by Ner Tamid | Dec 16, 2023 | Sermons
Shlomo had one request from me. “Aba, in your speech, do not do anything different for my Bar Mitzvah. Also, no crying and no embarrassing stories.”
Well, Shlomo, here’s lesson #1 of adulthood – you can’t always get what you want. So with or without your permission, allow me to do something very different and read you a letter that I wrote just for you:
Dear Shlomo,
It’s a strange time to be making a Bar Mitzvah.
As Mommy spent the past two months trying to find our out-of-town family places to stay for Shabbos, there were thousands of families in Israel who were trying to find a home to live in for far longer than a weekend.
As we received RSVPs from your cousins and uncles and aunts and eagerly awaited seeing them, hundreds of Israelis were receiving notices of family members who were killed in battle or captivity, never to be seen again.
As you worked hard practicing your parsha for your big day, boys and girls just a few years older than you practiced for their upcoming military missions in Gaza.
As you stood outside earlier this week having your picture taken and your biggest concern was that your hat would not blow away in the wind, countless children across Israel scanned their neighborhood looking for safe rooms so that they would not be hit by an incoming missile.
Strange time indeed.
And here is where I am supposed to tell you that your Bar Mitzvah is our response to Hamas, that this celebration of your commitment to Judaism counteracts the antisemitism on college campuses, and gathering so many people together who love you is our way of banishing hatred and evil. But I won’t say that. I can’t say that. I don’t believe it. I feel like that is a strained rationalization to make us feel good about going on with our lives.
So, here’s the truth: We are incredibly fortunate and privileged to live this life of ours here in Baltimore. But in all honesty, it is those in Israel who are truly privileged. Greatness – and G-d blessed you with so many natural talents that you have the capacity for greatness – greatness does not develop at celebrations like these. Greatness is not born out of photo shoots and gala kiddushes. Greatness is not born by getting together with friends and family. Greatness is born through difficult times; it is born on the battlefield. Greatness is born when you are asked to risk it all for others; it is born in sacrifice for something or someone greater than yourself. The brutal truth is that us celebrating our simcha this Shabbos is beautiful and special, but the real response to Hamas, to antisemitism, to hate and to evil, that is not found here. It’s found in Israel.
Now Shlomo, before you run off to join the IDF (which I would be more than proud if you did), I want to share with you something that you need to know – there is an alternative path to greatness. Rav Eliyahu Dessler in Michtav Mei’Eliyahu writes that when we, in our daily prayers, invoke zechus avos, the merit of our forefathers, it is not some spiritual bank account in which the good deeds of our ancestors are stored, and when we need it, we take something out of that account. No. Zechus avos is an inheritance; the deeds of those who came before us are not stuck in the past; their deeds course through our veins.
When we study the stories of Bereishis or the tales of the kings and prophets it is not because they’re great stories, which they are. We study these stories because they are our stories. You and I, all of us, are Avraham leaving our comfort behind as we seek out our mission in life. We are Yitzchak ready to give up our lives for G-d. We are Rochel selflessly giving up our dreams for others. We are Tamar boldly changing the course of history. If we learn our history, if we learn the Torah properly, we do not need to experience every challenge in the world to grow from them. Their struggles are our struggles, their accomplishments are ours too.
This is why we have a tradition of giving our children the names of great people in the Torah; to make that bond between our past and present even stronger. Shlomo, you are named after two incredibly accomplished kings. Yosef, who overcomes the fleeting pleasures of this world, who forgives his brothers after they tried to kill him, who leads the way for all future Jews to balance worldliness and a deep care for all people with a deep connection to his faith and an even deeper care for B’nei Yisrael. You are named after Shlomo, a king who is mature beyond his years, who asks for wisdom when he could have asked for anything at all, and who uses his talents to build a house for G-d. Self-control, forgiveness, worldliness, maturity, and a desire to connect to Hashem, those all sound very familiar. Their story, Shlomo, is truly your story.
This notion does make me a little nervous – and here I am going to interrupt for an embarrassing story. Sorry, Shlomo.
10 years ago, Shlomo and I were in the lobby of the shul. Shlomo was three at the time; he looked up and saw the picture of the late Rabbi Leibowitz, the first rabbi of this shul. “Who is that?” he asked me. I explained that he used to be the rabbi. “What happened to him?” I explained that he passed away. I saw the gears inside Shlomo’s head moving. “So he died and now you’re the rabbi?” Sort of. Yes. He shook his head; he understood. “So, Aba, when will you die so I could become rabbi?”
King Shlomo took over his father’s position when he was 13 years old…
Shlomo, you are not only named after the Biblical Yosef and Shlomo. You are also named after your paternal great-grandfather. I’ve told you his stories so many times before because they are your stories. I hope and I pray that you will never have to face even a fraction of what he faced in his life, but that should not stop you from growing from his experiences.
Your great-grandfather, as you know, survived Auschwitz. But he didn’t just survive. Every night, after bone crushing work, he would come back to his barracks and pray. Despite the risk, he helped organize a shofar blowing in Auschwitz. He rescued tens of young girls from being burned in the crematoria. He later sacrificed what could have been a much easier life in America for living in Israel. And despite losing so much in the Holocaust and later a son who was a soldier in the IDF, he remained deeply grateful to G-d. I get the chills whenever I think of the Shehechiyanu he would say on Yom Tov. (No crying, right?)
