually so consumed by the task at hand that I cannot feel anything beyond. I imagine I am not the only one who feels this way on a regular basis.
I come to shul on Friday night and start Kabbalas Shabbos and it’s just regular praying; I try to pay attention, but often find myself distracted, having finished a passage without really knowing how I got there. And then we get to L’cha Dodi. It doesn’t matter who the chazzan is, it doesn’t matter what tune is chosen, it doesn’t matter if I’m davening by myself, there is something about the words, the message, that grabs me almost every week: “Hisna’ari mei’afar kumi, get up from the dirt! Livshi bigdei tifarteich ami, put on your royal clothes!” I am reminded that I am not the sum total of my struggles; I am royalty in a loving relationship with Hashem, I have more to offer. “Uri, uri, shir dabeiri, wake up, wake up, sing your song!” “K’vod Hashem alayich niglah!” There is a personal mission, a song that only I can sing; G-d is hovering over me.
Sometimes that feeling lasts through the night, sometimes it stays with me through Shabbos morning, and sometimes I even hold on until the end of Shabbos. And sometimes, it’s just a fleeting moment of connection. But it’s worth it. All the restrictions, all the rushed preparation, all the sacrifices of the week, for a moment of closeness with G-d. This is what our broader society does not and cannot understand. Shabbos is not a means to an end – rest so you’ll be recharged for next week, turn off your device so you’ll have the mental energy for tomorrow, spend a moment with family so you could drown in work all week – no! Shabbos is the goal. Shabbos is the sum total of our efforts. Shabbos is so much bigger than 250 years of incredible American history. Shabbos is the weekly opportunity to merge heaven and earth, our yearning soul with its lover, Hashem. L’cha dodi is my opening into the beauty of Shabbos, but each of us can find their own way of tapping into the G-dly intimacy that Shabbos has to offer.
And so yes, President Trump is right. We should be grateful to this country, and we should be proud of the impact Judaism has had on its ethos. But we can’t stop there.
Can we put our phones down for 25 hours and recharge our soul? Can we take our Shabbos meals seriously and fill them with meaningful conversation, a weekly opportunity to strengthen our family values? Can we look into the eyes of our loved ones for a few moments a week and connect ever so deeply? Can we lose ourselves in a book for a few hours, preferably a Jewish book, and allow our minds and aspirations to soar? Can we take advantage of the magical atmosphere on Shabbos and pray, slowly, thoughtfully? Can we sing – here at shul, at home, yes, song – the ultimate spiritual tool to bring people together that allows us to feel the edges of our soul? And can we try to soar above this physical world and lovingly connect with Hashem?
Not just this Shabbos, not just next Shabbos, but every Shabbos.
Good Shabbos, Shabbat Shalom.
by Ner Tamid | May 6, 2026 | Sermons
Incident #1 – On April 23rd, in a café in Modi’in, a Jewish man was arrested because of his kippah. His kippah, which they confiscated, had an Israeli flag on one side and a Palestinian flag on the other. When he was released from police detention, he demanded his kippah, which they returned, only that the police officers had cut off half the kippah, the part that had the Palestinian flag.
Incident #2 – On April 19th, a video surfaced online, showing two IDF soldiers in Lebanon, smashing a statue of Jesus.
Incident #3 – Over the past two months there has been a sharp increase in violent activity against Arabs living in Yehuda and Shomron. This violence, which has been perpetrated by masked Jews who live in the region, includes the killing of eight Arabs, and injuring over 200. It has gotten so bad that an IDF battalion that was on its way to Lebanon had to be sent to Yehuda and Shomron to keep the peace.
I have hesitated to discuss this violence publicly because Israel was at war. When your brother is getting beaten over the head, when missiles are falling daily, it is not the time to give your brother feedback. To criticize Israel in the midst of an existential war is, in my opinion, a distortion of values and downright dangerous – there is nothing that our enemies love more than quoting Jews who are critical of Israel.
