by Ner Tamid | Feb 26, 2023 | Sermons
I do not go grocery shopping.
Once in a while, I’ll make an exception, but for the most part you will not see me pushing a shopping cart. Not for any misogynistic reasons, it’s entirely pragmatic.
For starters, I can’t find anything. The few times that I have taken our shopping list to Seven Mile or Market Maven, I literally end walking in circles for hours. You have to understand, I never ate vegetables as a child. My mother tried but my diet consisted of macaroni, and hot dogs. The only vegetables I ate were french fries because yes, potatoes are vegetables. So when my wife sends me to buy… squash, I don’t know what she’s talking about. (And of course, I would never ask anyone for help even if my life depended on it.)
Even when I know what things look like – I know what Nestle Quick chocolate powder is (chocolate is also a vegetable, by the way. It’s a bean.) but they hide it! It’s not on those big signs. It’s not a condiment, it’s not a spice. It’s like a treasure hunt I didn’t sign up for.
But aside from all the wasted time, the real reason is that I hate bumping into congregants. Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing you, I do. It’s more about how you react to seeing me outside of shul. First of all, when people see me, they always say, Good Shabbos. It’s Monday!! That’s fine. But 9 out of 10 conversations go something like this.
“Hi Mr. Congregant, how are you?”
“Oh. Rabbi Motzen. I’m great. Uh, you know, last week, my daughter really wasn’t feeling well so we stayed home from shul.”
Okay.
“The week before, we had a Bar Mitzvah at a different shul. And the week before that, uh, the weather. Yeah, the weather was really bad.”
It’s always different version of the same conversation. I asked you how you’re doing, and what you heard was me asking you where have you been? What I realized is that I am, and I guess it’s a rabbi thing, a guilt generator. You see me and you feel guilty. Am I correct?
Who here would be totally cool seeing me at Seven Mile?
Okay, let’s play a little game. We’ll call it, Hanging out with the Rabbi.
Who here would be comfortable with me coming home with you today for lunch?
What are we eating, huh? All glatt Kosher, I hope. Are you ready for an in-depth parsha quiz? Do you know how many sockets there were in the Mishkan? I hope you like singing, we’re going to sing every song in the bencher. Still okay with me coming over? Show of hands. Great.
Round two – Can I stay over for the rest of the day?
You do what on Shabbos afternoon? Those are Shabbos clothes? Hmm. What time is Shalosh Seudos? Show of hands. Okay, we still have a few masochists.
Round three, can I stick around for Saturday night?
Where are we going? Oh, we’re watching Netflix. Ooh, I don’t think we can watch that show. Oh no, definitely not that. What?! No! How is that even legal?!
We’re going to end up watching Cocomelon and we’re going to fast-forward whenever Mommy sings. Are you still having me over?! Who’s in? Fine! Who is taking me along on vacation… to Vegas?
Anyone still standing? Great! You win a free trip to Las Vegas with Rabbi… Heineman! Have fun.
So aside from the two people here who are pretending that they’d always love to hang out with me, I think we all acknowledge that it’s nice to have a little bit of space. Walking around all day with a rabbi – even me, can be a little much.
And with that I think we can understand an incredible idea suggested by Rav Mordechai Yosef Leiner, otherwise known as the Izhbitzer, one of the most underappreciated and profound Jewish thinkers of the 19th century. Our Parsha begins with G-d instructing the Jewish People to build a Mishkan, a structure in which G-d will rest His divine Presence. But if you read the text carefully, it does not say that G-d will rest His presence in the Mishkan, it says, v’shochanti b’socham, and I will rest My presence in them – in the Jewish People. Some commentators see this as an allusion to the following idea: Prior to the sin of the Golden Calf, G-d was not going to rest His divine Presence in a structure. There was not going to be a Mishkan, a physical edifice. Rather, His presence would have been felt, like really tangibly felt, among each and every person. V’shochanti b’socham, and I will rest among YOU.
Now if it’s difficult to hang out with a rabbi for 24 hours, imagine – and I apologize for this incredibly pompous analogy – imagine hanging out with G-d all the time. It’s a little intense, isn’t it? Imagine the level of guilt you’d be walking around with at any given moment.
So what did the Jewish People do in response? They created a little bit of distance. They said, I don’t want to deal with the CEO of the company, that’s intimidating. I’m going to interact with the VP or the secretary instead.
That, my friends, is the sin of the Golden Calf. According to many commentators, they were not rejecting G-d, they were looking for a little bit of distance. They could not deal with the guilt of living with G-d and so they created an intermediary to create some space, something that would allow them to breathe.