The very last memory I have of your great-grandfather was when he was quite ill and incapable of doing all that much. He asked me what I was learning in yeshiva – it was Meseches Yevamos. There was a sefer, a book that he thought would be very helpful for my learning. I told him this in the morning. I went out for the entire day. He spent the entire day calling every bookstore in Bnei Brak to find that book so by the time I came home he could give it to me. Shlomo, it is incredible to see, and it gives Mommy and me so much pride to see how you have adopted his qualities; his tenacity, his gratitude, and his love for Torah.
You inherited qualities from every part of your family. You recently wrote essays on your mother’s maternal grandfather and your mother’s father. Their stories are also your story. The same is true for every one of your relatives, your grandmothers and great-grandmothers, everyone. And here’s the point I am trying to make – if you learn from the past, their challenges, their accomplishments, their stories, they are yours.
So, no, you do not need to fight on a battlefield to grow courage, you do not need to experience antisemitism to be a survivor, you do not need to overcome severe challenges to develop grit. You need to learn about your past, absorbing the lessons of those who came before you.
Here’s one final truth, one final lesson – Shlomo, you will face adversity. You will face obstacles in your life that will seem impossible to overcome. You will face challenges that will sap every part of your being. We all do. There is only so much Mommy and I can protect you from.
And while that pains me, I am not worried. Armed with your knowledge of where you came from, empowered by the Torah; both Jewish tradition and Jewish history, fortified with zechus avos, with the fact that their stories are your legacy, you will have what it takes to make your own story. A story that I hope and pray you will one day pass on to the next generation.
Hindy and I are so touched by the attendance of every single one of you who are here. We are so grateful to the leadership of Ner Tamid and the entire congregation for all that you do – but today especially, for making us feel truly as one family. We are grateful to our family for giving us support and legacies that we treasure. And we are most especially grateful to Hashem, she’hechiyanu v’kiyimanu v’higianu lazman hazeh.
by Ner Tamid | Dec 9, 2023 | Sermons
I have an admission to make – For the past eight years, I have given the same exact drasha every Shabbos Chanukah.
Really.
And every year, the same person would come up to me and say, “Wow! That was the most incredible sermon I have ever heard in my life!”
And I’d be like, “Yeah, I know, you told me the same thing – last year…”
The first year the sermon was titled, I am a Jew/ I am a Greek. The next year it was, I am a Jew/ I am Greek Revisited. Then, I am a Jew/ I am a Greek Redux. You get the point. The basic gist of this sermon was that I felt conflicted about Chanukah. Chanukah celebrates the rejection of not just the Greek army, but everything Greece stood for. And Greece, led by Plato and Aristotle were the forefathers of Western culture. So how do I, as someone who is immersed in Western culture, celebrate this holiday?
To quote – myself (sorry, I know that’s weird, but there’s a point I am trying to make). This is how I described the tension I felt every Chanukah:
“There’s a part of me that’s Greek – a part of me that has no tolerance for any divisions made on racial or religious lines. And yet, there’s a part of me that’s Jewish – a part of me that believes that as Jews, we are a special people with a special role to play in this world.
There’s a part of me that’s Greek – a part of me that believes that every country should be totally democratic and not have any religious flavor. And yet, there’s a part of me that’s Jewish – a part of me that believes that G-d gave the Jewish People the land of Israel and I take great pride in a state that is distinctly Jewish.
There’s a part of me that’s Greek – a part of me that believes that quality of life is paramount, and a person is fully in charge of his or her own body. And there’s a part of me that’s Jewish that believes that our bodies are a gift from G-d and not ours and that every moment of life in this world is priceless.
There is a part of me that is Greek – a part of me that believes in a plurality of ideas, in everyone being entitled to their viewpoint, or as we like to say in our society, to their “truth.” And there’s a part of me that’s Jewish, that believes that Moshe Emes v’soroso emes, that the Torah is true. And while Judaism embraces some level of plurality, it believes in an objective right and wrong.
And lastly, there is a part of me that is Greek – a part of me that if I were to be totally honest, at times is troubled with miracles I did not witness, in authorship I cannot verify, and in a promised future that seems so distant and foreign. And yes, in the darkest of times, even struggles with the existence of a Being I have not heard from. And at the very same time, there is a part of me that is so powerfully Jewish – a part of me that is over-awed by the majesty of the world, the profundity of the Torah, the arc of history, and even if it cannot be articulated, just knows that there must be an Author. A part of me that is awakened during prayer and feels a presence that shatters those doubts into millions and millions of pieces.”
Those are just a few examples of the tension I felt and feel between Jewish values and philosophies and those of our culture. And then, I’d conclude every one of these sermons with the same idea, how I tip over to the side of identifying with Judaism, just barely, like the small Chanukah candle; that small flame that lights up the darkness. The end.
I will not be repeating that sermon this year. And not only because I just blew my cover.
I will not be repeating that sermon this year because I am no longer a Greek. I am no longer conflicted between my admiration of everything the Western world stands for and my love for Judaism.