But now that there is a lull in the war, we are hearing from Israelis, staunch right-wing Israelis, who are speaking openly about a growing problem. General Avi Bluth, the chief officer of Israel’s central command, one of the most high-ranking officers in the country and who is most definitely right-leaning, was recently quoted as saying that: These “terrorists” – referring to the Jews perpetrating these crimes, “are causing unfathomable damage to the State of Israel and Zionist enterprise.” They are “a disgrace to the Jewish people” and he is personally “ashamed.”
We could discuss the nuance of incidents 1 and 2. Is it appropriate to place a Palestinian flag, which has taken on a very dark connotation over the past years, on a kippah? Is a statue of Jesus an idol and should therefore be broken? All fascinating questions, but really, to me, missing the point. There is an underlying sickness that connects these three incidents that I want to focus on, something General Bluth said explicitly: “These people don’t see Arabs as human beings…”
So let’s take a few moments this morning to describe Judaism’s view of people who are not Jewish, people who practice other faiths, and non-Jews who live in the land of Israel.
Non-Jews living in the land of Israel is fairly straightforward. There is absolutely no problem with a non-Jew living in Israel. The Torah often refers to a ger toshav, a gentile who accepted a basic level of morality and is not actively attacking us. We are obligated to look out for such people. Simple.
If those people attack us, it goes without saying that we are obligated to defend ourselves. It should go without saying that there are innocent casualties in any war. As intelligent people, we could stand by the IDF with pride, knowing that they are waging war for the security of the Jewish people and we could mourn the inevitable loss of innocent lives. Simple.
What’s not so simple is our perspective to people of other faiths. To address this, I’m not going to cherry-pick sources because that’s an insult to your intelligence. I’m not going to pretend that this is not a complex question because it is. I’m not going to claim, as some in other denominations of Judaism claim, that Judaism blindly embraces all people and respects all faiths because it’s simply not true.
Shakespeare once said, “the devil doth quote scripture.” Anyone can find sources in the Talmud to back up whatever view they believe in. Go ask the Groypers, the far-right antisemitic followers of Nick Fuentes, who find random lines in the Talmud that they use as proof that the Jews are out to take over the world. That’s not how an Orthodox Jew thinks. Our Mesorah, our tradition, is built on the shoulders of sages who mastered all of our sources and synthesized them into a coherent philosophy. If you don’t have the breadth of knowledge and the fear of G-d of Maimonides, the Vilna Gaon, or one of our established Torah scholars, you cannot simply spit out some AI-generated sources and pretend that they are the sum total of Jewish thought.
So today, I’d like to share with you A view. It is not the only view; there are, in our tradition, a range of normative views on every element of Jewish thought. But this is a view that I subscribe to and I would encourage you to strongly consider.
The proponents of the view I’ll be sharing are Rav Yosef Albo, one of the leading Spanish scholars of the 15th century, Rav Yaakov Emden, seen as one of the greatest scholars of the 18th century, Rav Ovadia Seforno, head of the 16th century Italian Jewish community, Menachem HaMeri, the leading sage of Provence in the 13th century, the poet and scholar, Rav Yehuda HaLevi, Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin, the Rosh Yeshiva of the esteemed Volozhin Yeshiva, and Rav Avraham Yitzchak Kook. You get the point. While there are dissenting views within our tradition, these views, although they all diverge at different points, taken together represent a general attitude towards non-Jews that goes like this:
In a few days we will celebrate the giving of the Torah. There is nothing that screams, “only the Jews are important!” like the moment that we, only the Jewish People, stood at Mt. Sinai, and received a particular set of commandments that were relevant to them and them alone. However, in the lead-up to the giving of the Torah, G-d describes the nation of Israel. He explains why He is giving us the Torah. “V’atem ti’h’yu li mamleches kohanim, you shall be for a me a kingdom of priests.” Commenting on this verse, Rav Ovadia Seforno writes: לְהָבִין וּלְהוֹרוֹת לְכָל הַמִּין הָאֱנוֹשִׁי לִקְרֹא כֻלָּם בְּשֵׁם ה’, “to understand and to teach all the nations of the world to call out in the name of G-d.” We were given the Torah, says the Seforno, not for ourselves, but to share its wisdom with others. The Netziv, in his introduction to the Book of Shemos, adds that this is the purpose of the world.