The Izhbiter goes on to explain that this is an echo of the very first sin; the sin of Adam and Chava in the Garden. You know how at the end of the story they’re hiding behind some bushes. That IS the story. The reason they sinned was to hide from G-d, to create distance between them. Living with G-d is way too difficult. There’s too much guilt. It’s suffocating. So, they try to hide from G-d. Sinning is their way of creating a gap between them and their Creator.
Now I think if Adam and Chava would have checked themselves in with a therapist and shared their dilemma. “You know, doc, I am feeling overwhelmed by G-d. I feel guilty every time I do anything. It’s never enough. I feel sio judged. I can’t function this way. I’m constantly second-guessing myself. I can’t do what I want to do. He’s overbearing.” I imagine the therapist would encourage Adam and Chava to get themselves kicked out of the Garden to “create healthy boundaries.” Right?
If the Jewish People would collectively share their woes with a therapist, “G-d took us out of Egypt and now expects to hang out all the time. And, He has so many unreasonable expectations! 613 of them!” The therapist would beg the Jewish People to build a Golden Calf to counter all that guilt, to create an intermediary so they don’t have to interact with an overbearing G-d. Because guilt is bad. Isn’t it? Google ‘Guilt’ and you will find articles titled, How to Stop Feeling Guilty, Dealing with Guilt, Diagnosing the Guilt Complex…
But guilt is not bad. There is no actual word for guilt in Hebrew. The closest we have is Busha, shame. The word BOSH means to come late, or to fall short of an expectation. Vayar ha’am ki boshesh Moshe. When we feel guilt, that means our internal moral compass is reminding us that we’re falling short of what is expected of us. That’s an incredibly valuable feeling. It’s a gift.
But there is a healthy guilt and an unhealthy guilt. The Jewish People had an unhealthy guilt – and too often, so do we. We are afraid of the negative consequences of our actions. We imagine G-d standing there watching us, waiting for us to slip up, and when do BOOM, He’s going to get us.
How does G-d respond to the sin of the Golden Calf? He teaches Moshe the thirteen attributes – “Hashem, Hashem, Keil Rachum v’chanun. G-d who is compassionate and graceful etc.” In the Medrashic reading of that passage, G-d tells Moshe that when the Jewish People sin they should recite those words. Now that’s puzzling. Does G-d need an ego rub? Sing my praises and I’ll forgive you?! Of course not.
Perhaps, what we are doing when we say those words, what G-d tried to communicate to the Jewish People who were wracked with guilt, is that Hashem is kind, He is loving, He created us to give to us. Yes, we have rules, mitzvos and aveiros, but the foundation of those rules are not coming from an overbearing, punitive deity. They are coming from a loving father.
The difference between unhealthy guilt and healthy guilt is its foundation. If it’s founded on fear, if it’s founded on the mistaken notion of a punitive G-d, it’s toxic. But if it’s founded on love, on a recognition that G-d is not out to get us, He’s out to give to us, that He is not waiting for us to sin, He’s waiting for us to succeed, that the Mitzvos and Aveiros are not meant to stifle us, they are meant to help us actualize our potential, that guilt is incredibly powerful and good. That’s why we say the Thirteen Attributes of Hashem, to remind us how loving He is. And then and only then can we begin to reengage with Hashem.
A world without guilt is a world without conscience. It’s a world in which I do what I want. It’s a world in which I try to silence that nagging voice reminding me of the people I’m hurting and the price I’m going to pay. That’s a world of extreme individualism and anarchy.
Guilt is good. We should feel uncomfortable knowing that G-d is watching us. We should feel uncomfortable when we fall short in what we are meant to do. But it’s critical to know why G-d wants us to keep His rules. It’s critical to allow our guilt to flow from a place of love.
I’m not coming to your house for lunch, I’m not coming to your house to watch a movie. But when we mess up, which we all do, and we start to feel some guilt, let it in. It’s a G-dly voice that G-d imbedded into our psyche. It’s a gift from a G-d who loves us, who wants to make sure we live up to the incredibly high expectation He has for each and every one of us.
by Ner Tamid | Feb 19, 2023 | Sermons
On January 4th, 1861, at the Lloyd Street Synagogue, Rabbi Bernard Illowy made the following remarks: “Who can blame our brethren of the South for seceding from a society whose government cannot, or will not, protect the property rights and privileges of a great portion of the Union against the encroachments of a majority misguided by some influential… and selfish politicians who, under the color of religion and the disguise of philanthropy, have thrown the country into a general state of confusion, and millions into want and poverty?”