When the presidents of the most prestigious universities in the world cannot acknowledge that genocide against Jews is hate speech, that is a philosophy I want to have nothing to do with.
When our local council men and women here in Baltimore cannot unanimously agree to condemn Hamas, that is a Western world that is morally bankrupt.
When the UN cannot speak out against rape and has to be forced to host a gathering 57 days after the atrocities, that is thought leadership that has stopped thinking entirely.
I learned these past few weeks, that the philosophy that every person is in charge of their body has a limitation that I was unaware of. You are in charge of your body unless you are a Jewish woman.
I learned these past few weeks that the philosophy of embracing all ideas has a caveat – unless those ideas defend the Jewish state.
I learned that these past few weeks that the philosophy that all people of all faiths and colors should be treated equally is true for every person – except Jewish People.
I learned these past few weeks that the Western culture I so admired has a viciously dark underbelly.
There is a reason Yeshiva University has seen a 65% rise in applications from students who want to transfer from other colleges. It’s not just the students’ lives that are at stake. Critical thinking has gone out the window. “Those who are weak are good, those who are strong are evil,” is the perverted philosophy of the day. It’s a direct outgrowth of the bizarre idea that “everyone’s view is valid.” There is no room for intellectually honest debate. No room for discussion. “This is how I feel.”
For too long I have been seduced by the brilliance and the glamor of the West. But these past two months have reminded me of Jewish history. Not in a dark way; not a reminder of the Holocaust or pogroms. On the contrary, these past two months have awakened within me, and I know so many others, powerful Jewish pride in being on the right side of history. I don’t have answers to all the questions and challenges that I was bothered by a mere two months ago. But I am reminded now, that neither did the Chashmonaim know what to say to the Greeks who called circumcision barbaric. Neither did the Jews in Europe have such great answers to the priests who tried to lure them to the cross. Neither did the rabbis who were overwhelmed by Spinoza’s brilliance who were made to feel stuck in the dark ages have much to say. And neither did our grandparents know how to reply to the incredibly popular communists and nationalists who described us Jews as leeches.
And yet, it was Aristotelean thought that gave birth to one of the most decadent societies in history. It was Christian fundamentalism that led to endless wars. The Enlightenment led to the bloody French Revolution. Communism led to the gulags and nationalism led to the Holocaust.
And Judaism, not just the Jewish People, but Jewish thought and Jewish practice prevailed. Circumcision is healthy. Unplugging for 24 hours – Shabbos – is the hottest fad. Torah study is hip. And to be clear, there are still Mitzvos and Aveiros that I have no good explanation for. There are Mitzvos and Aveiros that if you were to ask me to explain them, I would struggle to do so, and not that long ago, that would keep me up at night. But not now. I am reminded now, that as Jews, we play the long game. If a law or two or three may seem backward today, give it a few hundred years. As opposed to the world around us, Judaism has yet to disappoint.
Watching the bastions of intellectual excellence show themselves to be bastions of confusion, of stupidity, and of unbridled hatred has reminded me that the litmus test for a meaningful way of life is not if it appeals to me today or if it’s trendy for a decade or even a century. The litmus test is if this way of life can still be meaningful, uplifting, and positive for centuries on end. In that respect, struggles, challenges, questions notwithstanding, I have never been so proud to be a Jew.
***
We are living through a time of incredible upheaval. That Hamas is evil is not unsettling. It’s the rejection of rational thought, it’s the appearance of misguided compassion, it’s the growing awareness that there is something deeply wrong with far too many people in our society. And as lonely and unsettling as it may feel, this gives me hope.
Because you see, in the aftermath of the Greek conflict with the Jews, the Oral Torah took off and flourished. In the aftermath of the expulsion from Spain, Kabbalah experienced a renaissance. In the aftermath of the Holocaust, the State of Israel was born. There is a rhythm to Jewish history of horror followed by an explosion of creativity and rebirth. Rav Tzadok suggests that this rhythm traces its way back to this week’s parsha, in which two sons of Yehuda, Er and Onan, die, but their death is followed by the birth of Peretz, the child ‘who breaks through’ the darkness and is the forbearer of King David and ultimately, Mashiach.
I have never been so excited to celebrate Chanukah. My Menorah, not a small candle, but a brilliant light, reminds me of the rejuvenation of Jewish pride, of Jewish thought, and of Jewish practice that will surely follow this darkness.
I am a Jew. Not a Greek. The Greek inside of me is dead.
I am a Jew; a faith-filled and confident Jew. And I have never been so proud.
by Ner Tamid | Dec 2, 2023 | Sermons
There was a chilling video that was circulating a few days after October 7th. It was a clip of Thomas Hand, a father of a 9-year-old girl who was at a sleepover in Kibbutz Be’eri when Hamas attacked and who he had not seen or heard from since. Thomas described the fear he experienced on that day. And then he was told that his daughter’s body was found – she was dead; murdered by Hamas. ‘Yes!’ he said, ‘Yes!’ and he smiled. And I quote, “That is the best news of the possibilities that I knew … Death was a blessing, an absolute blessing.” He was right. Knowing what we are even starting to know about how the hostages were held, seeing the images of the violations especially against women, death was a blessing.