Now does this mean that we are to convert the nations of the world to Judaism? Absolutely not.
But it’s deeper than not proselytizing. Rav Albo explains that each nation has its own unique character. Stemming from a deep belief in diversity, he argues that each nation must have their own set of laws. While the Torah is the perfect fit for the Jewish Nation, it is incompatible to other nations. They are expected to establish their own laws and their own customs that reflect their national character. Those laws are a reflection of their own unique spiritual identity.
Rav Kook, who has the most extreme and controversial take, argues that G-d gave other nations prophets. He sees no issue in assuming that genuine prophecy existed in other nations. He goes so far as to say that it is conceivable that G-d performed miracles for those prophets. In other words, while many Jewish thinkers assume that any miracles attributed to Jesus or Mohammad were fabrications, Rav Kook says, why not? G-d cares for the nations, He desires for them to live a moral life, and so Hashem supports their prophets to see their mission through. (L’nevuchei HaDor)
How should we relate to moral and upstanding gentiles? While some of our great thinkers (most notably, the Baalei Tosafos) made a technical distinction between Christians and idolators to allow for commerce, Rav Yaakov Emden described Christians and Muslims as “our brothers.” (And if you know anything about Rav Yaakov Emden, you would know that he was not an apologist. He meant it.)
Rav Emden was following in the footsteps of Menachem HaMeiri who argues that all the laws in the Talmud that distinguish between Jew and non-Jew do not apply to non-Jews who live upstanding lives. Contrary to a simple reading of a Mishna in Yoma, he argues that we are obligated to desecrate Shabbos to save the life of a non-Jew. We are obligated to support non-Jews with tzedakah, the same way we support Jews. Every time the Torah speaks of “brother” or “fellow” this includes all the moral and upstanding people of the world. While his conclusions are not normative, his viewpoint is taken into account in mainstream Halachic thought.
Taken together, this viewpoint has zero tolerance for referring to non-Jews as animals or even as ‘goyim,’ or for denigrating their behavior and beliefs.
I have a theory. I am not a historian, sociologist, or enough of a scholar to say this definitively, but it seems to me that Torah scholars who took a more accepting view of non-Jews lived in relative peace and comfort and those who took a more isolationist and even negative approach to non-Jews lived in a climate where they were in danger; danger of death by the local gentiles or the danger of assimilation.
This is most clearly illustrated in the thought of Rav Kook. I quoted above some of his extremely positive views on Christianity. But that’s not the full picture. A decade after writing how the nations of the world can have their own prophets and miracles, he takes a sharp turn. He goes on a sustained attack of Christianity. He describes it as Satan and Amaleik. Without getting into the details, at the time of his later writings, there was a strong cultural movement that was threatening Judaism, it was a movement that was causing countless Jews to scorn and walk away from the Torah. And so, Rav Kook picked up his pen and used it to distance Judaism in the strongest of terms from other faiths.1
If this theory is correct, it is abundantly clear what our position to non-Jews should be in 2026. Yes, antisemitism is on the rise in our own backyard. Yes, Israel is demonized by countries who recently were her greatest supporters. But in the bird’s eye-view of history, we have never been so secure. We are secure in our physical security, with a land and an army that evokes fear in the hearts of all her enemies, and we are secure in our spiritual strength; the observant community is bursting at the seams. Across this country and in Israel, the amount of Torah learned today is unprecedented in at least two thousand years. While weak people need to put down others to lift themselves up, a confident people have the strength to extend a hand and see the value of all those around them.