He continued, “If these magnanimous philanthropists do not pretend to be more philanthropic than Moses was, let me ask them, “Why did not Moses… command the judges in Israel to interfere with the institutions of those nations who lived under their jurisdiction, and make their slaves free…? Why did he not, when he made a law that no Israelite can become a slave, also prohibit the buying and selling of slaves from and to other nations? Where was ever a greater philanthropist than Abraham, and why did he not set free the slaves which the king of Egypt made him a present of?… All these are irrefutable proofs … that the authors of the many dangers, which threaten our country with ruin and devastation, are not what they pretend to be, the agents of Religion and Philanthropy.”
Rabbi Illowy was drawing on passages, such as the ones we read today in shul, passages that indicate that slavery is not a sin, to justify the institution of slavery and to claim that those against it are against the Torah.
Two weeks later, another rabbi from Baltimore, Rabbi David Einhorn of Har Sinai, penned a letter that described slavery as something the Torah tolerates but certainly does not elevate, something that is indeed at the very least, somewhat sinful. In his letter, he turned his wrath on the rabbis justifying slavery in the name of the Torah writing, “The Jew, a descendant of the race that offers daily praises to God for deliverance out of the house of bondage in Egypt, and even today suffers under the yoke of slavery in most places of the old world… undertook to designate slavery as a perfectly sinless institution, sanctioned by God?!”
Rabi Illowy was given a promotion after his speech praising slavery, Rabbi Einhorn lost his job and was literally chased out of town.
Let me ask you a question, you, Baltimore Jews of the 21st century, which one of these Baltimore rabbis was correct? Does the Torah endorse slavery, or does it paint slavery as an evil institution that is merely tolerated?
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes as follows:
“[The Torah] does not say: abolish slavery… [However,] Is that not the whole point of the story thus far? Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery. … Generations later, when a pharaoh arises who “knew not Joseph,” the entire Israelite people become Egypt’s slaves. Slavery, like vengeance, is a vicious circle that has no natural end. Why not, then, give it a supernatural end? Why did God not say: There shall be no more slavery?”
“The Torah,” he continues, “has already given us an implicit answer. Change is possible in human nature, but it takes time: time on a vast scale, centuries, even millennia. There is little doubt that in terms of the Torah’s value system the exercise of power by one person over another, without their consent, is a fundamental assault against human dignity…
So slavery is to be abolished, but it is a fundamental principle of God’s relationship with us that he does not force us to change faster than we are able to do so of our own free will. So Mishpatim (our Torah portion) does not abolish slavery, but it sets in motion a series of fundamental laws that will lead people, albeit at their own pace, to abolish it of their own accord.”
To be very clear, Rabbi Sacks is NOT suggesting that Torah laws can change over time; prohibitions cannot be abolished. But in regard to slavery, something the Torah does not command us to involve ourselves in, it merely acknowledges, he suggests that the Torah sets in motion changes that will take place centuries later.
My gut reaction to Rabbi Sacks is that what he is writing is apologetics. It sounds, at first glance, to be a stretch. But when we study the laws of slavery in the Torah, I think you’ll see how compelling his point really is.
We don’t have the time for a deep-dive analysis, so let me share with you one law. We read today the following, “And if a person strikes the eye of his slave or the eye of his maidservant and blinds him, he shall send him free on account of the eye. And if he causes the tooth of his slave or of his maidservant to be knocked out, he shall send him free on account of the tooth.” If a slave-owner blinds his slave or even causes a tooth to be knocked out, the slave goes free. The Talmud interprets this to mean that if the master maims the slave in any way, he or she goes free.
Think about how novel this is. Remember the story of Shimshon/ Samson? What do the Philistines do to Shimshon when they capture him? They blind him. Remember the movie Gladiators or any movie depicting slaves in the Roman empire? Herodotus, the 5th century BCE Greek historian, described blinding slaves as the norm of his time.
In Hebrew, the term we use for a king’s slave is a sris. The word sris also means a eunuch, someone who was castrated. The two became synonymous because kings would regularly castrate their slaves to ensure that their wives were safe. This was the norm.
Slave masters would regularly knock out all the teeth of their slaves to prevent them from talking while they worked. Certainly, as you all know from American history, if a slave would “misbehave” a master would have every right to beat his slave in any way he saw fit.
And to all of this, the Torah says, no. Yes, the Torah does tolerate slavery. But to blind your slave?! To castrate your slave?! To even knock out a single tooth of your slave? Absolutely not.
To quote Rabbi Sacks once again: “If history tells us anything it is that God has patience, though it is often sorely tried. He wanted slavery abolished but he wanted it to be done by free human beings coming to see of their own accord the evil it is and the evil it does. The God of history, who taught us to study history, had faith that eventually we would learn the lesson of history: that freedom is indivisible. We must grant freedom to others if we truly seek it for ourselves.”