Only that she wasn’t dead. A few days later, after mourning the loss of his daughter, he got word that she was alive.
This past week, his daughter, Emily, was released. Emily does not look like she did on October 7th. Her once chubby face is now chiseled, her once vibrant eyes are now glassed over. But most jarring is how she speaks. As Thomas described: “The most shocking, disturbing part of meeting her was she was just whispering, you couldn’t hear her. I had to put my ear on her lips,” he said. “She’d been conditioned not to make any noise.”
Thomas Hand’s life has been changed forever.
Emily Hand’s life has been changed forever.
Last week, I met with a fundraiser from Shuvu. Shuvu is a network of schools in Israel that cater to children from secular families who would like a Jewish education. I asked the man if he has seen any differences since October 7th. He told me that they received approximately 750 requests for Tefillin from the fathers of the Shuvu children. There are thousands upon thousands of people making tzitzis for soldiers who otherwise do not wear tzitzis but have chosen to start wearing them now.
These 750 fathers, these thousands of soldiers, they have truly changed.
The world around us has changed; polite and subtle antisemitism has given way for overt and violent Jew hatred.
The State of Israel has changed; the fractured disharmony that permeated every part of Israeli society a few months ago has given way to Messianic fraternity and love.
So much around us has changed. But what about us? Have we changed? Or are we just left watching as all this change unfolds around us?
Maimonides, the Rambam, describes how a Jew is to respond to tragedy. “When a tragedy befalls the Jewish People, they must cry out and pray.” So far so good; we’ve been doing that. “And,” he writes, “they must acknowledge that it was because of their own misdeeds that the evil has befallen them.”
In other words, the response to tragedy in Judaism is not only praying, is not only watching moving videos, is not only protesting. The response to tragedy in Judaism is making sure that we take these events to heart and that we change.
This past week, I sat with a group of distinguished rabbis from across the country to discuss openly and freely how we are doing and what we need to do next. One rabbi, the oldest rabbi in the group exclaimed: “I feel like a failure! A failure! Was the purpose of G-d sending this terrible catastrophe of October 7th so that we should all become fluent in a new chapter of Tehillim? Hashem sent a tragedy the likes of which most of us have never experienced before, and for the most part, we remain the same! Yes, we have given a lot of tzedakka and performed a lot of chesed…but how have we changed? How are we different?”
We read this morning how our forefather Yaakov received a new name. לֹא יַעֲקֹב יֵאָמֵר עוֹד שִׁמְךָ כִּי אִם־יִשְׂרָאֵל. But it’s more than a name change. The Netziv observes that the Torah initially describes the angel wrestling with Yaakov, but there is no mention of Yaakov fighting back. Vayi’ovek ish imo. It is the angel who is wrestling but Yaakov is passive like he has always been. He ducks away from the punches, he avoids confrontation. But at some point in the battle there is a change of heart, and the Torah then describes Yaakov fighting back – b’hei’ovko imo. Yaakov is no longer avoidant, he is no longer a sneak, he is no longer passive. He is a new man. And for that, he is given a new name – Yisrael – Ki sarisa im Elokim v’im anashim vatuchal – because you have struggled against the Divine and against man, and you have prevailed. Yaakov changed, not superficially, not with external actions, but his entire persona transformed. We are called B’nei Yisrael – our identity is such that we are capable of walking in the footsteps of our father, of becoming someone else entirely. Change is in our blood, it’s in our spiritual DNA. We have been forced to reinvent ourselves at too many junctures in history. But that ability to struggle, to start fresh, and to transform is also a gift. It’s a gift, and at times like this, it’s a responsibility.
There is a story told of a man who is lost in a forest. Suddenly, it starts to rain. But it’s not just a rainfall, it’s a thunderstorm. Before you know it, the trees are shaking due to the booming thunder and the sky is being lit up with brilliant lightning. Now I don’t know about you, but I happen to love watching lightning; how the sky lights up, how the raindrops seem like they are suspended in the air, and watching the zigzag of yellow across the dark canvas of the sky. So this man could do what I do when lightning fills the sky; look up and take in the beauty. Alternatively, if he was wise, he could take advantage of the light and use it to quickly look around and try to find a path out of the forest.
This story is a cautionary tale; how do we respond to moments that move us? Do we sit with our emotions, looking up at the sky, allowing our hearts to tremble and be overawed by the moment? Do we scroll from heartbreaking clip to heartbreaking clip? Or do we remind ourselves that we are lost – spiritually, we are not yet at our destination, and quickly scramble to find our way?
I know what you’re thinking. It’s irresponsible to make tremendous changes; they don’t last. I agree. But it’s even more irresponsible to not make any changes at all. We had a storm not that long ago, it was called Covid. And we all thought the world would change, we would change, everything would be different… We cannot allow yet another tragedy to pass us by and come out on the other side exactly the same as we were before.