In this Torah-based worldview, violence towards others is abhorrent, denigrating other faiths is unnecessary, cutting up the kippah of a misguided Jew is foolish. Rather, and especially as we prepare to relive the experience of Mattan Torah, the charge of being a ‘kingdom of priests’ should fill us with confidence to know our special role and elevate the special roles of those around us.
I’ll conclude with the words of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks: “The multiplicity of faiths is not a tragedy, but the gift of G-d.” “Since mankind in its diversity cannot be reduced to a single faith or language, so G-d cannot be reduced to a single faith or language.” “The great challenge to religions in a global age is whether, at last, they can make space for one another, recognizing G-d’s image in someone who is not in my image.”
Our job as Jews is to lead the way.
1.For details, see Rabbi Sarel Rosenblatt’s excellent article on this topic in G-d Shall be One by Maggid Press.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 26, 2026 | Sermons
In a few days, Jacob and Helyn will be walking down the aisle to their chuppah. As they walk down that aisle, most of the people in attendance will likely stand up. Why?
It could be out of respect for two people who are talented and accomplished and are embarking on the most meaningful journey available to humankind. …
That could be the reason but I’m not actually sure.
The custom that many have to rise when the bride and groom walk down the aisle is shrouded in mystery. The few reasons that are suggested are frankly, quite weak, which leads many conclude that this is actually not a Jewish custom. Rav Moshe Feinstein, the most influential Halachic authority of the 20th century did not rise when a bride and groom walked down the aisle.
At some point in the wedding procession, Jacob’s grandmother will also walk down the aisle. Everyone will smile as she walks down the aisle – it’s so beautiful for a grandmother, especially one who has lived for almost a century to be in attendance at her grandson’s wedding, but I imagine most people will remain seated.
But by remaining seated, those in attendance are missing out in fulfilling a positive mitzvah; not a minhag, not a shminhag, but one of the 613 commandments, based on a verse in this week’s parsha – mipnei seivah takum, we are instructed to stand up for anyone who is considered old.
How old is old according to the Torah? Please don’t kill me – 70 years is old. According to Kabbalah, we are actually obligated to stand for anyone who is 60 years old. Meaning, any time you are seated and someone who is 70, or maybe even 60, walks by, if you are younger than that age, you are obligated to stand up.
In some societies, honoring those who are older is framed as self-serving. The great writer, Leo Tolstoy famously captured this message in his short story, the Wooden Bowl, in which a young boy watches as his father gets fed up with his own father whose frailty and shaking hands breaks numerous dishes. And so the boy’s father gives the old man a wooden bowl to eat out of. A few days later, the father sees the young boy making a wooden bowl of his own. The boy explains to his father that he’s making it for him – “Because one day, dad, you’ll be an old man and you’ll need his own wooden bowl.
In this depiction, honoring the elderly is simply a self-serving investment. I need to give my children an example of how they should treat me when I age.
Our Sages take a very different approach. Rashi, in this week’s parsha writes, and I quote: “What is deference? It is refraining from sitting in his place, and not interrupting his words.”
Rav Tzvi Hersh Weinreb explains this Rashi beautifully. “Not sitting in [an elderly person’s] seat means much more than just giving [an elderly man or woman] a seat on the bus. It means recognizing that the elderly person has his own seat, his own well-earned place in society, which you, the younger person, dare not usurp. It is more than just a gesture. It is an acknowledgement of the valued place the elder has in society, a place which is his and his alone.
Similarly, not interrupting the older person’s conversation is much more than an act of courtesy. It is awareness that this older person has something valuable to say, a message to which one must listen attentively.”
This past week there were two articles that caught my attention. One in the Atlantic and one in the New York Times describing something called the gerontocracy. I never even heard of that term before. Gerontocracy is defined as an organizational structure where power is held by leaders significantly older than the majority of the population and includes slower rates of political change and a concentration of wealth among the elderly.