What Rabbi Sacks is suggesting is radical – that G-d, through the laws of our parsha, laws that sensitized the world to the humanity of slaves, laws that boldly declared this is not your property with whom you can do as you please, these laws would make an impression on those who learned them, who in time would learn its lessons and teach them to the world, and slavery would be abolished once and for all. It’s a radical idea, but I think he’s right. An analysis of the laws of slavery and a basic knowledge of the values of the Torah makes that all abundantly clear.
And if Rabbi Sacks is correct then Rabbi Einhorn was correct as well. That episode of Baltimore history, in which the Baltimore Jewish community chased Rabbi Einhorn out of this city because of his views on slavery is an embarrassment to our community’s rich Jewish history. I would imagine that if he were to get up today and give the same speech, that slavery is bad, we would all nod our heads in approval. Right? I would imagine that if he were to announce that all people, regardless of race, regardless of their social standing, are created in the image of G-d, we would stand up to applaud him. Right? I would imagine that if Rabbi Illowy would give a speech praising slavery, it would be him who we would chase out of town. Right?
Right?
But I’m not so sure.
Because you see, while slavery may not exist, the Torah is teaching us about an ever-relevant issue that still does. Slaves in the ancient and not so ancient world were those on the bottom rung of society. Not only does the Torah enhance the stature of the slave in the ancient world, it goes one big step further. Our parsha is the first parsha after the giving of the Ten Commandments. Ramban explains that the ten commandments are the summary of the entirety of the Torah, and it is in this parsha, mishpatim, the laws, in which the Torah goes into all of the details. If we were to be writing the laws of the Torah, we would probably start with Shabbos, maybe Kosher, maybe the need to believe in G-d. And yet, the Torah begins, and the very first set of laws of the Torah are about slavery, those on the bottom rung of society.
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch explains that the laws of the Torah begin with slavery to teach us that “a nation’s greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members.” (Mahatma Gandhi) It Is not enough to treat them well, G-d, by placing slavery as the very first set of laws, is informing us that how we interact with the underclass is how we are defined. Though slavery may no longer exist here in the US, that idea is ever-present.
How do we treat the custodian?
How do we treat the cashier?
How, after waiting on hold for 45 minutes, do we treat a customer service agent?
How do we treat children?
We had this amazing event this past Monday with a number of incredibly influential people. The event was well-attended, the presenters did a fabulous job, and people have been talking about the event and Ner Tamid all week. But you know what really stood out for me?
We had a reception before the event with shul leadership, a number of donors to the shul, and some leaders in the community. During this event, two of our panelists sat down to talk to my 13-year-old daughter and her two friends. In a room filled with all these “important” people, they had a real and extended conversation with three 13-year-olds. A person’s greatness is judged not by how many followers they have on social media, but by how he or she treats the weakest members of society.
There’s a lot of discussion in America about rectifying the evils of slavery. Contrary to the myths spread by antisemites, Jews did not play a significant role in the slave trade. But we, our community, the Jews who came before us here in Baltimore, applauded a rabbi who besmirched our Torah by elevating slavery and chased a rabbi out of town for daring to stand up against it. That is something we could rectify. Not necessarily with affirmative action or reparations. But with a nod of acknowledgment, with patience, a kind gesture, a smile, a hello. Our community will not be judged by the size of its houses, nor by the amount of Torah that we learn. We will be judged by how we treat the weakest members of our society.
by Ner Tamid | Feb 12, 2023 | Sermons
This past Tuesday, Lebron James, star-forward for the Los Angeles Lakers, became the all-time greatest scorer in the NBA, after scoring his 38,388th point.
Perhaps what was even more amazing is the picture of the crowd when he took the shot that gave him the record. Lebron James is in the air, taking a little jump shot, and virtually the ENTIRE crowd is holding up their cellphones to capture the moment. It’s unbelievable. You don’t even see faces. You see hundreds of people behind him, holding their phones up like this.
I could just imagine if we would have received the Torah at Sinai in 2023. Imagine the thunder, the lightning, the heavy cloud of glory, G-d’s voice ringing out from the top of the mountain – and the entirety of the Jewish People holding their phones up to capture the moment.
The truth is that is exactly what they did. They didn’t have cellphones, of course, but like the fans watching the Lebron, they weren’t really watching the game. There is a famous question that’s asked on the song we say on Seder night, Dayeinu. We say, “Had you only brought us to Har Sinai and not given us the Torah, Dayeinu! It would have been enough” And everyone asks, really? If we would have just stood at the foot of the mountain and never received the ten commandments, would that really have been enough?!
The answer is yes. The most important part of the experience at Sinai was not the content of the Torah, “Do not murder. Do not commit adultery.” No, that’s not it. The most important part was the experience of G-d communicating to our ancestors, to the Jewish People, to us. Day, dayeinu. Had G-d just communicated to us, without any particular message, it would have definitely been enough.