The hostages are slowly making their way home. The war, we hope, will be over in the near future. Life is starting to get back to normal. The rain is slowing down, the thunder is getting more and more distant, and the inspirational lightning is starting to fade. Now’s the time to start reflecting on what we learned; about the world around us and about ourselves. Reflecting on the increase in our own spiritual accomplishments, can I carve out a few more minutes for G-d in my day? Can I study more? Can I pray with more kavanah? Seeing families ripped apart, how do I interact with my family? Can I improve? Watching the strength of the families and the soldiers, are there areas in my life where I could exhibit a little more strength? A little more courage? As B’nei Yisrael, as masters of transformation, now is the time to take a small step along the path of greater spiritual heights.
Now, before it’s too late, we need to ask ourselves, when the rain stops, when the intense emotions are no longer, will we have changed, or will we have remained the same?
by Ner Tamid | Nov 18, 2023 | Sermons
What do we do next?
We gathered as a community for an inspiring Shabbos afternoon, we went to numerous Tehilim gatherings, we have been calling our congressmen, we put up yard signs, we put up signs with the names and faces of the hostages, we went to a vigil, we’ve been praying more, learning more, some of us went to Israel, and this past Tuesday we gathered with almost 300,000 people to stand with Israel.
What do we do next?
So many of us felt like we were on a high after that powerful show of solidarity. To hear the heart-breaking messages from the families of the hostages, to see the support from non-Jewish politicians and leaders of other faiths, to sing Acheinu, Esah Einai, (and yes, even One Day!) with a quarter of a million fellow Jews. Truly, an experience of a lifetime.
How do we continue to combat the growing anti-semitism in our backyard? How do we continue to provide political, material, and spiritual support for Israel? What do we do next?
I’d like to suggest that instead of doing more, instead of taking on a new project for Israel we pause for a moment before we consider what to do next. Because we are forgetting something. Or more honestly, I feel like I am forgetting something.
As you know and as you can see, the back wall of our shul is covered by posters of hundreds of hostages stuck in Gaza. I’m proud of our back wall. It allows us to glance at those faces of the elderly, the infants, the helpless, to gain a moment of inspiration before turning back to our Father in Heaven and begging Him to let them all return home in safety. It’s a powerful tool to help us focus.
The idea of placing who you are davening for in your field of vision can be traced back to the opening passage in this week’s parsha. When Yitzchak davens for Hashem to bless Rivkah with children, the Torah describes him standing “opposite” his wife. Rashi comments that he and Rivkah stood in opposite corners of the home. The Radak suggests otherwise. He suggests that Yitzchak stood opposite of his wife, meaning, he davened facing her, “she’yichavein libo aleha, so he could focus his heart on her.”
The hostages, the soldiers, and all the Jews in Israel have been “opposite us” for the past six weeks. And it’s beautiful. We are truly united with our brothers and sisters and have not lost sight of them for even a moment. I don’t think anyone has gotten nay work done; we’ve been running from event to event, saying tehilim and reading the news in between. The people of Israel have truly been opposite us 24/7.
But there’s more we can learn from Yitzchak. You have to wonder why, according to the Radak, Yitzchak needed to place his wife before him so he could focus his heart on her. Could there be anything more important? Could he possibly have been thinking about anything or anyone else when his wife was barren and desperate for a child?
Apparently, yes. As the spiritual heir of Avraham, he likely had hundreds if not thousands of people who turned to him for assistance, who he inspired and led. It would seem that Yitzchak was focused on many big and important projects; initiatives that would change the future of humankind. But at some point, Yitzchak realized that he was ignoring what, or rather, who was standing right before him. Yitzchak realized that sometimes we could be so focused on all the people out there that we could forget about those who are already standing right before us.
I look out at those pictures and see those innocent faces staring back at me, but in doing so, I fear that I am looking over the heads of so many of you in the seats between me and those pictures. If I am being honest with myself, and I embarrassed to say this out loud, but in my zeal to be there for the people of Israel I haven’t been there as much as I should be for the people of Ner Tamid.
Like Yitzchak, sometimes we need to stop, sometimes we need to pull ourselves away from the big and compelling picture and remind ourselves of the needs of the people standing before us. I could relate to Yitzchak. He had to reorient himself, he had to stand opposite his wife. Otherwise, he would have been distracted with noble causes pulling on his heart and attention.
In the laws of charity, there is a principle of prioritization – those who are closest to you deserve the most focus. Before we give to impoverished children in Africa, we are to make sure that those in Baltimore are cared for. Before we give to those in Baltimore, we are to make sure that those in our family have what they need. We do need to care for those in Israel, but we have to make sure that we don’t lose sight of those in our midst.
There are grieving mothers in Israel. And there are also grieving mothers in the seats near you. There are people living in constant fear and pain due to rocket attacks and the trauma of October 7th. And there also countless people living with all forms of trauma in our pews. There are ill people who need to be visited, not only in Tel Hashomer, but right here, in Sinai and in Johns Hopkins. The soldiers of the IDF have enough food at this point; there are countless people just a few feet away who could use a Shabbos invitation.
I think we’ve all been distracted. Distracted with the most noble of causes, but distracted nonetheless. It’s time we place our loved ones, our neighbors, our friends, before us, she’yichavnu libeinu aleihem, so that we could focus our hearts upon them.