The New York Times article, titled, Older Americans are Hoarding American’s Potential, proposes age limits for elected officials. I’m on board with that. But then he continues by suggesting that we mandate retirement across all sectors to make place for those who are younger. He argues for creating new tax codes which penalize elderly people for staying in their homes and not downsizing – the nerve of holding on to their one asset and not just handing it off to someone who never earned it. And forcing the elderly to distribute their hard-earned wealth so that us young ones could use it appropriately. That’s absurd.
The author of this article, Samuel Moyn, is the Chancellor Kent Professor of Law and History at Yale. And I find that scary. But also perfectly emblematic of an age-old problem; young people who think that old people are getting in their way.
Our parsha begins by alluding to the death of two young people, Nadav and Avihu. The Medrashim tell us that they were slated to be the next leaders of the Jewish People. They were, in one reading, greater than Moshe and Aharon. And yet, they die prematurely in some divine punishment. What was their sin? The Talmud in Sanhedrin quotes these two promising men, Nadav and Avihu, as saying the following: “Eimasai yomusu sh’nei zekeinim halalu? When will these two old men die?” – a reference to Moshe and Aharon – “Va’ani v’atah nanhig es hador, so that you and I will lead this generation.”
Yes, they were ‘with-it’ and maybe understood the culture of the people better than the elders. Yes, they were far more energetic, far more creative, and far more dynamic. But they failed to realize what they would be missing without Moshe and Aharon, two elders, at the helm. There is immense value in the conservative and slow nature of those who have lived long enough to make enough mistakes and have hopefully learned from them, who have seen no shortage of life-altering ideas with so much promise come and go and are now forgotten, who have a wealth of wisdom that no tax code can ever take away from them.
If we’re being honest with ourselves, we too identify with Nadav and Avihu. All the people in this room who bristled when I said sixty or seventy is old, why was it so uncomfortable to hear that? Why do we have such a hard time being called old? In Judaism old is not an insult, it’s a compliment, it means you are worthy of respect! When I speak to leaders of shuls who are looking to strengthen their shul, all I hear about is the “future of the shul,” and “how can we get better programming for the young adults?” That’s all great. But what about the traditions of the shul? What about the legacy members of the shul who created the institution? Are they unimportant?
Thank G-d, I think we do pretty well with this at Ner Tamid, but it’s a constant balancing act.
In Judaism there are two currents that are always at play and in conflict. There are two moments that define our existence more than any others – Ma’amad Har Sinai, standing at Sinai, receiving the law, and another moment which have yet to experience – the Messianic Era, Yemos Hamashiach, a brilliant and rectified future.
From the perspective of Sinai, we are always regressing, we are always moving further and further away from the clarity of that moment when G-d spoke directly to man. We are moving further and further away from a true understanding of G-d’s will. And in that light, the past is holy, the past is pure, and we, so distant from that moment, are nobodies. In the words of our Sages, “If the earlier generations were like angels, we are like men, and if they are like men, we are like donkeys.” The elders, in this model, are to be revered, the past is to be enshrined, the youth ignored, any talk of a different future should be met with deep skepticism.
But from the perspective of Mashiach, from the perspective of the End of Days, that view is completely backward. From the Messianic perspective, we are progressing, closer and closer, higher and higher, to a time of peace, of moral perfection, of clarity. And in that light, the younger we are, the closer we are to the truth. The youth, in this model, those who are attuned to the changes in the wind, are the heroes, overriding the ignorance of the old.
We live in constant tension between the young and old, the past and future, as both have a place in the development of the world. But in the sum-total of Jewish literature, it would seem, that the heavy past carries more weight than the flighty future.
And so when the young and bride and groom walk down that aisle filled with dreams and aspirations, we smile and we applaud them. But when the elderly walk by, we stand and we listen. We acknowledge the weight of experience and wisdom that the elderly carry.
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.