But the Jewish People did not understand that. The Jewish People wanted something concrete. Like the fans at the Lakers game, they wanted a memento, they wanted something tangible to leave the mountain with. But that wasn’t what was happening. Our Sages teach us that G-d communicated to them all of the commandments at once, not sequentially, but all ten in one voice, something that we are not equipped to hear. The Jewish People couldn’t handle it. They immediately approached Moshe. “Moshe, speak up, we can’t hear.” We want something concrete. We want something tangible. We want to walk away from this experience with a message.
G-d acquiesced. Moshe took over and taught them the ten commandments. The Jewish People got their picture. But it was a terrible failure. A failure that Moshe later criticized the Jewish People about right before he died.
They were so focused on themselves, on capturing the moment, that they missed out on the incredible experience of the moment itself. When you’re holding hands ones with a loved one, you don’t talk, it kills the beauty and the magic of the silence.
Years ago, I spent the last days of Pesach in B’nei Brak with my grandparents. I was davening in a small minyan for those of us who kept two days of Yom Tov. One of the people at this minyan was a great Torah scholar by the name of Rav Shmuel Berenbaum, he was the Rosh Yeshiva of the Mirrer Yeshiva in New York. After davening, they invited all those who participated in the minyan to a private meal with Rav Berenbaum. I attended, of course. I was sitting quite close to him and he started speaking, he started giving a lecture – in Yiddish. I don’t know about you, but I speak almost no Yiddish. I could have leaned over and said, “Bichvod Harav, with respect, everyone here speaks English, can you speak in English, or Hebrew?”
Instead I sat through a 45 minute lecture in a language I did not understand. Let me tell you, I have sat through many lectures in my life, and I’m embarrassed to say I have forgotten many of them. But not this one! I just sat there, not really understanding anything he said, and just watched his eyes. They were blue and they were on fire. It felt like sparks were shooting out of his eyes. I just took that in. For 45 minutes. It’s now twenty years later and I could still see those eyes boring through me.
Did I lose out by not capturing that moment? By not understanding what he was saying? No. I gained. I gained tremendously by experiencing the moment.
Sometimes we’re in a conversation with someone and they’re not being so clear. We try to understand but we can’t. Maybe it’s some dementia setting in, or maybe they just speak in a roundabout fashion and it’s impossible to follow. Sometimes we’re speaking to someone who has a viewpoint that is radically different than ours, politically or otherwise, and they’re just not interested in hearing our view. Or maybe we’re listening to a lecture and we can’t hear the speaker, or it’s just not a great speech. We are not going to walk away from any of these situations with anything concrete. But not everything has to be concrete, not everything has to be captured by my cellphone. There is an experience of the moment that is so much greater. The experience of giving someone kavod, honor, by just listening even when we cannot hear. Because sometimes the words don’t matter. Sometimes there’s far more to gain without the words. “Had you brought us to Har Sinai and not given us the Torah, dayeinu.”
There is a Medrash that says that when G-d spoke at Sinai, all the birds stopped chirping, all the dogs stopped barking, all the waves stopped crashing, it was absolutely silent. I always understood this to mean that the world was desperate to hear the word of G-d and so it silenced itself to hear Him. Rav Shimshon Pincus shares a very different understanding. He explains that it’s the other way around. First the birds stopped chirping and the dogs stopped barking and the waves stopped crashing and there was absolute silence. And once there was silence, we were able to hear the word of G-d.
We are physical and material beings. We are concrete and are most comfortable with the tangible. But once in a while an experience comes our way and we’re faced with a challenge; do I pull my phone out or do I sit back and experience the moment? Do I say, “What? I can’t hear you. I don’t understand. I disagree?” or do I just listen even if there’s nothing to hear?
The most G-dly, most spiritual, and most elevating moments in life are not captured, they are experienced.
by Ner Tamid | Jan 21, 2023 | Sermons
A few months ago, I was riding the Amtrak train from New York to Baltimore, sitting by myself, talking on the phone, when someone approached me, trying to hand me something. My first assumption was that this man was a Christian missionary. Who else gives things out to people – especially Jews? I finally looked down at what he had in his hand and saw it was a Chazzanus CD. I assumed maybe this man knew of my father – honestly, I wasn’t really sure. I took the CD and motioned that as soon as I got off the phone I would come over to him.
A few minutes later, I sat down with this man, who introduced himself as Zev Lewis. He was a philanthropist who had just commissioned a Conservative synagogue in New York to create a CD with cantorial music. We chatted for a little while, I told him about our shul, he told me about what he does, and that was it.