In too many conversations with people going through genuinely distressful situations that need to be resolved, I hear apologies for bringing up their issues because of everything else going on. I wonder, how many are not reaching out? How many are suffering in silence? Not to mention the sheer loneliness that those who live alone are feeling right now with no one to comfort them or allay their fears. Not to mention those already in a state of depression or helplessness who now feel like the world is truly caving in. There are too many in our community who already carry tremendous burdens; they need our support and attention, now more than ever. Before we address what is next; let’s focus on what and who is first.
It need not be an either or. If there is one thing we learned these past weeks it is that the Jewish People are capable of doing even more that we ever thought; we have given more tzedakah, learned more Torah, paid more attention, and performed more chesed than ever before. I have been blown away by what we, in this community, in this shul, have accomplished. It is mind-boggling and a source of appropriate pride.
We are capable of providing for those in Israel who need our help and those at home. We can remain focused on those in captivity and those in the line of fire without losing sight of those right before our eyes.
by Ner Tamid | Nov 11, 2023 | Sermons
In 1933, a letter was written by the Orthodox Jewish leadership in Germany. It was addressed to the Chancellor of Germany, Adolf Hitler. The letter was a plea for safety and security, describing the terrible impact that the Nazi laws had caused the Jewish community, and the fear in which the Jews now lived. In pleading their case, the rabbinic leadership, the authors of this letter, attempted to find common ground with the Nazis:
“Marxist materialism,” they wrote, “and Communist atheism share not the least in common with the spirit of the positive Jewish religious tradition… We (too) have been at war against this religious attitude.”
They went on to say that they would accept laws that would limit their autonomy and opportunities. What they wanted was clarity; are the Nazis truly intent on removing Jews from the land, in which case they would leave, or, are those just empty words, campaign slogans meant to curry votes that have no teeth to them, in which case they would happily reside in Germany as second-class citizens.
They did not receive a response.
How naïve. How pathetic. To be groveling at the feet of Adolf Hitler. If only they opened their eyes. If only those leaders took the signs that were all around them seriously. Who knows how many Jewish lives would have been saved.
Tragically, these Jews were blinded by their comfort. Germany was their home. Germany was their “new Jerusalem.” They were so patriotic, so connected to the motherland, that they could not imagine the reality that lay ahead – despite Hitler being abundantly clear about what was in store.
A hundred years from now, history will judge us. Will they say the same thing? How naïve. How pathetic. How could these American Jews miss the writing on the wall? Did they not read the news? Did they not see the pro-Palestinian anti-Semitic protests? Did they not listen to what the intellectuals in all the prominent universities were saying?
In pre-World War Two Germany, the Jewish German community would publish lists of all the Jews killed defending the country in World War One. We too celebrate today the sacrifices of all our veterans, and specifically here in our shul, all our Jewish veterans. It is something we should be proud of. We are all deeply grateful to the veterans in our community for their service. But is that enough to grant us acceptance in this country? Or will our enemies just shrug their shoulders, accuse us of dual allegiances, and lead us once again to destruction?
It would seem that some did learn the lesson of history. I am hearing now more than ever – Is this it? Is it time to go? Should we be packing our bags and making Aliyah en masse?
It’s a good question, but it’s now a new one. It goes back well before our time, well before Nazi Germany, all the way back to the times of Avraham Avinu. As always, there is a lesson, a powerful lesson, that we could learn from our great-great-grandfather.
When Avraham encounters the Chittite people, they describe him as “Nesi Elokim atah b’socheinu, as a G-dly prince among us.” They welcome him as one of their own. But Avraham, perhaps with a premonition of the history that would follow, rejected their embrace. “Ger v’toshav anochi b’to’ch’chem, I am a stranger and a permanent resident among you.”
It’s a strange choice of words; contradictory terms. A stranger and a permanent resident. Which one is it?
Rashi suggests that Avraham was proposing an either/or. I could be a stranger here or a permanent resident. But what Rav Soloveithcik suggests that the terms be read together. What Avraham was conveying to the people, what he was conveying to us, was the nature of being a Jew. We have one foot immersed in society and one foot out the door. We are both a brother and sister to the people of the world and – we are the eternal outsider. We are comfortable, we are citizens, we’ll build houses, and we’ll fight your wars. And – we are wary, we have a packed suitcase, we will never fully settle in. “Ger v’toshav anochi b’to’ch’chem, I am a stranger and a permanent resident among you.” So no, I don’t think we should necessarily leave, but we should, at all times, be ready to do so.
This ger-tsohav identity does not necessarily lead to Aliyah. I would like to remind you that Avraham said those words not in Berlin and not in Baltimore. He said these words in Chevron.
I truly hate to say this out loud, but there is no guarantee that being in Israel will serve us as protection. There is no G-dly promise that the State of Israel will last forever. This was the mistake made by the People of Israel who lived during the times of the first Beis HaMikdash; the Temple cannot be destroyed. Until it was.
To be clear, making Aliyah is amazing; I’m all for it. Israel is the greatest place on earth, the closest you will ever to G-d, a fully-immersive spiritual experience, but a guarantee that we will be safe there? That the state will last forever? If there is one lesson to take from October 7th it is that Ger V’toshav, that sense of insecurity, that sense of vulnerability, needs to exist in Israel as well.