About a week later, I received a letter from Zev with a check for $100. So nice! I though to myself. This is not his shul, he goes to a Reform temple in DC, but this man is clearly very thoughtful and classy. So, I sent him a message, thanking him for his generosity.
A month later, I received a letter in the mail, this time with $50 cash, telling me to use it for my family for Chanukah. Now this was over the top. I barely know this man and he’s giving me Chanukah gifts. This time I picked up the phone to thank him. While we were schmoozing, he told me his foundation was about to give some major gifts so I figured I’d tell him about some things happening in our shul that could use sponsorship, hoping that maybe we would receive one of those gifts. I shared a project or two with him and waited to see how he would respond. After a long pause, he said, “I’ll be honest, none of these projects really speak to me or our foundation. However, I really appreciated how you called me to thank me. Not enough people do that. I’ll send you something.”
Two weeks later, I opened a letter from Zev Lewis to find a check for $10,000.
(We subsequently found something that was in line with his foundation and directed the funds to that project.)
Now let me ask you a question – was my being on that train a coincidence or not? If I remember correctly, I was actually supposed to take a different train and changed my ticket last minute. Was the fact that I was on that train two rows behind Mr. Lewis a stroke of luck, pure chance, or was it divinely ordained?
Most people I shared this story with said, “It was bashert!” The Yiddish word for something predestined. Others would say it was a sign of Hashgacha Pratis, which means, Personal Divine Providence. Hashgacha Pratis is the belief that everything that happens to us is divinely orchestrated, that there are no coincidences.
Sometimes we realize it – we receive a check in the mail for $10,000, and sometimes we don’t. But it’s always there. The Ramban, in explaining why we are constantly reviewing the story of the Exodus from Egypt, writes beautifully, how through the open miracles of the ten plagues, we, the Jewish People are supposed to open our eyes to the endless hidden miracles that take place every moment.
This belief in what I would call Extreme Hashgacha Pratis, how every single occurrence in my life is set up by G-d is part of the everyday education of our sons and daughters. They will be bombarded with beautiful stories of apparent mishaps that turn out to be blessings. Stories like people missing planes on 9/11 and the like.
Most recently, a mini-movement has developed, known as Thank You Hashem. It is a movement which promotes this idea – that no matter what happens to us, we need to say, thank you Hashem. You may have seen their bumper-stickers, #TYH, or countless other forms of TYH swag, they even make TYH jewelry. They composed a song, called, you guessed it – Thank You Hashem. The music video is filled with people losing their job or experiencing other mishaps, but learning to nonetheless say, “Thank You Hashem!”
Beautiful! No? What could possibly be wrong with more gratitude and more G-d-awareness?
Let me tell you another story. My wife was once seeing a client. A young woman who was really struggling. It turned out that this young woman was once violated, which she was obviously grappling with. But what she was really grappling with was – why did G-d want this to happen to me? What did I do wrong that I was deserving of this terrible punishment?
You see, if I believe in Extreme Hashgacha Pratis, that every single that happens to us is G-d pulling the strings, then just like G-d wanted me to sit down next to a future friend and donor of Ner Tamid, G-d also wanted this horrific violation to happen to me. I must be a terrible person. I must be scum of the earth. G-d must hate me. Why else would He do this to me?
I could just imagine the Thank You Hashem theme song screeching to a halt.
I remember being very moved by this young woman’s ordeal and her theological dilemma. I penned a little dark poem in response:
#ThankYouHashem for returning my precious soul
#ThankYouHashem for making me so whole
#ThankYouHashem for new opportunities each day
#ThankYouHashem for friends and family You have sent my way
#ThankYouHashem for making me so ill
#ThankYouHashem for depression, anxiety, and pills
#ThankYouHashem for loneliness each night
#ThankYouHashem for abusing me; I’m traumatized for life
There is a dark side to this belief of personalized Divine providence. I imagine that some, if not many of you have experienced this question on some level; why did G-d do this to me? Why is G-d punishing me?
The truth is that many great Jewish philosophers rejected this idea of Extreme Hashgacha Pratis. They argued that of course G-d is able to orchestrate anything, G-d is Omnipotent after all, but He most often does not (this is opposed to a heretical view espoused in Why Bad Things Happen to Good People, which claims cannot always act). The ten plagues, in this view, are the exception, not the rule. Yes, there is justice – we will be rewarded for our good deeds, punished for the bad, but for the most part, not in this world. Justice will take place in the next world. And yes, G-d can intervene, that is the premise of prayer – asking G-d to change nature, but for the most part, He does not. He allows nature to run its course.