Being a stranger and a resident is not about geography. Avraham was defining our identity for all of time. We are to never get comfortable. We are to always remind ourselves of the fleetingness of life. We are to always transcend our physical existence, not be bogged down by our material wealth, and instead to focus on the spiritual. Until the time of Mashiach we are not to rest – anywhere.
***
Those rabbis in Germany most certainly failed. They should have acted more ger-like, more stranger-like, and less toshav-like, less attached to their beloved Berlin. They should have packed their bags and left. That’s what I always thought. But I also wonder.
I wonder what would have happened had they taken the opposite approach; recognizing how they did not belong, recognizing how despite their deep patriotism, they were indeed strangers, and yet, leaned into the fact that they were citizens of that country. Call me naïve, but what would have happened if instead of sending a meek letter, the leaders of German Jewry would have called their fellow Jewish citizens to gather in the plaza of the Reichstag? Imagine if the half million Jews would have stood right outside the German parliament and demanded that the government treat them like regular people? Imagine if those men, women, and children, would have made it clear to the German politicians and to leaders across the world that the status quo was unacceptable? Maybe, just maybe our history would have been different.
We are living in a historic moment. We are being reminded of how much of a ger, how much of a stranger we are in this land and in the world, and we need to use this moment to reorient ourselves to what is real and what is eternal. It’s amazing to see the spiritual revival among the Jewish People, here in our shul and everywhere across the globe. But we also need to lean in to being a toshav, we do live here, this is our home. And we need to make our voices heard.
The next generation will analyze what we did in this moment. They will wonder why some people stayed home on Tuesday, why some people went to work. They will wonder how people were doubling down on their comfort and not their spirituality at a time when the truth was so clear. Ger v’toshav anochi. We are strangers and we are citizens.
As strangers to this world, let’s not be held back by how backward people may think we are. Let us pray to our G-d that we believe in from the depths of our soul, let us learn our precious Torah like never before, let us do chesed, let us unite as a People, as a family. And as toshavim, as citizens of this country, on Tuesday, in Washington, DC, let us, each and every one of us, make our voices heard. Because someday soon, ladies and gentlemen, history will judge us too.
by Ner Tamid | Nov 5, 2023 | Sermons
Three thousand year ago, our ancestors sent a group of spies to the land of Israel. They came back with a negative and cynical report that changed the course of our history. I feel fairly confident that had we spent those same spies to Israel this past week, try as they might, they would find nothing to be negative or cynical about. The same land that just a few weeks ago was filled with infighting, with faithlessness, hopeless, and just plain ugliness, is now filled with unprecedented unity, expressions of chesed on every corner, strength, conviction, and faith like never before. If they were spying on the land this past week, no one would disagree that “Tovah ha’arezt me’od me’od, it is an exceptionally good land.”
They would be right about one thing – the land is filled with giants. Not giants in size, but giants in strength like the soldiers deep in Gaza, giants in faith like the many bereaved parents who did not question G-d but affirmed their belief in His ways. I’ll share with you one of many examples:
We met a man by the name of Shmuel Slatki. On Simchas Torah morning, his two sons got wind of what was happening down south. They decided together that they would go and help. They only had pistols but they assumed that a handful of terrorists infiltrated the border. Like everyone else in the country, they could not imagine what was actually taking place. As they were driving, they saw tens of cars speeding in the opposite direction, running out of harm’s way, but they drove on. They pulled into Kibbutz Alumim, they quickly learned what was really taking place. There is video footage that catches them discussing what to do. They could have easily jumped back in their car and sped off, but they chose to march forward. With pistols in their hands, they killed numerous terrorists, saving hundreds of lives. Tragically, they were both killed in the battle.
Their father, despite losing two sons in one day described his pride in bringing such children into this world. How proud he was that they were ready to give up their lives for the Jewish People. How he recognized their death was a part of G-d’s divine plan. He was one of many giants we met on this trip.
Like the spies before us, in the presence of giants, one is made to feel like a grasshopper. We were there to give support the people of Israel, but what could we, with our shallow faith, say to a man like this that would actually make a difference? In truth, the entire trip made us feel like a grasshoppers. There was a war going on; how could we help? There were entire communities uprooted from their home; what difference could we make in their lives?
But I was reminded of a passage from this week’s parsha. We read how G-d informed Avraham that He was going to destroy the cities of Sedom. Avraham immediately engaged in an argument with G-d, begging and pleading that He save the cities. As we know, every request was turned down. And sure enough, G-d destroyed the cities of Sedom. I imagine Avraham feeling quite small at that moment. I imagine he felt quite useless. I imagine he felt like we did, like a grasshopper. But he didn’t give up.
The very next morning, Avraham goes back to the back he stood the day before. He tries again. He begs G-d to have compassion on whomever is left. And this time, his prayers are heard. In his merit, Lot and his two daughters are saved. It would seem that even grasshoppers can make a difference. We may not be able to save a city, but we could save a single person or family.
Allow me to share with you three stories how despite us feeling ever so small in the presence of great people or overwhelming loss, we were still able to make a difference.
The first many of you already know. We were staying in a hotel in Yerushalayim that was filled with displaced people from the city of Sederot. One evening, I was waiting for an elevator and started up a conversation with a nice family. Like 90% of Sederot they were homeless until the war was over. Not only that, but this particular family’s home was hit by a missile. As we were talking they introduced me to their 12 year old son who I was told was about to turn 13. Reflexively, I asked him where his Bar Mitzvah would be. Of course as the words came out of my mouth, I realized how horrible of a question that was. His face fell and he shrugged his shoulders. His friends were dispersed throughout the country. His father told me they went to a hall in Yerushalayim to see if they could rent it but the cost of living prices in Yersuhalayim are astronomically higher than they are in Sederot. They couldn’t afford it and they didn’t know what to do.
David Lehmann and I decided to make a video of Facebook letting people know his story and encouraged people to chip in so we could give him $1000 for his Bar Mitzvah. I made the video on the last day I was in Israel and told everyone that they only had a few hours to donate. Within that time, we raised $4500 for this boy and his family. I cannot describe to you the tears of joy, the depth of their gratitude, the sense of love that they felt when we told them the good news. We can’t help all the people of Sederot, we can’t even help this one family with all their needs. But just because we’re grasshoppers doesn’t mean we cannot make a difference.
The second story took place in the city of Chevron. We met with the parents of a soldier who is in captivity. This giant of a man described his faith in G-d’s ultimate plan. He thanked G-d for allowing his son to be a part of the wars of good against evil, acknowledged that his son may never come back, but affirmed his faith in Hashem. We all felt, once again, so humbled, in the presence of such people.
As we all lined up to give him a hug – because that was all we could do, I mentioned to him that we have a picture of his son on the back wall of our shul in Baltimore. And every day and every night we pray for his son’s release. He stopped, looked at me in astonishment, and called over his wife. “Tishmi! Listen! This rabbi has a picture of our son in their shul!!” He gave me the biggest hug I ever received. For all the people who have told me, enough with the prayers, they don’t make a difference. First of all, they do make a difference on a cosmic level. But beyond that, as small as we may be, our thoughts and our prayers are so deeply appreciated by the people of Israel.
The final story, the one that shook me to the core, took place on the first day of our trip. We started the day in Sederot to get a sense of what devastation the State of Israel had faced on October 7th. We were taken to the site of the Sederot police station, only that it wasn’t a police station, it was a pile of rubble. We heard how the terrorists overtook the station and used it as their base. We heard the heroic stories of the police officers and civilians who fought with them, saving the lives of countless people.
We decided, knowing that this was the site of the death of so many holy people that we would say a Keil Malei. A policewoman came and stood near us as the tefilah was said. We turned to her after the prayer and asked her if she lived in Sederot. She did not. What was she doing there, we asked her. She told us her name was Hodaya Harush. Her husband was the first police officer killed in the police station. She decided that morning to visit the site for the very first time and came just as the Keil Malei was being said.
We were all – she and all of us – quite moved by the timing of her visit. We asked her to tell us a little about her husband. I’ll share the video with you after Shabbos so you could see the strength of this woman. She described, with a smile on her face, the humility that her husband. She spoke about him finishing long shifts, but coming home with tons of guests, overjoyed that he had the opportunity to do hachnossas orchim. She told us how proud she was of being married to this incredible person. Another giant; a widow with two children, but greater strength and courage than I can even imagine.
We asked her what her husband’s favorite song was; we figured we would sing together, to provide an ounce of comfort. She told us his favorite song was “Torah hak’dosha,” a song about one’s love for the Torah, which we dutifully sang.
How could we help this person, we all wondered. What could we possibly do?
Rabbi Silber and I were discussing this during the trip and we thought about how much this man clearly loved the Torah, and decided that we could dedicate our shul’s learning of Bava Kama, the upcoming tractate in Daf Yomi, to her husband’s memory.
A month ago, I met with Fishel Gross about encouraging the shul to do Daf Yomi. I’ll be honest, I didn’t think many people would be interested. I had just pitched learning five minutes a day, every day, and I thought that was pretty bold. But then this war broke out and so last week, I encouraged us all to be guided by our heart, to do things that make no sense, for the sake of a great cause. Of course there was a financial incentive as well, both for each of you and for the shul. Nonetheless, I was blown away by the response. Over 100 people in our shul – all people who are currently not learning the daf, committed to learning Bava Kama.
But now we, together with Suburban Orthodox, are going to learn the daf in memory of Hodaya’s husband, Eliyahu Michael. I am going to call her after Shabbos and let her know just how many people are doing this for an Aliyah for his Neshama; how 1000 people listen to Rabbi Silber’s daf yomi, and the many people in this shul who will be signing up after Shabbos.
I texted her Friday morning and told her of this idea. She was blown away. This was her response:
תודה רבה רבה
אתם משמחים אותי ממש
זה שאתם לומדים זה זכות גדולה
אני מודה לכם מאוד על זה
“Thank you ever so much. You are given me so much joy. Your learning is a great merit and I am so grateful.”
I implore you to learn in his memory. I implore you to continue to look at those posters in the back of the shul. I implore you to continue to give tzedakah. I implore you to continue to daven. There may be giants in Israel, and we may indeed be grasshoppers. But grasshoppers can make a difference.