Within this second view of how G-d manages the world, when something happens to us, good or bad, it’s nature. G-d did not, heaven forbid, want you to be violated. G-d did not want you to be ill. G-d created a world with the capacity for evil, with the capacity for illness, and for the most part, He stands back and allows nature to do its thing, the good, the bad, and the ugly. And again, to emphasize, G-d is cognizant of what is taking place on earth, but the way He set things up is that He does not regularly intervene.
When my wife shared this second approach with her student, her entire sense of self changed. You mean this was not a punishment from G-d? You mean I have every right to be furious at the man who did this to me? You mean G-d does care about me, and like a parent, at times, makes the incredibly decision to stand back? Yes. Yes, and yes.
Rav Yehuda HaLevi, a 12th century poet and scholar, in his magnum opus, The Kuzari, presents both views. He demonstrates the pros and cons of each one, there are philosophical and textual challenges to each one of these perspectives, and then he concludes with a pragmatic approach – assume that the big things in life come from G-d and take them to heart. The small things, not so much.
If he’s not willing to weigh in the I certainly will not do so either. I can’t tell you which one is right. I cannot tell you how to live your life – whether everything that happens is from G-d or everything, or most things that happen is a coincidence. I will leave that to you, to think about, to discuss, to debate. A sermon does not give us enough time to discuss this incredibly weighty topic properly.
But I do want to leave you with one definitive belief. Whichever way you land, extreme hashgacha pratis or a more hands-off approach, there is one belief that both these approaches agree on, and that I beg you to believe in as well. It’s a two line passage in a book called Tzidkas HaTzadik. Tzidkas HaTzadik was written in the late 19th century by a man named Rav Tzadok Rabinowitz, otherwise known as Rav Tzadok Hakohein. He was a young prodigy, married into a very wealthy family, and was set to live a life of uninterrupted scholarship for the entirety of his life. Unfortunately, things did not work out so well between him and his wife. He wanted to get divorced. She refused. He was forced to travel around Eastern Europe, penniless, with nothing to his name. He never had children and spent most of his life completely unknown.
In the 154th chapter of Tzidkas HaTzadik he writes, “K’sheim shetzarich adam l’ha’amin b’Hashem Yisborach, Just like a person must believe in Hashem, kach, with the same level of belief, with the same intensity, tzarich l’ha’amin b’atzmo, a person must believe in themselves. Ratzah lomar, meaning to say, sheyeish l’Hashem Yisborach eisek imo, Hashem cares about you… shenafsho mimkor HaChaim, that one’s soul is from the Source of all holiness, v’Hashem Yisborach misaneig umish’ta’sheia bah k’sh’oseh r’tzono, and G-d takes incredible delight when we fulfill His will.”
Whether our life is orchestrated by G-d down to the very detail or whether what is happening to us is simply nature running its course, G-d cares. A lot. About you. About me. About each of us. He is there, watching us, rooting us on, crying when we’re in pain.
Personally, I struggle with the #TYH bandwagon. But that doesn’t mean that I cannot say thank you, Hashem. My version, based on that teaching of Rav Tzadok, would sound something like this. This is the conclusion of the poem I wrote:
#ThankYouHashem for holding me when I am ill
#ThankYouHashem for understanding me when no else will
#ThankYouHashem for loving me despite my many flaws
#ThankYouHashem for life; with all its gifts and all its loss
by Ner Tamid | Jan 15, 2023 | Sermons
Shakespeare, in Romeo and Juliet, dismisses the significance of a name. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”
I beg to differ. Let me tell you a story about a little boy and his name.
Almost 39 years ago, in a hospital in Montreal, a boy was born. His parents named him Yisrael. He was named after the first Modzhitzer Rebbe, a Chassidic group most well-known for their music. He grew up on tunes and stories of his namesake. Most notably, how Rabbi Yisrael of Modzhitz once had to undergo surgery, at a time that anesthesiology did not yet exist, and so the Rebbe composed a song – a haunting song during his surgery, channeling his personal pain into a melody that expressed the pain of the Jewish People. Young Yisrael was very moved by these stories, and it inspired him to compose songs at a young age – just like his namesake. Parenthetically, the songs were lousy, but it was a unique hobby for a young boy. Young Yisrael was also inspired to dream of teaching Torah and of leading a congregation – just like his namesake.
If you haven’t yet figured it out, I am awkwardly talking about myself in the third person. This is a story about me.
They say that when parents name their child, they receive a spark of prophecy. Looking back on my childhood, I realized that it’s perhaps more of a self-fulfilling prophecy. When we teach a child why he or she is given a particular name, that name casts a spell on their thinking and ultimately their life decisions.
Moshe Rabbeinu was named Moshe by Batya, the Egyptian princess who drew him out of the water, ki min hamayim m’shisihu. His name reminded him of Batya self-sacrifice, risking her life to save his. His name represented responsibility, and that’s how he lived his life. Hs name defined his essence.
As a child I really loved my name, but then I got a little older. I had a nickname, a fairly common nickname to Yisrael and that was Sruli. But you see, this nickname was only common in certain circles. I lived in a community where no one ever heard of that name. Sruli became Sroooli. I had to repeat my name often until people got it straight. I remember sticking out in my Modern Orthodox neighborhood. I think the straw that broke the camel’s back was a French teacher who just could not get my name straight and eventually started calling me, Squirrel.
So, I wanted to change my name. I thought I’d fit in more in my neighborhood. I dreamt up a new name that would create a new identity, a new me. I remember bothering my mother about this for quite some time. Her response was masterful. She listened, she was empathetic, and then she shared with me the amount of paperwork I would have to go through to make this name change happen. In French, mind you! I begrudgingly moved on.
There is something incredibly appealing about changing your name as a child or a teenager. At that stage, we’re often times uncomfortable in our own skin. Sometimes we feel like our name doesn’t represent who we are, or who we’re aspiring – or pretending to be. What I experienced as a child is normal, it’s healthy, it’s part of human development.
The greatest prophet of all times grappled not only with his name, but with his entire identity. Despite growing up among Egyptian royalty, Moshe had a kinship with the Jewish People, until one day, after risking his life to save a Jew, he sees firsthand the corruption of his Jewish brethren. Two Jews after witnessing him save a fellow Jew inform on Moshe! These Jews have no commitment to one another. These Jews are pathetic. And Moshe starts to second-guess his commitment to his people.
In the next passage, when we find him at the well in Midyan, he is described by the daughters of Yisro as an Egyptian. Rav Yosef Soloveicthik suggests that Moshe being described as an Egyptian was not only describing his appearance, it reflected his inner state as well – Moshe did not feel connected to his family. The Torah tells us that Moshe ran from Paraoh, but in truth, he ran from his people as well. Moshe was lost and confused.
It took Moshe decades, untold soul-searching, arguments with G-d Himself, until finally, Moshe was comfortable enough to return. How does G-d bring Moshe back home? How does G-d wake him from his slumber?
From the depths of the burning bush, G-d calls out, “Moshe! Moshe!” He calls him by his name, and that wakes him up. Yes, Moshe struggled with his name. Yes, Moshe struggled with his identity. But he still responded to the name of his youth. When our sages teach us that the Jewish People merited the redemption in Egypt because they didn’t change their name, perhaps this is what they mean. It was their name and the stability that the name provided, the connection to the past that only a name can hold on to, that’s what prevented the Jewish people from fully assimilating into Egyptian culture. Holding on to our name grounds us, stabilizes us, in a topsy-turvy world.
So, I kept my name. Perhaps it was my name, the stability it gave me, that helped me stay the course through some turbulent teenage years. Who knows. Eventually I learned to love my name. I learned the meaning of my name. I learned how each Hebrew name, according to the mystics, represents one aspect of G-d Himself.
There is a beautiful custom that I adopted – The Shelah Hakadosh teaches that right before we take three steps back at the end of the Amidah, we should say a verse that represents our name. If you look at the back of the siddur, page 924, you’ll see a list of verses – each passuk is connected to a different name. Those pessukim all describe G-d, in one way or another. And what we are meant to think about when we say this verse is that our name, that WE, have a part of G-d within us. That G-d accesses this world through us, through ME. Our name serves as the conduit for G-d’s greatness to be revealed here on earth.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe once quipped that this the meaning of the third of the ten commandments – Do not carry My Name in vain. Each Jew carries G-d’s name in their name, each Jew carries an utterly unique mission, each Jew carries a purpose – Do not forget that! Do not carry that slice of G-dliness in vain. You’re too precious to not take advantage of the G-dliness that you carry within.
Now let’s be clear, there is no sin in changing your name. There are even times, like if someone is severely ill, when the Jewish custom is to change or add a name. What I am trying to convey is that in this utterly confusing world in which we live in, our name is a connection to our past, our name grounds us with a constant that helps us weather difficult storms, and our name reminds us of the Divine within. How many of us spend any time learning about our namesake? How many of us spend time trying to understand what our name means? We should treasure our name as one of the greatest gifts we have.
As we begin the book of Shemos, the book of names, a book that is a story of the Jewish People, but told through the experiences of individual people, the Torah is asking us to remember our name, to value our name. It’s telling us that Shakespeare was wrong – and I am so glad I didn’t listen to him. The name you were given is prophetic, it paints a picture of your future. The name you were given is an anchor, giving you a sense of who-you-are in a confusing world. The name you were given is a piece of G-d, reminding you of the unique mission that only you can fulfill.
